The Woodwife's Song
by A.C. WiseIt was a killing dream - spinning out around her, leaving her unable to wake. Her feet were rooted to the gray path, and there were blind things in the stagnant water. There were women with skin the color of ash, and silvery hair tangled with willow branches and fireflies.
Aylet wanted to go to them, but her first step tore the roots that bound her feet, and blood pooled in their wake. She stretched her hands towards them, but her fingers became twigs. Blood swirled as crimson smoke through the water, and a sense of loss, so overwhelming she could scarcely breathe, filled her.
Her skin was bark. Between her legs, and spreading up across her stomach, branches as thin as hairs splintered and fragmented off in a thousand directions and wrapped around her. From the front she was whole, but from behind she was as hollow as carved wood.
Aylet screamed.
She woke with the sheets twisted around her - red and sodden with blood.
"How are you feeling?" Jeannette asked gently.
"Lousy."
Aylet lips flickered with the ghost of a smile; bitter and cold. Her hair, bound at the nape of her neck, had lost its luster. Its sheen was lost as, if smoke clung to her skin, clouding it. Shadows, like unmoving bruises, circled her eyes.
"Nobody speaks above a whisper around me, and everyone looks at me the way you're looking at me right now."
"I'm sorry." Jeannette tried to smile, but it was hard to hold Aylet's gaze. It was too hollow, too bright. They eyes reminded her of ghost-lights drifting over the marshes at night - light where there should be none.
"Yeah, I know." Aylet shrugged. "Everyone's sorry. I'm sorry too." Her tone was unapologetic, and she turned away to pick up a piece of paper. She studied the rough charcoal sketch gravely for a moment before setting it down again.
Her thin hands showed blue veins where they were wrapped around a mug of tea, which she had barely touched. Jeannette watched Aylet rise and drift to the window, and then she leaned forward to retrieve the abandoned sketch.
"It's very good."
Aylet did not turn. She remained facing the window, small in an over-sized sweater the color of moss. In the window's pale light she looked washed out, as though the light was eating away at the edges of her being and making her disappear.
"It's me."
Aylet's voice was soft, and she still didn't turn. Jeannette looked at the sketch again, and a shiver passed up her spine. It showed a naked woman with heavy breasts and rounded hips. Her arms were out-stretched, and her fingers and hair were becoming branches and leaves. Between her legs, rather than a dark thatch of pubic hair, was a tree in miniature; branches and roots spreading over her belly and legs, consuming her.
"It's very good," she repeated, hating the hollow sound of her voice. She could think of nothing else to say.
Aylet remained silent.
"Are you okay?" Jeannette tried to see her friend around the corners of light.
"No. But I will be." Aylet sighed and turned. "At least that's what everyone keeps telling me."
After a moment Jeannette dropped her gaze. Aylet's eyes, with their strange light, were too much to bear.
"Can I keep this?" Jeannette asked at last, holding up the charcoal sketch.
"Sure." Aylet shrugged. "There are plenty more."
She pointed to a sketch pad under a pile of magazines, and watched expressionlessly as Jeannette turned the pages.
Image after image met Jeannette's gaze - each somber and shadowed, yet hauntingly real and alive. A cluster of gray women, their arms linked, their heads thrown back, moved in dance. Women who were also trees bowed over a river, their hands submerged to hold babes who were too cold and still beneath the waves. A woman turned in profile to show that she was whole from the front, but hollow from behind.
"Oh, Aylet."
Jeannette lowered the book and raised her eyes to her friend. Aylet took the book from Jeannette's hand, and regarded it critically.
"You can take them all if you want, it doesn't matter. They'll still be there in my dreams, just like the baby they took from me."
Will o' wisps - she had a name for them now. They drifted over the sick-looking water, which spread away from her on all sides. The only dry land was the narrow path under her feet, and even then the water sucked at it hungrily, steadily eating it away beneath her. The trees were headstones, though their bark bore no names for the lives cradled in their roots.
Lights continued to dance, skimming the surface of the water and playing among the trailing leaves. Corpse candles, hobby lanterns; it didn't matter what name she gave them, Aylet knew what they were - the lost souls of unborn children. And her child, her baby, was somewhere among them. A sound reached her across the still water; the soft sound of sobbing. If she stepped off the path she would be lost, but what choice did she have? Her baby was out there somewhere; her baby needed her. Taking a deep breath, Aylet stepped out among the lights, and the cold water rose up, eager to swallow her whole.
"What are they?"
Jeannette held out the sketch book, and Walter took it from her, flipping through the pages.
"They look like tree spirits - Woodwives, Dryads, that kind of thing. Where'd you get them?"
He handed the sketch pad back, taking off his glasses.
"They're Aylet's. She says she dreams about them every night."
Walter frowned slightly, chewing on the earpiece of his glasses.
"I think this is how she sees herself."
Jeannette pointed to the drawings. Walter was silent for a long moment, and Jeannette could almost see the thoughts moving behind his eyes. Finally, he sighed.
