Written by Arcahan

Swarms of gnats gathered around her upheld torch, attracted by the light and warmth shed by the leaping flame. The sight her fire illuminated was a dreary one. A knee-deep layer of heavy, cold vapor spread out like a field of filthy snow at her feet. Dark and twisted shapes of thin, gnarled trees loomed in the gloom. Their slimy, skeletal branches hanging limply in the still air, they reached silently out from the fog like the jagged claws of a black beast.

Gwyllion swallowed and attempted to shake the metaphor from her mind. Tales, it seemed, were true. These swamps did play tricks with the mortal mind. Wrapped in the veil made of gloom and bone-chilling vapor, a croak of a frog became a growl of a beast and a dead log peeking out from the mist became the back of a prowling predator.

Gripping the torch with one hand and the hilt of a sword in her belt with the other, she continued on. The fog that clung heavily to her legs was both a burden and a blessing. It covered the ground from her sight, forcing her to take meticulous care when searching for footholds among the treacherous sinkholes and pools of foul water. At the same time, however, she was glad that she could not see the muck at her feet. The cold ooze soaking through her boots and the soft, sucking sounds every time she took a step were an indication enough for what kind of terrain she was travelling. Twice she had been forced to wade through smelling, waist-deep waters. Once she had just barely managed to avoid a stumble into the mud after a rotten log had crumbled under her weight.

While a more sensible traveler would have long since turned back, Gwyllion had no such intentions. Let the gnats leech her dry, let the sinkholes open up at her feet, she would have to just grit her teeth and continue on. She had no other choice… no, her village had no other choice.

The lake had always been the source of life for all the villages. Generation after generation had the folk ridden their fishing boats over its waves, dried their nets on its shores and celebrated the generosity of the food it yielded. The lake was the lifeblood of all the villages that dotted its shores. It was not always a very gentle host, yet it never failed to treat everyone with fair equality.

But now, there were kelpies in the lake.

Cunning, malicious and always full of evil intent, kelpies were the stuff of tales told in the dark nights. No-one knew where they had come from or how long they had called the lake their own, yet all the villages had gotten a share of their mischief. Small and everyday nuisances like missing oars and lost baits at first, the kelpies had grown bolder and more vicious over time. Just a few days ago, however, the blackness of their deeds had plunged into new depths when one of the villagers, one Culgan McBruaich, who had been charged with the task of guarding the fishing boats, had simply vanished in the middle of the night. Knowing the tales of kelpies' taste for human flesh, the folk had assumed the worst.

No longer did young couples walk absently on the lake's shores. No longer did mothers allow their children to play in the water. Glances cast across the wind-blown waves had turned into fearful ones. The stout-hearted fishermen who had thought they knew every trick and secret the lake had to offer were now afraid to push their boats into the water. Even those who did dare to brave the waves never took their vessels far from the shore and spent there as little time as possible. No longer did the lake offer its treasures as generously for the folk to eat.

Soon, people of the villages would go hungry.

Stepping over yet another dead log, Gwyllion smiled faintly as she imagined the thundering heights of her father's fury once he discovered that she had stolen his sword. Grimacing, she attempted to calm down the bellowing figure her imagination conjured by reminding herself that she had had little choice on the matter. Had her father known about this little journey of hers beforehand, he would have done every single thing in his power to keep his only daughter from embarking on such a hazardous quest. And although she possessed little skill with a sword, Gwyllion thought she would need some protection if she ever intended to reach what she sought in these swamps.

Villagers themselves could do little to defend themselves against the kelpies. One needed magic to battle the supernatural, and if Gwyllion knew anyone who would be a match for the powers of lake fiends, it would be Vecca the witch.

A thin, grey shape looming in the mist startled the young woman from her thoughts. Frowning, Gwyllion squinted at the thing, attempting to make something out of the vague outlines. It seemed to be a long stick jutting out from the soil, with some sort of a round object attached to the tip. Lifting her torch high, she stared at the thing suspiciously at first, but then relaxed. The presence of a man-made object here, in the middle of nowhere, meant that someone had passed this way before her. Gwyllion let out a sigh of relief as she realized that she had not lost her course in deceitful mist and was still heading in the correct direction… At least, that was what she hoped.

