Beneath Hollow Roots

My companion hesitated as she looked at her cup of tea.

“Do not worry,” I said, smoothing my black skirt. “I do not poison potential customers.”

It was midmorning and the dew had just lifted off the grass and strange plants in my witch-garden. The person sitting across from me in my hut was what some would call a ‘rogue’. Her reason for visiting me was pedestrian, but the fact that she was able to find me at all was anything but.

“Now,” I began, “the last ingredient for your potion is a Ghostrose from the Drenchlash forest, just East of here.”

“Now now, Razia,” the weasel-thief said. “I paid you lots of gold to tell me all the ingredients and proportions to make an invisibility spell on my own!”

“True enough,” I replied. My long, black tail extended out of my robes and wagged lazily over the wooden floor. “If you feel capable of cutting and measuring the ingredients exactly, then yes, you need not return. It is a rather complicated concoction however, and one mistake could have... disastrous consequences.”

The weasel blinked. “How ‘disastrous’?”

“One error in measurement and you would have a completely different spell. Most of which would simply melt your insides.”

The weasel regarded me with incredulity.

“You could have let me collect the flower and let me... make whatever weird mistakes I would have made on my own... and yet you’re willing to help me further?”

“That is what was in the contract. I prefer having loyal customers to dead ones, my dear. And perhaps you’ll become a talented witch on your own and teach me some things.”

Deathholly - for that was supposedly her name - laughed.

“All right,” the weasel said, extending her paw. “Let’s see how far this partnership goes.”

I looked at the rogue’s paw wearily, removed my rings, and gave the rogue a paw-shake.

“One more thing,” I said as she began to count her bolts and eye the door. “You may be wondering why I do not have Ghostroses in my own garden.”

The weasel stopped in her tracks.

“Uh, yes, I was - in fact - wondering that,” she lied.

“They only grow beneath the Ghostelms of the Drenchlash forest. First of all, those are far too large for my little plot of land. And - as you might guess - the spirits of those trees do not like intruders.”

Deathholly sighed. “Any tips or tricks for dealing with them?”

“I suggest special glasses that allow you to see them.”

“And... where might I acquire those, Razia?”

“No idea,” I said mysteriously. “Good luck, and remember to apologize to the trees and spirits!”

Deathholly sighed. “All right.”

“And at the shrine, remember to pray... faithfully.”

“The shrine?”

“At the base of the Ghostelm,” I said, matter-of-factly. “The local otters have made a shrine. Have you ever prayed, weasel? To anything or anyone?”

I had prayed faithfully before. Not to good entities, but I had been faithful before. I have been frightened before.

I have been in awe before.

The weasel rogue’s eyes darted around the room. Finally, she spoke.

“If I’ve not returned within a day, could you perhaps... look for me?”

“I am an old vixen,” I said. “...But I shall try my best.”

Deathholly muttered something as she turned and left my quaint witch-hut in the middle of the disarming Drenchlash woods. I began to prepare for my eventual rescue mission by spending a few hours collecting honey from the enchanted hive near my hut. The bees there know me by name, and so collecting the magical honey was a breeze.

Their queen was the daughter of an old friend of mine back at the College of Elements: A raccoon professor who had been transformed into an insect by forbidden knowledge.

Since I had some time before I might have to go hunting for my weasel friend, I decided to go into the village. It was such a quaint village - and the otters who were the main inhabitants were so easy going - that it did not have a name.

I have a true name, but I doubt I would be invited to any more tea parties if they knew it.

The town was abuzz with children and shopkeepers, some honeydrunk and others not. I patted a few of the little otters and bears on their heads and gave a few others tender hugs on my way to my friend’s quaint corner of the village.

“Hey Razia!” Honeytree said as I walked into her little shop. “Got anymore of that special honey?”

“Of course,” I said. “I suffered a few stings, so if you could spear a few more coppers per ounce, I would very much appreciate it.”

The bear licked her lips. “O-of course,” she eventually said, pawing her apron distractedly. We agreed on a price that suited me and I invited her to some tea with my special honey.

After only a few cups, Honeytree was wheeling around the room. She railed against her parents - who had kicked her out of her house as soon as she was old enough - and then the second stage of the honey kicked in.

The second stage was my favorite: hallucinations. I made sure to stay out of the bear’s way as she reached out to invisible beings.

This was all part of my plan, of course, as I stole away to her dresser and retrieved her great-grandmother’s sewing needle. Of course it was no ordinary needle: I detected its special properties the moment I entered town.

I would need it to save my apprentice.

I did indeed love my bear friend, so I waited until she fell asleep - about an hour after I arrived. She rarely had the energy to enter the third stage of the honeydreams.

Few do.

It was now early afternoon. In vain hope, I decided to return to my cottage. Along the way were otterfolk and beaverfolk plying their avocations: building dams, swooning in honeydreams, guiding their children’s play. I smiled at all of them and even smoothed the fur of one of my favorites before slipping into a back alley and returning to the Drench-woods.

As suspected, my friend had not returned. I inspected the dirt around my humble abode and saw no sign of visitors. I then decided to take my chances, while it was light.