Page 25 of Through the Wicked Wood

A sudden rap at the bedroom door draws my attention. On the opposite side of the threshold, Sorin waits for me. Casual, as usual, in his black pants and white linen shirt, rolled up to the elbow, showing off his inked forearm and tanned skin.

“Ready?” he asks with a smile while stepping back to open the front door of the house. I nod in reply and squeeze past him, leaving the house first.

The walk toward town is mostly silent. Birds sing loudly, their voices carried and amplified by the slight summer breeze. Keeping pace with each other, neither of us breaks the silence hanging in the gap between us. The closer we get to the town’s main center, the sounds of nature are distilled and, instead, turn to sounds of a sleepy village coming to life.

As we walked to the main house last night, I could make out faint lines of stone cottages, but in the light of day, Loxley is much more magnificent than I had imagined. The cottages line either side of the dirt path, each one with different shades of ivy growing up the sides, creating pockets of green over the stones. The small front stoops on each house have different potted plants and flowers. Tomatoes and berries, bursting with vibrant reds.

My stomach flutters as I take in the villagers next. Most are in comfortable clothes, breeches and loose tunics to accommodate the heat. Some women wear simple linen dresses, the length of them long enough that the hems sway in the dirt. Their bare feet take no mind to the soft beds of dirt that line the gardens.

My heart warms as I watch a mother and her two children tend to their small garden just off the side of their house. The mother bends over to pick a few weeds as the children bicker on who gets to use the watering can next. The normalcy of their actions confounds me. With the talk of the blight, how is it that everything here feels so easy?

“It’s market day.” Sorin’s voice interjects my thoughts, and I break my gaze away from the woman and her children to look up at him. “Every month during the warm season the villagers set up a street market to trade goods.”

As he speaks my eyes wander down the street and it’s only then that I notice people setting up tables in front of their homes. Most tables are filled with various vegetables and a few fruits and loaves of bread. Though, some house different items such as small wooden trinkets, fishing nets and wires, woven baskets and swatches of fabric.

“Where do they…” I start but stop myself short. I’m not sure how to phrase my question without coming off as impolite. And before I can piece together what I’m trying to ask, Sorin speaks again.

“They have no money. Money isn’t an object in Loxley.” He continues to explain as we pass a table with a basket of overflowing peaches. My eyes catch on the beautiful fruit. “It’s all about trade,” Sorin continues. “What you give to the town, is what you’ll receive back. We’ve found that once money is involved, greed is knocking at the door before we can stop it. The council and I provide the bare essentials. Seeds, flour, oil for lamps. What the villagers do with those goods is up to them. Most tend to gardens, others as you can see, have talents with woodworking. Some of the men and women who have joined us over the years come from various trades. Blacksmiths, butchers, healers, you get the idea. Letty and Eviey have done a wonderful job teaching others their craft of potions. Helping women with childbirth and various hunting injuries.”

He takes a few steps backward and plucks one of the peaches from the basket. The woman behind the table, not much older than I, has dark hair braided neatly in a crown around her head. She blushes as Sorin thanks her for the fruit and passes her a packet of seeds in exchange. She’s pretty in a soft way, and I don’t know why, but for the first time in a very long time, I’m envious. Of the ease in which she does her job, trading fruit and conversing with the townsfolk. Of the way she doesn’t flinch when she takes Sorin’s hand, or hide the fact that it caused her to blush.

“In fact,” Sorin continues, bringing my attention back to him. “I’m sure there’s a thing or two you could also teach before we leave. You did an excellent job stitching up my head, as thick as it is.” He winks at me before continuing down the road.

“So, if the council provides the bare needs, where does the council get their funds from? I can’t imagine you provide such supplies for an entire village by scamming royal guards in card games,” I say, watching Sorin as he inspects the peach a little too thoroughly.

“A fair question,” he says, tossing me the fruit. I catch it clumsily and quip my head to the side. “Eat it.” He gestures to the fruit. “They’re the juiciest this close to Autumn.” I eye it for a moment before taking a bite. The skin is velvety and sweet, almost tart. The juice drips down my chin but I don’t care about how I look at the moment. It may be the most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted. I make myself take one small bite at a time, savoring every moment along the way.