With renewed energy did Gwyllion wad through the mud and towards the landmark. But what was the purpose of such a construction here? A boundary mark, maybe? If that was the case, then this meant --

Abruptly, without a warning, the round thing whirled around like a spindle on the stick, and the sight of the gaping eye-sockets of a human skull made Gwyllion's heart halt in mid-beat. A loud gasp escaping her lips, she staggered backwards, slipped in treacherous mud and stumbled to the soaked ground.

"Turn back!" the skull croaked in a broken voice, its teeth clicking together as the jawbone moved up and down with the words.

Gwyllion's torch slipped from her suddenly limp grasp and fell to the ground. With the other hand she clumsily groped for the handle of her sword. Finally, all too slowly did her numb fingers find the weapon and with a metallic hiss the gleaming blade slid free from the scabbard. She squeezed the handle with white knuckles, yet the sword's reassuring weight did little to calm down the pulse that was galloping through her veins with the speed of a stampeding pegasus. Her breath wheezed in quick, short gasps in the depths of her throat. And she stared at the skull that had moved on its own accord, and had… spoken to her! That… that thing had spoken to her!

Moments felt like hours as they passed one after another with agonizing inertness. Slowly, slowly did the seconds pile atop each other, forming first one minute, then another. Mud and water seeped through her clothes, soaking her skin and sending waves of chill up her spine. The sword began to grow heavy in her grasp. Yet Gwyllion dared not to move a muscle. The skull seemed lifeless now, yet the image of how it had suddenly whirled around was all too vivid in her mind. Her imagination whispered how the thing would leap from its perch any moment now, its wide grin agape as it would fly towards her…

"Get a grip, girl!" she heard her own voice mutter, not at all reassuring with the way it shook and trembled. "It's a skull. Just a skull!"

The skull seemed to agree. It sat atop the stick silently, unmoving and as innocently as any skull could right after scaring the wits out of an unsuspecting victim. Its empty stare was frightening, its grin all too wide, yet the longer Gwyllion stared at it, the sillier she began to feel herself. It was just a skull.

Gritting her teeth together, Gwyllion forced her shivering limbs to obey. Slowly, inch by inch, she began to rise from the ground. And every time she shifted, she fully expected the skull to begin its malignant assault. First to one knee, then into a crouch she rose, and the skull remained lifeless.

"Just a skull", Gwyllion mumbled again, meekly straightening herself up. A sword in one hand and mud dripping from her clothes, she approached the thing, reached out with her free hand. Slowly, slowly, closer, closer…

Her fingers brushed lightly the smooth, cool surface of clean-picked bone, and instantly did she snatch her hand back, much in a same manner as if she had been groping inside a viper's nest.

The skull did not attempt to bite her. It did nothing.

Letting out an immense breath of relief, she reached out with her hand again and touched the bony thing for a second time, more bravely now.

It was just a skull.

A nervous, trembling chuckle rising from her throat, Gwyllion touched, out of a sudden whim, the skull for a third time and turned the thing back to face its original direction. Perhaps Vecca would appreciate the gesture.

'Turn back', the skull had said. Gwyllion had often heard how Vecca valued her privacy, but to set up this kind of signposts to ascertain that no-one came to disturb her?

The young woman had no choice but to admit, though, that reasons aside, the methods the witch used were terrifyingly effective. Right now Gwyllion would have liked nothing better but to turn her back, run through the chilling mists and foul water, all the way to her familiar village, rush into her home and leap into the warm embrace of her bed. There, in the safety of her own room, she could then rise up in the next morning and gasp at what kind of a horrible nightmare about talking skulls she had just seen.

Just the sort of effect Vecca had no doubt been hoping for, Gwyllion thought and smiled sheepishly. Her torch had long since sputtered out in the watery ground, so she would have to continue without a fire. Her clothes, too, were quite thoroughly soaked in filthy water and her limbs were already trembling with the quickly deepening cold.

"Oh well", she shrugged, "It would be a shame to turn back now." Thus thinking she gingerly tiptoed past the guardian skull and continued her way. Her sword, though, she would keep in her hand for the rest of the journey. Just in case.

