Meg Evans

This is the 14th story in a series. Click here to read all parts from the beginning.

On the morning after the blizzard, I woke to the cabin door banging shut after it let in a frigid blast of wind. Fragments of a dream fell away—something about a pickup truck on a narrow road in the mountains. I stretched and sat up, feeling stiff after another night of having slept on the rug in front of the fireplace. My head pounded, which I had to admit wasn’t a result of the sleeping arrangements.

“Note to self,” I muttered, “lay off the alien booze.”

Ira hung his snow-covered coat on a peg by the door, next to the coat he’d cut down to a smaller size for me. After yesterday’s creepy discussion of the local predators, I made sure to arm myself with one of the larger knives from Ira’s box before stepping outside. It fit into a loop of the coat’s belt like a dagger and left me looking suitably warlike—not that I had any plans to slay dragons on the way to the latrine.

Last night’s heavy snowfall came almost to my shoulders, with higher drifts in some places. It was a good thing for me that Ira had gone out first. I followed the path left by his much larger body until I got into the shelter of the trees. The branches hung low, but there wasn’t as much snow under them.

The outline of the trench that served as the latrine was clearly visible. And whatever might be said about Ira’s cooking, it didn’t induce constipation. My lower parts hadn’t gotten too chilled before I was finished. Shoveling dirt into the used area of the trench didn’t take long, either. Ira had helpfully left the shovel propped up on the dirt mound, making it easy to find. I decided this wasn’t too bad of a start to the day.

Well—it wasn’t bad until I heard a low growl from the trees on the other side of the trench, where large orange eyes gleamed. The bearlike warhagalla looked much bigger in real life than the pelt of its unfortunate relation that I’d been using as my bed. While it might have been an exaggeration to say the beast was slavering, I did see a glint of fangs that were much too long and sharp for my liking.

Trying not to look nervous, I backed up a step, holding the shovel in front of me like a medieval pikeman about to face a cavalry charge. The shovel’s handle was much longer and thicker than anything sized for humans, which made it somewhat useful as a weapon. I wasn’t entirely confident that the shovel would stay in one piece, though, as rusty as it looked.

Absurdly intruding on the scene, a winged rodent flew out from behind a tree, singing sweetly. It was considerably larger than the others I’d seen, resembling a great fat woodchuck. Flying slowly, with its bright pink wings pumping for all they were worth, it came close enough that I had the good view I’d wanted yesterday. Its melodic tones echoed from the snow-covered trees like a hymn at an outdoor church service. If I got eaten, I’d at least have music for my funeral.

With that thought, I finally lost control and hollered, “Oh, will you just shut up already!”

The rodent, looking startled, fell silent—just as the warhagalla sprang.

This is the 13th story in a series. Click here to read all parts from the beginning.

The morning’s hazy sunshine had given way to clouds and rain showers by midafternoon, turning to sleet soon afterward. A thick bluish glaze had built up on the cabin’s ancient windows by nightfall. Howling winds shook the walls. Ira, lighting candles that gave off the crisp scent of the forest’s conifers, observed in his usual calm tone, “There will be a blizzard tonight.”

Not looking at all bothered by that prospect, Ira sat down in one of the cabin’s two chairs, propped a giant hairy foot on a stool, and started buffing his toenails with what looked like a pumice stone. If I had really been a dragon-slaying warrior hero like some people foolishly imagined, then I’d have been doing something useful—mending armor, or whatever. Instead, not being anything of the sort, I got myself another cupful of hard cider from the old barrel in the back corner.

I was already tipsy enough that I had to look away from Ira so I wouldn’t start giggling. Even if he might not really be a Sasquatch, the thought of Bigfoot’s nail care routine struck my semi-functioning brain as hilarious. But of course, laughing at one’s host while stranded on an alien planet during a blizzard wouldn’t have been the smartest thing to do. I glanced toward the hearth where the stewpot hung.

“Tomorrow’s dinner will be baked fish,” Ira informed me, in the tone of a waiter announcing the daily special. “There’s frozen fish in the cellar.”

Following his gaze, I noticed a trapdoor set into an open area not far from the cider barrel. Its hinged metal handle was tucked neatly inside a groove cut into the floor for that purpose.

“A creek not far from here has good fishing,” Ira went on. “Usually it runs clear and fresh, with meltwater from the mountain’s snows.”