“To answer your question the short way,” Sorin says, peeling his eyes from me, “the council and I work with different merchants along the ports of the Holden Sea. We trade fur pelts, smoked meats, and other various items. Our goods that the forest so fruitfully provides, are traded for other items we don’t have access to outside of the Kingdom’s rations.” He stops to smile at me.“And yes, sometimes the additional coin from a game of cards comes in handy.”

I listen while I chew on a piece of the peach. It makes sense, using only trade and not money. Money is the next evil after power. And the two of them combined make for monstrous outcomes.

“Recently, however,” Sorin continues, “hunting has been meager. Our trades have been low and therefore, new goods haven’t been as plentiful. Luckily, the people of Loxley have come from mostly lower class. We know how to stretch a shilling, get the most out of what we have. And for whatever reason, the crops are doing okay here.” He stops, glancing to his right at a small field of corn. “But I can’t imagine we’ll be that lucky for long. I’m not willing to bet on it.”

Nearing the end of the road, I discard the peach pit into the field where the fire raged last night. As I wipe my hands clean of the remaining juice on my brown breeches, my breath catches as I narrow in on the last table at the end of the road. Letty and Eviey sit perched on two wooden chairs, light blankets draped over their knees despite the heat. Sprawled out on their table are beautifully crafted, leather sheaths. The colors of the leather are deep and rich. Burnt oranges, earth browns, and forest greens. But there are two in particular that have caught my attention. Not waiting for Sorin to finish his conversation with a man named Ulric, I make my way toward the twin witches.

“Good day, Enchantress,” Eviey says, setting down her mug of tea. “Tell us, how has your stay been thus far?” I barely register her question as my hands trace two deep green sheaths that are displayed neatly across the table.

“It’s been lovely,” I reply, still distracted by the leather. Noticing my distant response, Letty clears her throat, causing my gaze to finally break and meet hers. “These are beautiful,” I say, picking up one of the sheaths, “they remind me of my mother.” I almost choke on the word as my fingers grip the supple leather. Etches of leaves and foliage dance across it, I trace them all with a delicate finger.

“If she was any bit as beautiful as you, I would not be surprised that such a lovely piece reminds you of her.” Letty’s voice is higher than Eviey’s, but just as honey filled.

I offer a faint smile, heat rising to my cheeks at her compliment. “Actually I meant the sheaths itself. She often wore one just like it.” Suddenly the leather feels too heavy in my hands. My body, too hot. Dropping the sheath back on the table I clasp my hands together to keep from fidgeting. The memory of my mother sheathing her blade on her hip before our departure that night sends darkness into the corners of my vision. But before I can spiral, a hand placed lightly on the small of my back jerks me back to the present.

“Morning, ladies.” Sorin’s voice is smooth and low, as usual. I don’t flinch away from his hand that lingers on the small of my back, I sink into his touch despite myself. Letting it ground me in the moment, the way it briefly did in the alley. The three of them chatter amongst themselves. The weather, the rest of the crew arriving in a few days, the upcoming full moon celebration. But my mind is far, far away. Trapped on a snowy mountain, eternally surrounded by screams and clashes of iron.

Chapter 14

Sorin

I try my best to keep my eyes on the road and not on Elora as we reach the house. But this woman, this Enchantress, has a hold on me that I can’t explain. She’s stubborn and fiery, absolutely beautiful and absolutely terrifying.

My eyes drift toward her again as a few loose strands of her blonde braid sway lightly around her face, framing the scatter of freckles that don the bridge of her slightly bent nose. And those eyes. A golden hue that rivals the intensity of the sun, a glorious benefit of being an Enchantress. My eyes drift even lower as she turns to walk up the steps of the house. Mother above I need help. I’m so lost in my train of thought I don’t realize Elora has stopped at the top of the steps and is now the one staring at me.

Her gaze is flat and unamused, and I can’t help but laugh as her eyes narrow further. Clearing her throat, I close the distance between us and make it up the few steps to the porch. As she crosses her arms, I laugh again. “I was just admiring those daggers,” I say, tapping the hilt of one of the blades.

She counters with a small smile of her own, though I know it isn’t genuine. “Right,” she says, nodding her head slowly, “the daggers.” The hint of a grin is now gone from her perfectly pink lips as she turns the knob of the door and disappears into Sam’s room, leaving me on the porch like an absolute idiot.

* * *

---