My sister kneels over the birthing pot, her green gown stretches over her swollen belly, the petals from her flower crown sticking to her sweaty forehead. The hot, summer sun made her labor harder. Our mother stroked her back as the village priest murmured prayers and warnings.
Everyone in our hovel has an important role for the birth of the new child. The astrologist told us when Mira first began showing that the birth would be one of intense danger, and as she continued in her labor, I had to agree. The priest’s holy book, bound in cattle skin, is displayed in our window. It’s thick, leather cover prevents any light from entering our home. My mother soothes her and gave Mira words of wisdom, while my father and brother in law build a wall of briar thorns around our home.
“Sen,” my mother calls, “the salt.”
My heart drops. The salt circle surrounding Mira was broken in our haste. My sword in hand, I take a handful from our sack and start to repair the circle. Bending down, my scabbard uncomfortably pressed against my stomach, I hear the faintest whistle by my ear.
I stand. My sword shines bright and dull in the sunlight. The priest’s book has fallen to the floor, torn pages float in the air. Mira is gone.
“Momma!” I ran to her. Tears streamed down her cheeks.
She fell to her knees. “The fairies came so fast, Sen. I couldn’t stop them.”
I took her hands in mine. Red gashes sliced her knuckles. Charred flesh. The signature mark of fairy wings.
I did this. I kiss my moms hands and clutch them to my heart. My job was to protect Mira from the fae. In her weakest moments, bridging the gap between our world and their’s, I should have defended her.
I will have to go into the woods.
“Momma,” I say. “I will find her. I will bring Mira back.”
“And the baby?” She weeps.
I nod. “They will come back. Both of them.”
The priest interrupts,“It is too dangerous for you, Sen.”
Of course it is dangerous, but I’m her older sister. Unable to have man and child, she is my parent’s hope to enter the Kingdom of Gods. I devoted myself to the School of Bladeship. Shall I fail, my soul will sink to the River Muck as I kiss death’s lips. Shall I fail, Mira will face a fate worse than River Muck. The fate of a fae bride.
I collect my satchel and fill it with jars of salt and cinnamon, a silver dagger and steal my father’s leather breast plate from his crate. All the while, the priest calls after me, begging me to stop. To let my father go after her.
“He is sixty ages,” I respond. He hadn’t seen the woods in years. The woods which surround our village, and the Kingdom of Clu’nanna, are a strict boundary between our world—a world run by life, structured by the gods above and below—and that of the fae.
Mira’s husband and my father work to repair the gate. The barrier of briars lay in tatters of bark and stems. Still, with my trained eye, I notice small rips in the mud. Lines trace through the soil, a labyrinth built by fairy wings into the earth they hate. There, on a pale birch log, a bit of Mira’s dress blows in the wind. Dead ahead, the woods stare at me like a wild animal. Dark trees form teeth in its moldy maw. I’ve never entered the woods. I’ve only heard tales of those who did, whispered from the mouth’s of others.
My sword shifts on my belt as I bolt in. Crossing the threshold, I hold my breath. Bright light overtakes my vision. I stumble back, brushing against the root of an oak. Tendrils of vines crawl up my wrist. From my satchel, I draw my dagger and cut them away.
Leaves tangle in my hair. Plucking them from my scalp, I remember the teachings of the Fairy Realm. Do not take anything with you. Do not tell the woods anything. Do not stay more than one sunset, for it will never rise again.
I opened my mouth to call for Mira, but then hesitate, afraid to give the trees her name. There were no more tracks to trace. Behind me, my footprints are gone. Not even my shadow follows me into the woods.
The treescapes move by me. Otherwise, I’m not sure I moved. My hearing, typically sharp and able to decipher an eagle from a hawk a mile away now feels like I was listening underwater. Knowing my senses were leaving me for the magic of this land, I repeat a mantra. My name is Sen of Moor. My sister was taken by fae. I need her and her baby.
My name is Sen of Moor. My sister was taken by fae.
My name is Sen.
What’s my name?
No shadow to follow back. No footsteps to retrace.
No sun.
No sun.
No sun.
I draw my blade. The scabbard is empty.
I hear her voice. I know I hear her voice.
No sun to see, no tracks to follow, I carry on without a blade. I scream her name and give it to the trees. The trees rejoice.
In the distance, a baby cries and I sink to the River.