The Will and the Wilds
Charlie N. Holmberg
CHAPTER 1
Most mystings find the smell of lavender repulsive.
A chill wind snakes its way through the wildwood, whispering of misfortunes to come. My hands pause against moist soil between oon berry and rabbit’s ear in my mysting garden as I turn to face it, listening. It’s the height of summer in Fendell, but one can never be sure what will emerge from the wildwood, or when.
But the stone dangling from the silver bracelet around my wrist is quiet, assuring me the wind is simply wind. Still, I feel the instinct to move, to stretch out my legs, which have cramped from tending my herbs, so I stand and brush my hands across the apron over my skirt. Stepping out the narrow gate, I wind around the house to the open cellar door, which leads to the earthy room where thousands of mushrooms grow. There are always some ready for harvest, while others are just sprouting from their mulch and soil.
“Papa?” I call down into the darkness. “I’m finished. We can go.”
“Go where?”
“To the market. You asked this morning. You’re collecting the mushrooms?”
A pause. “Oh. Yes. Here I come.”
A moment later the ladder creaks, and my father emerges from the shadows, a thickly woven basket hanging from the crook of his elbow. Gray, white, and brown mushrooms fill it, matching the speckling of his beard. He’s kept the mushrooms sorted, which will save us time in town.
“Come.” I take his hand and brush soil from his knuckles. “Remind me to get some lye.”
He won’t, but I know he appreciates the sentiment.
The people of Fendell will never know the truth behind my father’s weakened faculties, though it is a grand story, the sort a bard could sing a dozen verses about. Papa was a swordsman for Lord Eris, and when I was but a babe, he was recruited into the king’s army to answer the threat of a mysting army intent on conquering the mortal realm. A rare threat, as mystings can only withstand our plane temporarily before it begins to consume them, just as the monster realm would consume us. But he heeded the call, and after the threat was quelled, he stole into the monster realm and thieved a charm from a warlord there. Something to protect his daughter against the mystings, as mystings had killed her mother.
The stone, dark as old blood, or perhaps wet rust, swings from my bracelet as I lead my father into town. I don’t think the realm of monsters damaged his mind enough for him to get lost on such a simple path, but I won’t chance it.
Fendell opens before us. It’s not a place one gradually strolls into, but one that happens suddenly. Follow the dirt path parallel to the wildwood, and homes and shops, wood walls and stone fences burst into being. The path widens to a road lined with linen tents and wooden stalls selling the day’s wares. A large well sits near its center, and above it reaches a two-story tower. The town watch only rings the tower bell to warn others when mystings are spotted leaving the forest. It hasn’t sounded for nearly six months. Not because mystings aren’t nearby, but because they go unseen. Fortunately, large groups of humans repulse most mystings. It is the lone traveler that need be wary.
The crowd is abrupt and busy, and stepping into it is like falling into deep water, with the same currents and garbled sounds.
The Lovesses’ booth is one of the closest to us in the market, and perhaps that’s why my father chooses to do business with them. Or maybe he favors them because the Lovess family doesn’t side-eye us as much as the others do, marking us the strange, reclusive pair who live so close to the wildwood, too far from the protection of the town. The man whose mind slips more than it stays, and the girl who knows more about mystings than any person should.
I take the basket from my father and approach the long tables beneath a white linen tent to keep off bug and breeze. The eldest Lovess son manages the rows of fruits and vegetables, and I offer him a smile as I near. He returns the gesture, and it warms me through. Tennith Lovess is of an age with me, twenty, and is as fine a boy as Fendell could produce. Kind in heart and young in face, with arms and shoulders that tell of hard work on his family’s farm. He is fair in his bargaining and treats Papa well. I’d respect him for that alone, even if he weren’t wonderful to look at.
“What have you today?” He leans over the table to take my basket.
“I’m afraid I haven’t counted them.”
“That’s fine.” His fingers dance over the mushrooms, his lips moving silently as he counts the harvest. “Had someone not a quarter hour ago asking for these. Glad to have them.”
He sets the basket down and retrieves a bag of coin. He counts out eight coppers and passes them to me. His warm and calloused fingertips brush my palm, sending tingles across my skin.
“Thank you.”
He smiles, but I mustn’t linger. My father has crossed the road and is staring intently at a chicken. I take his elbow. “I do need lye. Thank you, Papa.”
“Yes. Don’t forget.” He nods.
I walk him down the road. We’re mostly overlooked by the town. I pay no attention to the folk, for I’ve learned, mostly, not to care for the opinion of others, as they have never cared for mine. Though we have lived in Fendell for all the life I can remember, many of the people here are strangers. I know the wildwood better than I know their faces. The fact should sadden me, but it doesn’t. And yet, when I pass two young men laughing with each other, I grit my teeth against a pang of jealousy. Ever since my grandmother’s passing, there has been little laughter in my home. My father is too nostalgic and forgetful for jokes, and perhaps I am too prudish to make my own.