Rot and Ruin

One evening in late winter, when the clouds swelled with snow and all good creatures settled in their homes for the night, someone knocked on Phinea Larson’s door. Frowning, Phinea rose from the rough-hewn table in the center of her cottage. Draped with burlap and scattered with various jars of preserved herbs, the table would have looked a mess to most. But Phinea had a system, and this visitor was disrupting her end of season inventory.

In a few strides, she reached the door. Made of solid oak, its edges blurred in the shadows cast by the woodstove fire. She had been meaning to ask the village carpenter to bore a hole so she could observe all comers. Thinking perhaps this visitor was the carpenter come to settle his debt for her healing tonic, Phinea opened the door with a smile.

Upon her doorstep stood a man a head taller and twice as broad as she. His hair flashed red in the firelight. Bags sagged beneath his bloodshot eyes.

Phinea’s smile faded, but she endeavored to be polite. Polite was how her Aunt Mathilde raised her. Polite was how her kind was allowed to live and practice their ways. “Mister Montague, what a pleasant surprise. Is there something I can help you with?”

When Angus Montague first appeared at Phinea’s door a week ago, he’d stumbled upon her haven by accident. New to the small village on the other side of the forest, he’d wandered into the woods and found the faint trail to her cottage. Back then, his eyes had rivaled the fire for warmth. He spoke with a certain mischievousness, and Phinea had enjoyed bantering with him over tea. She’d even considered taking him to bed.

When Angus left a week ago, he pressed a kiss to her hand with the promise to call on her again. She watched him take the path back to the village with an aching mix of longing and sorrow. Longing, because occasionally Phinea grew lonely and wished for a companion. Sorrow, because she could sense rot in his chest. A type of rot she could not cure.

On this dark night, Angus stood before her with eyes as cold as the winter wind, and she heard a faint rattle in his chest. The rattle meant the rot had spread fast. Angus would not survive the winter.

Regret pricked Phinea like her needles when she missed a stitch darning her socks. She mentally shuffled through remedies for pain relief. The least she could do was send him home with a tonic to ease his suffering.

“He told me you’re a witch.”

Phinea’s thoughts of healing scattered like mice when a hawk dives. “Who told you that?”

“The village priest,” Angus rasped. A coughing fit wracked him, left him sweating and pale. “I went to him for help when this illness started, and he said I’ve been cursed. That you cursed me.”

“I have not cursed you, Angus. I swear it.” Phinea had never cursed a soul. Not her father who beat her bloody. Not the mob who burned her dear Aunt Mathilde’s cottage after her death. Not even the meddlesome village priest who also served as the local doctor. The priest’s gift for healing was as bountiful as a dry well, so when his advice failed the villagers slunk to Phinea. But none had come to her like this, with terrible fury lurking in their eyes.

Angus scoffed. “He said you would deny it. He said you were a liar. He said by taking tea with you, I’ve damned my soul.”

“There was nothing in that tea but mint and chamomile. I’ve no control over your soul, Angus. I am a simple healer.”

“Then heal me.” Angus caught her hand, pressed her hand against his chest. She could feel the muscle developed from farm labor. And beneath that, the shudder of his lungs as his body fought the rot. “Please, Phinea.”

Gently, Phinea pulled her hand from Angus’ grip and cupped his face. His beard dragged against her callouses. His skin leached the warmth from her fingertips.

“I am sorry,” Phinea whispered. “I cannot heal you. It is beyond my power.”

Phinea’s power lay in the way she assessed her visitors. She could tell with a glance what they needed: a lotion, tincture, or tonic. The real challenge was deciding how much of herself to instill in the solution. Each shaved minutes off her life. But her spine was straight, her step light, her skin not yet wrinkled. She had life to spare, and gladly gave it to buy peace and protect her haven. But she did not have enough life in her to save Angus from the rot in his chest.

She searched his eyes, looking for any hint of the warmth she’d seen only days ago. But he was a different creature now, his good nature lost to the priest’s poison. He glared at her. “So, you are a liar, after all.”

Phinea withdrew her hand. “I am no liar. Good night, Angus.”

Angus’ nostrils flared like an enraged bull. “Give me the cure, Phinea. I know it’s in there somewhere.”

He tried to cross the threshold.

An invisible wall barred his way.

Angus staggered. “What is this? What have you done?”

“You are no longer welcome in my house. Leave, Angus.” Phinea closed the door and doused the candle at the center of the table. She mixed a few drops of her blood in the hot wax and drew a sigil over the door and the tiny windows set in each cardinal direction. Her Aunt Mathilde had done the same, and it protected her haven until she was cold in the ground. Phinea had never felt the need to apply it to her own humble home, but the look in Angus’ eyes roused the instinct to proceed with caution.

Angus circled her cottage; shouting, cursing, coughing. Finally, after midnight, he fell silent.

Phinea fell to fitful sleep. She dreamed of torches in the night. The village priest rose above her and poured holy water down her throat. Phinea sputtered. She choked. She struggled.