Fortunately, it seemed that she did not have too far to go anymore. The ground began to rise soon after the signpost, climbing gently out from the mist like a dark coastal beach from a silent, white sea. While Gwyllion was pleased to notice this, she was even more delighted to discover that the ground also became firmer and drier the further it rose. The sucking sounds of her footsteps turned soon into rustle of dead leaves and snapping of half-rotten twigs. Trees, too, grew larger and thicker, although moss still clung to their knotted bark and their branches continued to claw at the air like sharp and jagged talons. But still, it was an improvement for Gwyllion, who was now able to increase the speed of her progress. Soon, dim light began to loom in the distance, and she got her first glimpse of her destination.

The little hut nestled in the shade of two great, black trees like an exhausted badger. Its leaning walls were made of pine, with its rough, brown bark still intact. Uneven and malformed roof had been built by piling wood, straw, moss and thick layers of branches atop each other. Stray twigs jutted out in all directions angrily like the bristling fur of a hedgehog. A tiny stone chimney peeked meekly out from the jumble, quietly letting a thin stream of smoke to mix to the misty air. Two small, round windows spilled soft light into the gloom. A single, heavy iron ring hung from a rough wooden door that seemed to be the only means of entrance to the brown hovel.

A hut so brown, now sit down. A quiet smile crossed Gwyllion’s features as she remembered the old rhyme about a witch’s hovel. Many times she had, wide-eyed, listened to tales about how Vecca’s hut stood, trod, spun and danced on wooden legs. That part of the old witch’s reputation, at least, was rather exaggerated.

Yet her smile did not last for long. Even as she crept closer and closer to the hut’s door, a vague feeling of foreboding brushed at the outskirts of her mind. Each of her steps grew slower, more reluctant, her hand squeezed the sword’s handle with white knuckles. Only now did she notice how silent the swamps around her had grown. No bird trilled. No frog croaked. Even the ever-present buzzing of gnats was gone. It made no sense to her – she should have been overjoyed to know that she had finally reached the destination of her dreary journey. Yet even so, as she reached for the iron ring, she found herself hoping that the door would be bolted.

It wasn’t.

Gwyllion’s heart almost leaped all the way through her throat as the door obeyed to her touch and slid quietly open. She hesitated for a moment, then cleared her throat: "Hello? Is anyone home?"

No-one answered to her call. The hut was just as silent from the inside as it been from the outside… Too silent.

There was nothing else to be done. She stood on the threshold, swallowed, and then stepped into the hut of Vecca the witch.

There was a startling change in how the building looked like from the inside when compared to the outside. Thick layers of soft, homespun carpets covered the floor -- a floor made of firm, smooth boards, not simple tightly-packed dirt as Gwyllion had been expecting. A little flame danced and crackled below a well-blackened cauldron hook in a small fireplace, shedding light, warmth and a homely smell of smoke into the hut. Tables and cupboards lined the walls, bundles of dried herbs hung from the rafters. Baskets, several churns and even one well-used spinning wheel had all been tucked neatly into a corner. Everything was clean, tidy and orderly, and Gwyllion would have found it delightfully cozy if not for the disturbing fact that this was the abode of the single most feared person in the region.

Speaking of whom…

"Grandmother?" Gwyllion called out again, reasoning that a woman of Vecca's age would appreciate the honorific. Her voice, though, felt a little too weak, even in the silence of the hovel.

Still no response, and the young woman took a step inwards, took another --

"Be still!" hissed an unseen voice, and Gwyllion yelped as her feet abruptly ceased to obey her. Her father's blade clattered to the floor as she swung her hands wildly about, desperately seeking to regain her balance after such a sudden halt. She pulled, she twisted, yet her feet would not budge. It was as if her heels and toes had suddenly sprouted roots that had burrowed deep into Vecca's wooden floor!

For a moment Gwyllion ceased her struggles and looked up from her muddy shoes -- and there she froze, her gaze focusing into another person who had appeared out of nowhere and now occupied the hut with her.

The woman was old and bony like a weathered raven. Her frame was bent with age, one withered hand -- not all that different from the claw-like branches outside the house -- leant to a gnarled stick for a support. She was dressed in layers upon layers of cotton and wool, sashes and scarves of many sizes and colors. Feathers, pouches and small bundles of bones and keys clung to the woven cloth belt that tied her skirts in place. Strings of polished pebbles and wooden pearls hung from her scrawny neck. Braids adorned the hair that had grown thin and white over passing generations. And her face --

Her nose was long and curved like the beak of a vulture, her cheeks wrinkled and flabby. Her gaze, however, was sharp enough to drill deep into the hearts of mountains and definitely all the way through the souls of trespassing young maidens.