He removed his foot from the stool, swigged some cider from his own enormous mug, and then started working on the other foot. I looked away again, trying not to think about how much this sounded like a normal conversation about fishing with my friends back home. The urge to giggle had gone away by now, and I just felt gloomy.

“Where I’m from, in northeastern Tennessee, there’s a road called Stinking Creek Road, high up in the hills. Back when I was in high school, I stole one of the road signs and used it to decorate the inside of my locker. I told my classmates that I grew up in a cabin in the backwoods, along Stinking Creek, eating roadkill for dinner. I wanted to build up some hillbilly cred. None of it was true, of course. I grew up in an ordinary trailer park like any other ordinary kid, and I only ate roadkill once, when my brother hit a deer with his truck and we brought it home to butcher it.”

Ira listened quietly, nodding once, though—even with a magical translation—he couldn’t have understood much of what I was saying. A half-burned log fell to the bottom of the fireplace with a thud, sending up a shower of sparks.

“The creek here doesn’t stink, but it can be dangerous,” he finally said. “Ice serpents lurk beneath the surface. When they haven’t eaten in a while, they become nearly transparent, with only the faintest outline over the mud and pebbles. One of them almost got me last year.”

I added that unwelcome bit of information to my mental file on this planet’s bestiary, which already had gotten too long. Just then, a ferocious gust shook the cabin and dislodged one of the small creatures squeaking in the rafters. It tumbled almost to the floor before spreading its leathery wings enough to stabilize itself. Evidently a juvenile, it wasn’t much larger than my hand, with a sharp beak above a long, wrinkled neck like a turkey’s; it had fur rather than feathers. Cawing triumphantly, it managed to beat its wings enough to lift itself toward the ceiling.

“They’re harmless,” Ira said, looking over at me as he set down the pumice stone. “And beneficial. They keep the cabin free of venomous pests.”

Of course, I started to ask about those pests; but, on second thought, I just drank more cider and kept quiet. I really didn’t want to know.

All parts of this story are consolidated on one page here.

Ina, wearing a faded but clean dress that fit reasonably well, sat in an oversized chair on Nellie’s front porch, piled high with embroidered cushions. Her bandaged feet rested comfortably on a feather pillow on a low stool. A table held a teacup and a large plate overflowing with apricot scones. Beyond the porch, in the hazy afternoon sunlight, bees buzzed serenely in a flower garden along a white picket fence.

Nellie hovered like a hummingbird, full of nervous energy, pouring more tea into Ina’s cup and pacing from one end of the porch to the other. Inside the cabin, Mabel and her little brother Godfrey were napping. Mabel had woken briefly, murmuring “Mama,” when Nellie stripped off her wet clothing and put a clean gown on her, but then she had fallen back to sleep.

Hammering and clattering could be heard from across the yard, where Nellie’s husband, John, was busy repairing a shed. Ina suspected he was working nearby to keep a close watch on her, given Nellie’s evident fear of witchcraft. In truth, Ina couldn’t have posed much of a threat to anyone at present. She felt weak as a kitten, and just reaching for a scone made her shoulder start to ache.

“Are you quite comfortable, Ina? Do you need anything more?”

A gray cat ran across the porch and leaped into the grass. Nellie’s gaze followed it for just a moment before darting back to the doorway. The children still slept quietly.

“I’m fine, Nellie. Sit down and have some tea yourself, why don’t you?”

Taking much slower steps, Nellie got herself a cup and sat directly across the table from Ina, with her chair pushed back so far that she could barely reach the table. Not meeting Ina’s eyes, she looked down at the cup but did not make any move to lift it.

Ina gentled her voice. “I won’t harm you, Nellie. I am a healer, taught to serve always with love.”

She turned the word over in her thoughts, seeking certainty. Healer. Yes, she could claim that status now. It seemed as if ages had passed since she had tried—and failed—to summon healing energy in the infirmary where Phoenix was recovering from a broken leg. It had only been this morning, though.

“Why do you fear the witches of the Wild Forest?” Ina took another sip of her tea, which tasted of lemon and soothing herbs. “Have any of us ever done you any harm?”

Finally glancing up, Nellie opened her mouth as if about to speak, but then closed it again. Her hands clenched around the edge of the table.

Ina took another scone and bit into it, waiting patiently.

“Six years ago, on Midsummer’s Eve—the witches killed my sister.”