Chapter 1: Village Witch

Surrounded by darkness, Tilla shivered as the wind howled relentlessly over the moors. Her dress torn, it proved insufficient in warding off the persistent drizzle that saturated the night. The dampened red locks of Tilla’s disheveled hair clinging to her face and neck, she wiped them away from her eyes as she attempted to take in her surroundings. Brambles and thistles scraping against the exposed skin on her legs and arms, she clambered shakily to a standing position. 

Not one inch of her body appeared to have been spared from a cut or a bruise of some description, these seemed old pains that were numbed mildly by the unforgiving chill that permeated the air. Searching the land for any semblance of familiarity, Tilla could discern amongst the dark and desolate hills of the moorlands that she recognized, much less that suggested anything of home. ‘Home? Where was home?’ She thought. The answer, eluding her, Tilla felt her heart rate begin to quicken. Finding that her memories remained as vague and as obscure as the landscape on the moor, it had seemed that all but her own name had abandoned her. 

Trying to recall the details of her identity or even what had brought her here, nn unabating pain formed in Tilla’s temple. Clutching at her head as the intensity of the throbbing in her skull grew with each question that was posed and continued to be left unanswered. Tilla finally abandoned her efforts to summon her memories, contemplation only adding further to her agony in this moment, she instead stumbled resolutely forward into the dark. Only her life left intact on the boggy wastelands of the moors, Tilla did not consider the direction she chose. Her destination indeterminate, she staggered over a marshy patch, convinced that possibly anywhere else would be preferable to where she stood now. 

The smoldering cinders from the fire in the hearth emitting a warm woody odor throughout the small wooden cabin, they crackled contentedly. Far from the damp and cold recollection of the moor that she had from nearly a year ago, the heat of the ardent flames inspired a few beads of perspiration to dot her brow as Tilla worked over a rough wooden table. The fire licking at the dented surface of a darkened cauldron that rested, suspended on a hook above them, its faint but happy chorus was hardly noticeable over the grinding of a pestle and mortar. The pressing and crushing of herbs mixing with the dry air in the cabin, it sent up a bouquet of aromas that tickled Tilla’s small pointed nose.

Her face twitching for a moment, Tilla failed to suppress a sneeze. Muffling the sound as it erupted from her inside the fabric of a long linen sleeve that was rolled above her elbow, Tilla sniffled but continued her task. Still to this day, unsure of whether she was ever the type of witch to employ herbal remedies in the past, Tilla had accepted the post of Village Witch in the sleepy town of Strathmeade. Provided with lodgings in the form of a homely cabin on the outskirts of the village proper in exchange for providing herbs and potions for the locals’ minor ailments, it was an occupation Tilla that herself felt somewhat ill-suited to undertake. Yet, with few other talents revealing themselves from the shroud of her imperfect memory. Tilla was forced to rely on what could be salvaged from her mind for her livelihood.

A knowledge of medicinal herbs and a mildly disconcerting amount of familiarity with poisonous plants, being all that she had managed to recollect, so far, there were few opportunities that presented themselves to her. Poisons, being of little need in this remote province of Antheon, apart from that of the odd vengeful housewife. Tilla had sensibly chosen to settle down and resort to the employment of her tolerable medical skills, rather than take on the more dubious title of apothecary. However, despite her possible lack of compatibility with her chosen profession and murky history, Tilla was content with the tranquility of her current existence. The scars on her skin only just beginning to fade, she was not eager to dredge up more from the far shores of her mind, for fear that they would only expose a life of bleakness and cruelty best left forgotten.

However, there was one thing that Tilla wished fervently to recall in this moment; and that was the dosage she had prescribed the old lady who lived three fields down for her arthritis. Her mind trying to think back to the conversation she had with the woman just that morning, she pressed down more firmly on the leaves in the mortar. Continuing to grind the herbs distractedly as she racked her mind for the dosage, Tilla’s thoughts were interrupted by a comment from the other side of the divider.

“I heard she bathes in the blood of her vanquished enemies!” a man bellowed loudly. His booming voice cutting through the thin curtain Tilla had erected in order to provide her patients some privacy and herself with some degree of peace, her ears twitched at the disturbance.

“No, I heard that she drinks their blood like wine.” Said another man. His tone also lacking in discretion, Tilla emitted an exasperated huff before setting aside the pestle loudly. The noise, not deterring them from their conversation in any way, they persisted, “Oh come on Clint, she’s not a vampire! You know-” The man’s speech halted abruptly as Tilla pulled apart the material dividing the cabin in one swift motion. Both men become silent as they were met with the muted ferocity of her gaze. Reviewing their stupefied looks disapprovingly for a while longer, Tilla finally addressed them. “If you two fish mongers’ wives are done gossiping, I suggest you go home.” she said, releasing the cloth out from between her fingers. 

Both men producing a nervous laugh in response to her remark, Tilla eyed them crossly as she passed between the parting in the curtains. Most of her patients accustomed to her inhospitable nature by now, neither seemed perturbed by Tilla as she proceeded to inspect their injuries. 

“What do you think, Tilla? Does the Red Witch consume the hearts of men and keep their heads as trophies to display on the walls of her castle?” asked the burlier of the two men, as Tilla kneeled to check the bandages on his leg. Unraveling a section of the dressings she had applied only yesterday to check that those underneath had remained dry, she responded with mild disinterest, “I’ll gladly feed you both to Red Witch, if you keep coming here to talk of tales that are only meant to frighten children.”