"Do you want me to talk to her?"
"I'm worried. I've tried talking to her, but I don't know what to say. Maybe you could try?"
Jeannette held the sketch pad close against her body like a shield, and Walter nodded thoughtfully. He was looking at Jeannette, but he was seeing Aylet as she had been three months ago. They were sitting in the park together, Aylet cradling the secret swell of her belly, which was just beginning to show.
Walter remembered the day had been overcast, but a strange diffuse light shone from beneath Aylet's skin. Aylet was smiling, and the same light that was beneath her skin danced in her eyes. Walter remembered thinking of fireflies.
After a moment he became aware that Jeanette was watching him closely and he glanced up. Their eyes met, and he could see the question in her gaze. He sighed again.
"I know what you're thinking, and the answer is no. We never..." He trailed off, and looked away. Jeannette touched his shoulder, and Walter offered her a half smile.
"I wanted to, but it was almost like Aylet was on a whole other plane of existence. As though, to her, I wasn't even real. And now..."
He shook his head, and broke off again. Then taking a deep breath he looked up and forced himself to smile.
"No promises." His voice was very soft, and Jeannette nodded, echoing him. "No promises."
"Where are you?"
Aylet waded into the water. It dragged at her, pulling her back with every step.
"Please. Tell me where you are. Help me find you. Help me bring you home."
A chill was creeping steadily up her body, spreading over her thighs and growing frost beneath her skin. The water was up to her waist now.
"Please."
Her tears were turning to ice on her cheeks. Voices echoed over the water, soft and eerie, barely audible. When she looked out of the corner of her eye, Aylet saw women standing waist deep in the water.
They were like her - other mothers searching for the lost children who had drowned in their dreams. Their heads were bowed, and their long hair trailed in the water, like the pale tangled branches of willow trees. Their hands were twigs, and in their bark-covered fingers they held candles for the dead.
Their veins were black beneath their skin; darkness creeping through them in a root-pattern of shadows, trapped beneath the flesh. Their eyes were white with frost and blind, but their mouths were open in eerie song. It was a binding song, and Aylet knew if she stayed and listened too long she would become one of them. All around them - called by the song - pale shapes began to rise from the water; small shapes with cold drowned skin.
"I thought I might find you here."
Aylet looked up to see Walter standing over her, and wordlessly she shifted to make room for him on the bench. She picked at a hard roll, scattering crumbs for the birds pecking around her feet.
"Have you been sleeping alright?"
Walter studied her, and Aylet made no attempt to turn her face away.
"It doesn't matter. I see them when I'm awake now, too."
Aylet raised her head. Her dark eyes were ringed in shadow, and Walter started at their intensity. Her face was pale and drawn; the skin of her cheeks pulled too tightly over sharp, thin bones.
"There."
Aylet pointed, and Walter turned to follow the movement of her finger. She was pointing to the concrete pool where water flowed in the summer, but where brown leaves now lay thick in a scummy puddle. On a small island in the center of the pool was a willow, leaning heavily on struts designed to keep it from collapsing under its own weight.
At first there was nothing, and then for a brief moment Walter thought he saw something.
"They took my baby away with their song. Now I'm one of them; whole from the front, and hollow inside."
Her voice ached and the look in her eyes pinned him, drawing him into her pain and forcing him to feel it without flinching or looking away. Because he didn't know what else to do, Walter reached out and laid a hand on top of hers. Her skin was ice cold.
"There's a graveyard in my dreams," Aylet spoke softly. "It's filled with babies born before their time, and women who are trees. My baby is in there somewhere. She isn't dead. I don't know what she is. I only know she's lost among the trees. She cries for me and I try and try, but I don't know how to reach her."
"Aylet."
Walter caught his breath, and forced himself not to look away.
"Who was the father?"
For a moment silence hung between them and even Walter was surprised. He hadn't meant to ask that question, and yet now that the words were past his lips he didn't want to take them back. Somehow they seemed to carry more weight than any words of comfort he might offer, which would do nothing to ease her pain. As the silence stretched, Walter forced himself to hold her gaze.
Aylet raised her head. Her eyes had turned the same grey as the sky; the same color the bark of the willow tree.
"There wasn't one. I dreamed her all on my own."
Walter blinked, and breathed out. He could think of nothing to say.
"I have to go, Walter. Thank you for trying."
Aylet rose.
"Wait!" Walter stood, and reached into his bag. He pulled out a slim book and pressed it into her hands before she could pull them away.
"I found this at the library. I thought...I thought it might help somehow." Aylet continued to fix him with her gaze, which was unreadable. Walter was the first to look away, and he spoke again very softly, gazing at the ground between them.
"I believe you."
Aylet said nothing, but she glanced down at the book and its title, just visible between her fingers; The Secret Language of Trees.
"Good luck," Walter murmured. As she turned and walked away, Walter allowed himself to believe that for just a moment he had seen hope flicker in her eyes.
