1
WREN
Twelve Years Old
Rumor has it Blithe Forest is cursed.
They say an evil witch lives here, hidden somewhere among the ancient trees and twisted, thorny foliage. She’s why most folks don’t dare venture this far south from Leeds Village, much less cross the Merrie River. Scared, the lot of them. Not me. Papa says I’m fearless, though. Ma calls me reckless. But how can anyone be afraid on a day like this, when the sun is filtering through the canopy of trees, making the pollen sparkle like fine jewels? Besides, if she tries to do her foul magic on me, I’ll… I’ll…
I snatch a big stick lying on the river’s bank and wield it like a soldier’s sword. “That’s right, witch,” I threaten my imaginary foe. “I’ll carve you to pieces.”
Play-fighting with the air, I swipe, parry, and dodge, working up a sweat until I’m panting and my undershirt molds to me. I drag in giant lungfuls of muggy August air and toss my stick aside. I wobble on one foot as I peel off my battered black leather boot.
Much better.
I kick off the other boot before splashing in the cool water. The riverbed sucks at my feet, with the mud squishing between my toes. A rustle in the distance has me shoving a flop of brown hair off my brow. I shield my eyes against the glint of sun reflecting off the lazy river and spy a cloaked figure moving through the trees on the other side of the bank.
A cloak in this heat?
My adventurous spirit, which Ma swears will get me in trouble one day, draws me toward this suspicious enigma.
I glance at the sky, notice the sun’s position, and realize it’s late afternoon. Darn. I should start the trek back to Leeds. Ma will skin me alive for coming home filthy. Again. But curiosity has me tracking the shadowy figure. I compare my size to the person skulking through the trees. I have my father’s build, tall and lean. At twelve, I stand a full head higher than most boys my age. Judging by me, it’s easy to gauge that the person is too small to be a grown man but too large to be a child. This adds to the mystery—and the thrill of the chase.
I hop back on the bank and grab my boots as quietly as possible. I use the dense brush to conceal myself and dash along the river, following it to Peddler’s Bridge. It’s a rickety thing constructed of weathered wooden slats and frayed rope. It should have been torn down ages ago. No one uses it anymore since they built the new, sturdier Merchant’s Bridge farther north. That one links Leeds Village to the big, busy town of Bradbury—it’s also a safe distance from the witch’s rumored evil sorcery.
Could it beherlurching in the woods?
The witch?
Darn again. I shouldn’t have tossed away my stick. To be safe, I snatch another.
Keeping the lone figure in sight, I race along the bank. My bare feet step down hard on twigs, rocks, and dirt. Should pull on my boots, but I don’t want to lose sight of the witch. Not that I put any stock in such a thing. I’m not a silly child who believes in fairytales. Still… It’s curious how the people who venture this far south never return.
I grip my makeshift weapon tighter in my right hand, my boots dangling in the left. I slow my pace. Perhaps it’s not such a good idea to follow the witch. But then I spot Peddler’s Bridge, and I get a surge of courage. Or possibly it’s my father’s huntsman nature manifesting itself in me. Whatever the reason, I stay low and tiptoe my way across the bridge, leaping over the worst of the decayed planks. Hopefully, the river’s rush disguises the groan of stressed lumber.
On the other side of the Merrie River, I dart behind a tree, watching as she—it’s ashefor sure—strides past me with a majestic glide to her steps. Wisps of long, chestnut hair billow from the hood of the black cloak that conceals her from head to foot. That hair reminds me of sinister fingers seeking the warmth of the sun.
She’s quick, this one, as she heads toward the edge of Blithe Forest.Blithe. What an odd name for a place known for its grim reputation. I shake off the irony and keep my focus on the witch, and once she’s beyond the cluster of towering trees, she simply…
…disappears.
My heart sinks to my feet like an anchor.
I struggle to swallow and drop to jam my dirty feet in my muddy boots. I can’t wait to brag to my friends that I encountered the witch of Blithe Forest and survived. When I pop up, I spin left. Then right. I can’t catch my bearings. My brows slam together in confusion. The bridge I crossed is now a tangle of dying, twisted trees. As if it vanished along with the witch.
What trickery is this?
The wily witch and her foul ways.
The son of Percy Kincaid shouldn’t be frightened by the terrifying tales racing through my mind of the lost souls wandering this forest.
With my heart beating like a hammer, I run. I pick a random direction, hope it’s toward home, and run so fast my legs ache. Run until my lungs hurt from sucking in the heavy, damp air.
I run until I reach a glade where I see it…
It.
And skid to stop because it’s so…