“But they’re true, Tilla!” The other man said, offering an indignant objection from the cot beside them, “The Red Witch has been stirring up all sorts of trouble lately. A group of emissaries were even sent to Vinhalla just today to request that its King do something about her.” Tilla, not bothering to glance up at him as she replaced the stained bandages on Clint’s leg, answered placidly, “Every fable is bound to have an ounce of truth in it, Rogan, but that does not make it true.” The man obviously having something else to say in regard to this retort, he was unable to voice it, before the door was thrown open. 

The force of the motion causing the meager barricade to slam against the wall harshly, everyone turned to regard the tall form of the unannounced visitor as they entered into the cabin. Unwilling to test the limitations of the lodging’s already cramped quarters, Tilla’s head jerked towards the portal with the vigor of another remonstration weighing on her tongue. However, she found that it was already too late to prevent another new body from joining their party as Wren stomped across the threshold. A bloodied rabbit in her hand and boots caked with mud, the lanky teenager’s arrival was immediately met with a vehement complaint from Tilla. “How many times must I tell you not to trapes across my floors with those horrid boots of yours?” she grumbled, her eyes still glaring at the trail of muddy footprints left on the clean floorboards.

The chiding ignored by the young huntress as she tossed the hapless creature she held unceremoniously down on the table. Wren plonked herself onto a stool that appeared to be in stark disproportion to her gangly legs, before launching into her usual string of grievances for the day.

“I swear, I’ll skin that wolf next time I see it.” Wren proclaimed. The girl, wrestling one of her wet boots off to place it next to the fire, the marred footwear was soon joined by its pair as she continued, “He either scares off all of the animals or takes them for himself. All I can catch these days are these damned rabbits!” The discontented grumblings, something that Tilla had heard many times before, she thought little of them as she finished fastening Clint’s bandages.

The werewolf, appearing in the nearby forest less than three months prior, all of the villagers were aware that he was encamped in a cave somewhere within its wooded confines. However, none were foolish enough to risk interfering with the lycanthrope or its hunting patterns. A rogue wolf without a pack of his own, the locals did not wish to fall prey to his potentially aggressive tendencies. Especially, considering that he was more than likely to move on to a new hunting ground at the change of the next season. However, there were still those such as the hot-headed young huntress who liked to vent their spleen in the form of these empty threats.

“Don’t go near that wolf, Wren.” Clint instructed, grunting as he rose to stand on his injured leg. The man’s face took on a stern severity as he glared towards his daughter, who now sat wriggling her bare toes in front of the fire. A vague roll of her eyes noticed by Tilla as she looked over her shoulder at her father, Wren groaned back, “I know, Dad.” Evident that the discussion had been broached many times in the past between the two, Clint shrugged off her dismissive response with only mild exasperation before picking up his cane. 

The man, limping towards the door his daughter had just made her abrupt entrance through, his stalky frame paused momentarily on the threshold. 

“Thanks for patching me up again. I’ll be seeing you in a few days, Tilla.” Clint said, his head tilting towards Tilla as he issued these few words prior to his departure. Preoccupied with taking the pulse of the man in the cot, she hollered a response with her fingers still pressed to her patient’s wrist, “Stay off of it, Clint. If I hear you’re out trapping again, with your leg like that! I really will have the Red Witch eat your heart right out of your chest!” Waving off the warning as usual, Tilla sighed in mild defeat as he closed the door behind him. 

Concluding the act of taking Rogan’s pulse, after she was made to start again, she removed her hand from his wrist. The slow and labored beating of his heart, feeling as though it lingered on her fingers, she made one last examination of the man’s pupils before handing him the rabbit that had been placed on the table so impetuously by Wren. 

“You have an iron deficiency, Rogan. Eat this tonight and I’ll bring you some supplements in the morning.” Tilla instructed plainly. Her green irises already scanning the room for something with which to jot down a reminder, she added, “You should try to avoid strenuous activity in the meantime. Is there someone that can help you at the farm?” His pale lips twisting into a considered frown, the man thought for a moment before answering, “With the wife still pregnant and our first born barely old enough to walk. I’m afraid, that just leaves me.” 

The admission causing a weary exhalation to escape her, Tilla pushed a middle and index finger to the side of her sore temple, muttering softly under her breath, “You people will drive me into an early grave.” Seizing a paper and a crude looking pencil thereafter, she wrote the note down. Her discouragement mildly placated, by the discovery that the prescription for the elderly woman she had been so uncertain of earlier had been scribbled across the opposite side of the page, Tilla still proceeded to shoo the remaining company out of her hovel. 

“Wren, go with Rogan and make sure he doesn’t fall over on his way home.” She directed, still reading through the previous notes on the paper she held. 

The teenager, already becoming like a melted pool near to the fire, protested, “But- “ However, not in the mood to entertain whatever opposition the girl had to offer, Tilla cut her off.

“You can dry your feet elsewhere.” she answered firmly. The dismissal met with a churlish look from Wren as she reluctantly replaced her bare feet back inside of her damp boots. There was a grotesque squelch that resounded from inside the footwear as she declared, “Tch, you really are just like a witch sometimes you know that.” Finding some wry humor in the remark, a hint of a smile unfurled on her thin lips as Tilla turned back to her mortar and pestle.