Tending the Grove

The hag, the children had called her. I’d heard stories about her since I was little. From other children, the tales were spun with fear, ever-expanding acts of a pagan nature. Child sacrifices, devil deals, the conjuring of old spirits for new evils. If one believed the stories, there never lived a more monstrous figure in the village. But when I saw her this morning, I did not see a monster, but an old woman. She wore an apron over a high-collared red blouse. A black skirt flowed down to a pair of leather boots befitting a morning after an autumn rain. She had thick, curly hair—silver-colored but still sporting sparse copper streaks—pulled back in a haphazard bun.

She busied herself around the yard. She placed a stone bowl on a brick flowerbed, filling it with milk and honey, before turning her attention to the local flora she kept tended about her porch. She brushed the porch with a straw broom, collected herbs, and fed grain to two small hens living in a makeshift pen. As she completed her tasks, a bronze necklace swayed against her chest—a cross, with a circle at the top.

She paused for a moment, and my heart jumped. Did she notice me spying? I had heard rumors of a boy turned into a pig and devoured by his own parents during a Christmas feast—a punishment doled out by way of ancient magic for the crime of spying. I took small comfort in remembering my father’s aversion to pork. But I had lived in this village all my life and I knew all the young boys, playing with them often. I had never noticed the disappearance of another child, barring the death of Jimmy Jensen of tuberculosis, for which I’m rather certain the witch was not responsible.

She retreated inside her cottage, collecting what looked to be a mug of tea and a pair of wool gloves, the fingertips cut at the top for ease of use. Finally, she strolled into the woods behind her home on a path cut through grass by regular use, and disappeared, just as John had predicted.

“Now’s your chance. I told you she’d go, didn’t I tell ‘em?” said John, currying approval from the rag-tag group of boys.

John was a slightly older boy. He was once quiet and studious, but ever since the emergence of small fuzzy hair upon his top lip, he had turned sour, always itching for trouble.

A slight boy, Frank, spoke up.

“I don’t think this is a good idea, I heard she turned a boy into a pig and—”

“We know!” interjected the assembly.

Six young boys from the village. John and Frank. The twins Mario and Ernesto—new in town but friendly. Will, my younger cousin. And myself, the only one foolish enough to bet on a five-legged cockroach to win a race across the sand on the creek bank, and end up condemned to infiltrate a witch’s lair. I named the cockroach Frederick. I hate Frederick.

“Go in and grab her spell book! My parents told me she is a no-good, godless heathen. She is bound to have one!” continued John.

“Your dad is the pastor. He thinks half the town are godless heathens,” I shot back, hoping to get him to renege on our wager.

“Then what are you scared of?” he said, wearing a smirk.

Mario and Ernesto made sounds, simultaneously, that in children-speak meant, “He’s got you there.”

I was beaten. I’d gotten used to losing games of wits with my grandfather, who never let me win at chess. But to lose to John in a game of words? Today wasn’t going my way. The boys would think I was a coward, and that was worse than being a pig as far as I was concerned.

“Fine, watch this, Saphead!” I stormed off toward the witch’s porch.

“Saphead! Why I’ll—” John’s words were cut off by the twins, arguing about what they might salvage of my toys and trinkets after the heist went wrong. My overhearing of such a debate—I have to admit—did little for my newfound confidence. Too late now. I hate Frederick.

I snuck from the wooden stairs to the windowsill, pulling at the glass. My struggle knocked the straw broom from rest and it slammed behind me on the porch. Frank shrieked from the bushes, and a subsequent chorus of shushes rang out behind me. Still not a pig, so far so good. The window gave way slightly, creating enough of an opening for a young boy. I dragged myself over the edge and whomped against the floorboards.

God, it smelled good in there. I recognized the smell of herbs. Sage and rosemary, a touch of orange peel—maybe lemon, something sweet like maple or vanilla. The room was dark despite the rising morning sun. A few judiciously placed candles flickered on a fireplace mantel. The walls were adorned with landscape oil paintings. Rolling green hills, dark forests cut by clear rivers, ships at sea both calm and tumultuous. Mountains of marble capped with snowfall. An English ivy, potted, hung from the ceiling and spread over the walls like a spider. Ferns raised on platforms dotted the room in three corners. A healthy begonia sat in the center of a coffee table, its striking red leaves like the beating heart of the home. And above the begonia, lying on the sofa, a cat.

The familiar. I had read about these creatures, a witch’s demonic watcher. The cat had a leg held high in the air, tongue still trapped in a mess of fur, and kept eye contact. It seemed surprised, for the moment, before returning to its cleaning ritual and judging me unworthy of a response. Perhaps it was just a cat.