Arms lashed her from behind. She knew who it was by the rasp of beard against her skin. Angus forced her head back, squeezed her mouth open. The priest laughed. Phinea drowned.

She woke shivering. The woodstove fire had gone out. After Angus’ visit, she’d forgotten to stoke it.

Phinea slipped on her rabbit-skin boots and trudged to the stove. She levered open the frigid metal door. When she reached for her box of kindling, her hand closed on empty air. She scolded herself for yet another task forgotten.

With a sigh, Phinea bundled herself into Aunt Mathilde’s old cloak. It was a fine thing, lined with mink and embroidered with gold thread. Phinea tied her curly hair into a knot at the base of her skull and fastened the cloak with a silver pin given as payment by the village blacksmith after Phinea healed his child.

Before she ventured outside, Phinea peered through each window. No sign of Angus. He must have finally returned to the village.

Phinea stepped out into the pale winter morning. The iron fence around her property bristled with frost, and a layer of fresh snow crunched beneath her boots.

Around the side of her cottage stood a woodpile tucked neatly under the eave. The threadbare blanket which usually protected the top layer from the elements was missing. It wouldn’t be the first time a gust of wind stole it away. Phinea resolved to search for it once she had a fire going.

Arms laden with wood, she started back to the door. A shadow rose in her peripheral vision as Angus appeared from the other side of the woodpile. The missing blanket fell from his shoulders like molted feathers. He lunged.

Phinea dropped the wood and ran. She only made it a few steps before Angus tackled her to the frozen ground.

“Heal me,” he begged. Cold air slipped, insidious, down his throat. He coughed with such force he convulsed.

Phinea’s clawing fingers latched on to a piece of wood. She struck his head. Dazed, Angus went limp.

She struggled free. Slammed the door shut. Her heart beat rabbit-fast. Sweat cooled quick on her skin. Shuddering, Phinea swaddled herself in the cloak and crept toward the window closest to the woodpile.

Angus was on his knees. He spat bloody phlegm upon the pure white snow. His gaze met hers, then flicked to the woodpile. He gathered the fallen logs. Stacked them neatly atop the pile. Withdrew a silver tinderbox from his pocket. Set the entire woodpile ablaze. And watched Phinea’s horrified face until smoke obscured the window.

Phinea collapsed at the table. Her sigils protected the cottage from the fire, but without the woodpile she would freeze to death.

“Damn you, Angus Montague,” Phinea muttered. The temperature in the cottage plummeted, but she did not notice. Her mind was consumed with survival. She would not last long without heat. Angus clung to life fiercely: at this rate, he would outlive her ability to withstand the cold.

Phinea kept a reserve woodpile in the forest. To reach it, she would have to incapacitate Angus.

As the scent of smoke grew cloying, Phinea dumped her entire collection of valerian root in her stone mortar along with half her store of chamomile. Shivering, she slipped off her cloak and held it to the light. Several strands of red hair were caught on the fabric from her recent struggle with Angus. Phinea added them to the mortar and ground the mixture to dust.

She struck a match. Held it over the mortar. Hesitated.

Never before had she cursed anyone. To mix Angus’ essence with such a potent sleeping drug, there was no telling how strongly the spell would take him. It might kill him. But if she could not get past him, she would die.

The match’s tiny flame singed her fingertips. Startled, Phinea dropped the match. It fell into the mortar and burned merrily.

As the smoke from the bowl dissipated, Angus’ steps slowed outside. He fell against the door with a thud.

Phinea waited until all was quiet. Then she eased open the door, stepped over Angus’ slumped form, and hurried into the woods.

The reserve woodpile wasn’t far, but snow fell steadily. The fresh powder slowed her progress. It muffled the sound of the predator approaching from behind.

Angus grabbed Phinea just as he had in her nightmare. His arms crushed her; his beard scratched the thin skin of her neck. Phinea threw her head back. Angus’ nose snapped like a dry twig. With an agonized shout, he released her to clutch at his face.

Phinea whirled, her cloak swirling wide and dark as crow’s wings. She fell upon him. Angus hit the ground and wheezed. His body shuddered with the urge to cough.

With one hand, Phinea forced open his jaw. With the other, she shoveled snow down his throat.

His teeth snapped shut on her fingers, drawing blood. Phinea felt no pain; only rage. A scream rose in her, a scream that had been building since he first invaded her haven the night before.

She wrenched free. Packed more snow against the seam of his mouth. Her blood dripped hot upon his lips.

Phinea leaned close until she could see her warped reflection in Angus’ wide eyes. Her free hand went to his chest, seeking the rot that festered within. She focused on it, fed him her tonic of blood and snow, and hastened his ruin. With the power of her ways heavy on her tongue, Phinea hissed: “Angus Montague, leave me in peace.”

His struggles ceased.

Phinea watched the falling snow bury him in a final, frigid shroud.