Matthew
At the peak of summer, in the middle of the night, a distant cry woke Matthew Merrick. When the strange cry turned into a chorus, he rubbed his bleary eyes and scrambled up from his pallet to peek out the narrow cottage window.
A full moon lorded over the sleepy village of Kel-green. Matthew’s gaze passed over the nearby cottages, but nothing seemed out of place. He peered farther into the distance, past the edge of the village into the open meadow. There, two figures raced toward the village. Matthew's eyes widened. No one ever came to or went from that forest, which formed the unknown edge of the Timberton realm.
The hooded forms blended into the few shadows not dominated by moonlight, but Matthew didn’t lose sight of them. They didn’t glance backward at the forest once, despite the mad screeches of crows that followed them.
Overtaken by curiosity, Matthew climbed out the window. Thankfully, he was gangly enough to fit neatly without making any noise. He had no desire to disturb his older brother, Thomas, who would strongly disapprove of Matthew’s investigation.
Like the rest of the Kel-green villagers, Thomas assiduously ignored that the northwest forest even existed. But Matthew couldn’t ignore the fascinating giant trees, which strangely never stayed in the same place for long. In fact, the trees were so lively that their loud groans and cracks sounded like amicable conversation between neighbors rather than insignificant, random noise. But Matthew never voiced this to Thomas, who would give his mouth a sharp slap if he dared.
Matthew lost his balance and landed on the ground outside the cottage window with a quiet grunt. He paused, waiting to hear if Thomas stirred. But no sound came from inside. Matthew let out a sigh of relief. No slaps tonight, then.
He inhaled deeply, smelling the cool wind coming from the northwest. That wind usually came with the autumn, but it was only midsummer. Still, there had been a curious shift in the air. Others sensed it, too, since the village gossips related in titters how the mayor’s wife wore a wool wrap while covering her petunias from frost before remembering the season. And Matthew himself had seen how Birdie Bell jumped when a strangled howl sounded earlier, causing her to drop her whittling knife and block of wood. She muttered something about arthritis and refused to look northward. She whittled more furiously afterward, her face as white as the sheet hanging from the laundry line.
The chill in the wind sharpened as it grazed Matthew’s skin, bringing him back to the present. Another wail of distress came from somewhere in the woods. The pale hair on Matthew’s arm stood straight up as his skin prickled like gooseflesh.
He lifted his gaze, and after a moment, his eyes locked on the strangers again. They were difficult to spot, and it was even harder to keep them in his sight. His eyes were tempted to drift over them, like they were part of the surrounding flora and fauna. But Matthew refused to lose sight of them.
They sped toward the village forge and the smith’s cottage, which marked the edge of Kel-green. In a crouch, Matthew ran to the next cottage over, then the next, to get a better view. He found a place behind a woodpile where he could watch through the gaps in the logs.
It was much too late for smoke to be rising from the smith’s chimney, but a fire burned there all the same. Matthew stilled when the taller figure paused to survey their surroundings before reaching the smith’s door. His heart lurched when the unknown figure turned their head to reveal the full cowl of their hood, but it was too dark to see the face it hid.
The figure drew a hand from their cloak, and its shadow began to grow. Matthew squinted and rubbed his eyes, certain that the moon’s light was playing tricks on him. He barely opened his eyes in time again to see the figure thrust their hand outward, sending a whip hurtling in his direction. He dove face-first into the dirt. There was a strange whistle just as the woodpile exploded around him. Matthew kept his face buried so that only the earth heard his muffled grunts as small logs landed sharply on his back. But he stayed still, willing himself to look like one of the fallen pieces of wood.
He didn’t dare move again until there was a curt knock, followed by the sound of the smith’s door opening. Quickly, he brushed the dirt from his eyes in time to see the two figures step into the smith’s cottage before the door closed. He glanced down at the demolished woodpile, which looked like someone had bowled right into it. But no one had come near enough to do so.
His brows furrowed at the sight of a lone green leaf next to his hand. The wooden logs were dried and cured from the previous season, so any remaining leaves would have long dried or been swept away by the wind. But this leaf was fresh, like it had just fallen from its vine. He reached for it and yelped at the sharp sting. He wiped his fingertips on his tunic, but the throbbing sensation only spread to his entire hand.
Wincing, Matthew abandoned the leaf and instead focused on the smith’s cottage. No one was shouting for help. Either these visitors were skilled enough to silently attack their victims, or they were invited guests. Matthew had to know which.
He set his mouth in grim determination, then scurried across the short distance between the disordered woodpile and the smith’s cottage. Dim light slipped out through one of the shuttered windows. Carefully, Matthew stood and peered through a narrow gap between the shutter’s planks. He barely made out a whispered conversation between the four adults inside.