My search brought me to a small kitchen. I expected to find morsels of a peculiar kind. Mason jar of spiders, perhaps. Or the concoction of a slug’s slime. Instead I found only the burnt fond of breakfast sausages caking the bottom of a cast-iron skillet. Some crumbs of toasted bread, a half-sliced plum atop the counter. A kettle, still warm. No brews or potions in sight, certainly no spell book. I pocketed the plum. I always liked plums.

Outside the kitchen was a bedroom. Tidy. Dust had collected along the desk and bedside table. A small set of wooden building blocks was stacked neatly in the corner. Children’s clothes—very young—filled the closet. A hope chest at the foot of the bed, filled with poor art made with fingers and paint. Unlike the living room with the cat, or the kitchen, this room had no candles.

Further down the hall was the witch’s slumber room itself. Gooseprickles appeared on my arm as I reached for the knob. The door creaked open with a light push, and I held my breath. The window was perfectly centered on the rising sun, light penetrating beige linen curtains, flowing gently in the fall breeze. Clean, white sheets covered the bedding, and the soft gold of the walls made the modest room feel more like a palace. Beside the bed stood a canvas, the beginning strokes of a new oil painting.

I could see a small book on the bedside table. Leather binding, a belt around its midsection. A fountain pen, paired with a case of ink. Bully! I grabbed the book and opened it. Flipping through the pages, I found sketches and notes. These were not spells of magic, but tales of magic. Familiar tales. I carried the book to the window and peered beyond the yard at the hiding spot I'd emerged from. The boys were still there, tucked behind the foliage. I exchanged glances with John, and stuck my tongue out to mock him. John stared back in terror, and I saw the twins and little Frank take off in the other direction.

“Who the hell are you!?” screamed the hag.

I spun around like a twister. I dropped the book. A half-sliced plum fell from my pocket. I considered escape routes but my feet, once landed, felt tethered to the ground. I was certain I was going to be a pig, and extra certain that useless cockroach Frederick was primarily to blame. I glanced back at John in hopes that he would interfere on my behalf, but he was gone. Only Will, my beloved cousin, remained to shoot me a glance of pity and a half-hearted shrug, before himself disappearing into the foliage. Yellow-bellied cowards!

“Boy, how did you get in my house?” she asked, her tone softening.

I tried to talk but my jaw hung open like a broken hinge. So I pointed past the old woman, into the living room, at a half-open window. That seemed to satisfy her curiosity, though it did nothing for her anger.

“What kind of mother raises a boy to raid an old woman’s home? Maybe she didn’t whoop you enough and teach you respect. The boys these days are all sour and churlish,” she said. I looked down at the plum. Regretfully.

“Mothers these days, how I pity them. Rotten young things they have to care for, completely unappreciated. How do you think she will feel when I tell her what kind of trouble you’ve caused? What will she think?”

“She won’t think nothing at all, on account of corpses not being known for thinking much,” I said. I was surprised at how I said it. I don’t know why I said it. Like it bubbled out of me all hot and hateful. The hag ceased her lecture. She looked at me like she recognized me.

“You’re Mary’s boy. Sweet girl, she’d come by sometimes before you were born. She was a friend of—eh, don’t matter. Why don’t you come sit down on the sofa while I think of something to do with ya,” she said. Whatever rage she’d entered with left her.

I sat down on the sofa. The cat from earlier had finished grooming, and settled in cozily, sleeping with legs sprawled out, on her back.

“That’s Zoe. She used to be a stray but kept spraying on my porch after I threw food her way. Figured if I had to pay for her to be spayed I might as well get a housemate out of the deal,” the hag said, emerging from the kitchen with more tea and a loaf of rye bread. She laid down some butter on the coffee table, next to the begonia, before stepping back toward the kitchen.

The cat opened its eyes slightly, examined the food like it was performing arithmetic, and decided a nap was still in order.

“I was sorry to hear about Mary. I hear things so rarely nowadays. Few visits. But when I do get news, or read the paper, it’s typically bad news and I’ve gotten my fill for one life. Told the mailman to stop coming. I think he—”

She glanced from the kitchen. I tried to hide it but hearing my mother’s name had brought wetness to my eyes and I was looking up at the walls to keep her from noticing.

“There’s no point in any of that, child. Believe me, I’ve tried. Lord, I’ve tried.” She placed a knife down on the table next to a jar of honey. It felt weird to hear a witch mention the Lord. Like a gunslinger calling for the sheriff to intervene.

“How did you know her?” I asked, still admiring the corners of a candlelit room, avoiding her gaze.

“She was a friend of my boy. Used to come by the house and play out in the grove with him. They was real young at the time. She still popped in every other year or so, checked on me, asked about the grove. ‘Til one day she stopped. Some time ago now, she was kind to keep coming as long as she did,” said the hag.

