#elrene

They all warn her to stay away. 

Not to go down the path, overgrown with wildflowers and long grass that rustled in the wind. A witch lives in the cabin, they tell her, whispering as if she’ll appear if their words are too loud. She sells… things. Potions. Herbs. 

Yrene puts her warm, wolf pelt on and flips the fur-lined hood over her mass of golden, caramel brown curls. She picks up her basket, ensuring that everything is in there. The loaf of bread - still warm from the oven - the jams, and the fresh herbs from her garden. Maybe the witch will like to dry them for her craft. 

She hurries back into her kitchen to grab a bundle of her own, personal tea, all packed in a linen pouch. Witches like tea, she tells herself, pressing her hand against her bump, the feeling of new life thrumming beneath her fingers calming her. 

With a deep breath, Yrene steps out of her small home, nodding to her neighbours as she sets off. 

They all stare as she goes past the market and whisper, but Yrene keeps her chin up high. She owes them nothing. They do not deserve an explanation. 

The skies above her are dark with grey clouds and the wind picks up as she trudges down the path. 

In the distance, she sees a trail of smoke curling lazily above a chimney and she smiles, picking up her pace. 

The grasses rustle as she hurries past, glancing up at the sky in fear of rain. 

The glow of a fire spills from the window and in them, Yrene sees bunches of herbs drying, plants on the windowsill. The witch has a garden, too, one that blooms with life. There are too many flowers and plants that she can’t name, all in neat, organised lines. Maybe she would share, if Yrene asked. 

She knocks lightly, stepping back from the door to give the witch space. 

No one answers. 

Yrene frowns and tries again, rapping slightly harder than the first time. 

And again, no one replies. 

With a soft, disappointed sigh, Yrene puts her basket down and speaks loud enough for anyone within ten metres to hear her. “Hello. I’ve left you some bread, jams, and tea. There’s also herbs from my garden. I hope you enjoy them.” She turns and then gasps, spinning around, “Oh, I’m sorry, I haven’t even introduced myself. My name is Yrene. Towers.” 

Yrene watches the house for another minute before hugging her cloak close and hurrying home. She makes it inside just before the rainfall. 

The next morning, Yrene wakes up to sunny skies and smiles, stretching as she sits up in bed. Her linen shift brushes against her round stomach and she grins again, forever grateful that she left when she did. Not to be any man’s wife, not to be his property. 

She stands up, pushing her hair out of her eyes as she pads to her front door, to check on her elderly neighbour, Mrs. Baldor. 

Yrene opens her front door, pulling up short when she sees her basket resting on her stoop. Curious, she bends down and picks it up. It isn’t empty, but none of her gifts are in it. 

An excited smile grows over her face and she sits down on her doorstep, sorting through it all. 

There’s a folded note, but Yrene doesn’t notice it as it falls to the ground. With care, she takes out a muslin cloth, a jar of a cloudy balm, a bunch of various herbs tied with twine, and a wooden spoon. It looks hand carved. 

She notices the black, iron pot and grabs it eagerly, happy that she now has something to make soup in come winter. It’s then that she notices the note and picks it up. 

Yrene unfolds it and reads the neat, even cursive. 

Dear Yrene, 

Thank you for your gifts. I didn’t answer the door because many of the villagers wish me harm, I am sorry if I was rude. The muslin and the herbs are for your babe. Brew the herbs in water for ten minutes and drink it every morning or when you have any discomfort. I promise it is safe for the child and please, come to me should you have any concerns or issues. I have experience with childbirth and such. I hope you use the pot for soup and other warm things this winter. I fear it will be a nasty one this year. 

Yours, 

Elide.

Lochan.

Yrene trails a finger over the name, the paper smooth beneath. So softly, she whispers, “Elide.” 

She likes that name.