"Birch," Aylet recited softly and took a deep breath, preparing to step off the path.
"Beth, birth-giver and death-giver; protector of children."
She held out a slim white branch, and stepped into the icy water. The mud sucked at her, pulling her down. Among the trees whose long silvery hair trailed upon the water women with gray skin and blind white eyes watched her, pale candles flickering in their hands.
"Rowan." She waded further forward, and red berries shivered on the second branch she held clutched in her hands.
"Luis, for the breaking of enchantments and personal healing."
She pushed on, fighting against the thick water, which sought to hold her back. Ahead she could hear ghostly voices carried over the mist-veiled water, and she could see pale lights flickering among the trees.
"Alder. Fearn, resurrection."
Her voice was stronger now, a song of her own, which vied against the voices of the gray women even as her throat was choked with tears.
Aylet forced herself to move deeper still into the graveyard of trees and water. Dead shapes floated up from beneath the surface, and chill things brushed against her legs, but she ignored them and pushed on.
"Oak. Duir. Victory."
She could see them ahead of her, standing waist deep in the swamp with mist rising all around them. Their arms were linked around each other's shoulders and they swayed slightly, their eerie song reaching out cold fingers to brush against her skin.
As she drew closer Aylet could see the water in the middle of the circle was red. One of the tree-women was crouched, holding a small shape under the glassy surface. The Woodwife in the center of the ring looked up, and for a moment the others paused in their song. The look in those silver-gray eyes was one of such sorrow and loss that it froze the blood to ice in Aylet's veins.
The women parted, breaking their circle to let Aylet move among them. Their eyes were expectant, waiting to see what she would do. Aylet pushed aside her fear, and stepped forward.
Her gaze was fixed on the woman in their midst. Her long hair trailed into the water, and her bark-skin lined deep with shadows in the place of tears. The thing she held under water was not flesh and bone, but a ball of roots, and concentric rings of blood spread outwards from it.
The song the Woodwives sung was a funeral dirge - a song of mourning for one of their own.
"Oh." Aylet breathed out.
Understanding came upon her and she shook her head, tears blurring her eyes. The women with candles in their hands, the women with bark for skin, and Aylet - they were all the same.
Her eyes were drawn back to the bundle of roots submerged in the dark, muddy water. Even with the blood spreading out around it she could see there was a faint pulse of life. Her breath caught high in her throat, and she tasted tears.
The woman with bark for skin and firefly eyes lifted her hands, holding the dripping bundle of roots out towards Aylet. Without a word, her eyes spoke a question.
"Please, don't make me choose."
Alyet shook her head again. She tried to back away, but the circle had closed around her. The Woodwives' eyes were upon her, silver and cold and full of mirrored pain.
Aylet glanced back at the women with gray skin, the women mired in dreams. Mist swirled around them, and corpse candles flickered throughout the cold swamp and lit their features. They were portraits of loss that had closed their eyes to what might still be found.
Aylet raised her head and just beyond the circle of tree-women she saw the mist-wrought shape of a child who had never been. Like Aylet she was standing with the water steadily creeping up over her chilled flesh, but she did not look afraid. There were leaves and twigs in her wild hair, and the will o' wisps shimmering around her head showed the beginning of a smile. Aylet stretched a hand after her for a moment, and then let it fall.
"Please," Aylet murmured. "Take care of my child."
Slowly she stretched out trembling hands, and accepted the fragile ball of roots, bringing it close to cradle it against her heart.
"It's good to see you smiling again." Jeannette leaned against the counter, watching Aylet. The light no longer seemed to eat at her, but instead suffused Aylet with glow that seemed to come both from without and within. From the couch Walter watched them both, the light reflecting off his glasses and hiding his eyes.
Aylet's hands were busy, and after a moment Jeannette pushed herself away from the counter and moved around for a closer look. A small terracotta pot rested on the table, and in it Aylet patted earth firmly around the base of a sapling tree. Its slender trunk was almost silver in the light, and at the very tip a pale green leaf was just beginning to unfold.
Aylet glanced over at Walter, and a secret smile touched her lips and eyes.
"It's a birch."
Jeannette's gaze traveled back and forth between them, then after a moment she shook her head.
"Are you alright?" She leaned forward to peer into Aylet's face, scarcely able to believe the change that had come over her friend.
Aylet paused in her work, her hands still lying protectively upon the mound of earth from which the tender plant grew.
"No," Aylet smiled, and light touched her eyes and the corner of her mouth. "But I will be."
©A.C. Wise
A.C. Wise was born and raised in Montreal, and currently lives in the Philadelphia area. Wise's work has appeared, or is forthcoming, in publications such as Realms of Fantasy, Reflection's Edge, Fantasy Magazine, and the anthologies Read by Dawn Vol. 2 and Into the Dreamlands. For more information, visit the author's website at www.acwise.net. To read Wise's previous stories with RE, click here.