My mother mentioned a childhood friend occasionally. Told stories about a fantasy world hidden in the local forest. Fairies and a prince and a beautiful red-haired queen that watched over it. Of course, these were just bedtime stories. Fantasy. But I remembered them now, how much the stories meant to my mother. The way her eyes would glint in their telling.

“Those two had such an imagination. They’d be pirates or navy admirals one day, mountaineers the next. Sometimes they’d pretend to be navigating rivers like Lewis and Clark, or Italian farmers tending to fields of wheat next to gorgeous grassy hills. Outside Florence. They were very specific. Always specific, those two, they were funny. I asked them where they got their ideas. The fairies, they’d tell me. The fairies. Ha! Should have never told them about the fairies.” She was smiling now. It was the first time I’d seen her smile. Wrinkles formed at the corner of her eyes and mouth. She must have smiled often, once. She fiddled at her necklace with long, dexterous fingers.

“What happened to the prince?” I asked, reflexively, not thinking.

“The prince?” Confusion was in her eyes. She smiled. Then the wrinkles around her mouth and eyes vanished, and she started looking at the corners of the walls too.

“The prince died, son. Like everyone else.” She cut herself a piece of rye. She spread butter over it, and took a small honey spoon and let it drizzle. Took a bite and washed it down with a swig of tea. “Like the princess. And soon, like the queen.”

The tears started to rush up again. Damn them. The prince and princess and the queen. In the stories, they don’t die. In the stories, they live and things are good and Frederick wins the race and John stays good and studious and Frank is brave and the mother lives! The mother lives!

The old woman cut a piece of rye. She spread butter over it, and took a small honey spoon and let it drizzle, pushing a small plate towards me. The tears were flowing now, and no distant glances at the ceiling could conceal them. I stopped trying to conceal them.

“Yeah,” she said.

“Eat that. Then get up. We’re going for a walk.”

I did what I was told. Whatever agency I had before this incursion had drained out of me with the tears. The honey was sweet. I liked that.

The old woman put on gloves and placed leather boots on her feet. She poured another mug of tea and waited at the door. I rubbed breadcrumbs from my mouth, the stickiness of the honey still on my fingers.

We strolled into the woods behind her home. The sun, approaching midday, sent rays through the branches. The forest floor was still wet from the day before. I could smell moss, snails crawled about the trees, a woodpecker labored away for fresh grubs. We crossed some streams. Tadpoles navigated from rock to crevice, dragonflies, some red, some blue. A salamander, exposed when I tripped on a rock, scurried under a log. Then the forest opened up like the eye of a hurricane, and it was still.

There was a hill, almost terraced. A number of stones dotted the landscape both disorderly and intentional. Some stones were carved into mini-caverns like the lairs of tiny subterranean men. Some were stacked like stone building blocks. Atop the hill, crowned at the center, were larger stones carved into the shape of a miniature mountain, white. A small aqueduct was dug into the layers, the remnants of rainwater still moistening the soil, circling the mounds. Taller weeds had grown beside it.

Every blade of grass a tree. Every curve of running water a river. A universe all their own.

“I come here every morning. I keep the saplings from growing in. I pull at the weeds to keep them from encroaching on the grass. The stones I don’t touch. That part’s superstitious but I ain’t the type to risk it.” She tugged at her necklace. She let her hair fall free from its bun, the streaks of copper catching the sun’s light through the silver mass. She poured some tea into the aqueduct, watching it wind between the terraces.

“After my boy went, I kept coming. Routine, maybe. Didn’t know what to do with my body,” she said.

“Do you believe in the fairies? Did they really give them those stories? My mother, she would tell me some. They felt real,” I said.

“Real. Not real. It felt true to them young ones,” she replied.

We told each other stories for hours — stories from the fairies. Some were familiar to us, with small deviations formed by time and different voices. I told her a tale my mother had told me, of a battle with goblins. She shared one from her son, a brawl with trolls. Some stories were alien to us, told for the first time to another person. There were times when I began to wonder whether the stories came from my mind at all. Like I had dipped into some deeper pool and drunk from it, the words spilling from my lips like libations. Before I knew it, the sun was setting, and the old woman said it was time to leave.

“Why do you still keep tending this place, if you don't truly believe like they did?” I asked.

“I don’t know. I really don’t know. I’ve wondered. Do I do it for the fairies? Do I do it for my boy, to honor him? Do I do it for myself? Some desperate attempt to keep him close to me? I keep coming out here, every day, expecting an answer to those questions. Then I walk home,” she said.

“So what is the answer? I don’t want to walk home until I have the answer,” I said.

“I know, but we walk home.” She took me by the hand.