"Wellllll…" Vecca the witch purred, her thin lips stretching into a tight smile. Her voice was dry and rough like slithering sand. "What have we here?"

She wobbled closer to Gwyllion, her staff thumping the floor with each step. Her eyes stung like icy needles on the young woman's skin. "A pretty little thief has crawled into my trap! Hoi, there is an empty hut there, you thought, let's see what I can steal, you thought?"

Leaning so close that Gwyllion felt Vecca's hot breath against her cheek, the old crone rasped: "Steal from Vecca's hut, you thought?"

Gwyllion sucked air into her lungs. Her tongue felt dry and heavy in her mouth as she sought for words, stammering: "I had no intention of --"

But Vecca cut her short with a sharp voice: "Oh, be silent, you! Like a fly caught in a web you are now. And like a good spider, I, too, like to store my catch for a better day. Pickle them in a jar, I will, and have their eyes boil in my cauldron!"

The very grim future promised by the aged witch was unpleasant indeed, and this unlocked the chains that held Gwyllion's tongue: "I tell you, Grandmother, stealing from your hut never even entered to my mind! It's true that I trespassed on your land, but I seek your --"

Again Vecca's voice rose above Gwyllion's, the older woman's words accompanied by a harsh gesture of her gnarled hand. "And keep your forked tongue behind your teeth!"

Then, all of a sudden, the witch's demeanor changed. Peering up into Gwyllion's face, she spoke in tones that would have sounded almost motherly in any other situation: "…But such white teeth you have there, cookie. Will make nice, fine powder, yes…"

A deep, sickening feeling of nausea began to lodge itself in the pit of Gwyllion's stomach. What had the witch just called her? Her thoughts racing, dashing back and forth, groping around the chambers of her mind, she stalled for time: "Oh, but you flatter me, Grandmother! My teeth would, er --" All those poems she had gobbled with her eyes in her father's library now came to her aid -- " would turn into powder that is sourer than bitter salt!"

But Vecca was not listening. She nodded sagely many times, her head bobbing up and down like that of an old crow. "And such hair!" she crooned on, her claw-like fingers sliding through the young woman's copper-tinted locks. "This will make thread which could tie oxen down!"

Beginning to feel herself like an object of attention in a faery tale written by an author with love for poetic comparisons, Gwyllion racked her head for something suitable to counter the witch’s words with: “My hair has all the strength of – of a spider’s web! It can hardly hold even mice at bay, much less a cat.”

The last of Gwyllion’s words had hardly left her lips when Vecca already allowed the young woman’s hair slip from between her fingers. Lifting her hand to gently cup Gwyllion’s chin in her palm, the witch intoned: “But your eyes – ah, your eyes are the best part of it all! Grey and glimmering like mist in the morning, one could see through many a veil and shadow with eyes such as these…”

The witch’s voice trailed away, and Gwyllion, beginning to sense a pattern for how this game was played, was quick to respond: “But my eyes are just dull grey, nothing like the sparkling green or the –“ At this point her wits almost failed to provide her with suitable things to say and, grimacing inwardly at the poor comparison, blurted the only words she could think of: “— or the beautiful blue that other girls have!”

Unlike at the previous times, when the witch had changed the topic the moment Gwyllion had said something dismissive about whichever of her features happened to be under scrutiny, Vecca did not shift her gaze from the young woman’s eyes. Instead, she continued to stare deeply up into Gwyllion’s face, silent and unmoving. The lines and wrinkles of her face deepening into chasms and gorges that cleaved her features, the intensity of her attention was that of a hawk about to swoop onto unsuspecting prey. It was impossible to know what was moving in the mind of the old crone, or what had caught her eye so. Gwyllion was very much afraid, however, that it did not bode her any good. Unable to move a muscle, unable to even look away, all she could do was to stand and respond to Vecca’s gaze. But even that was not an easy task, for even the young woman’s skin would have liked nothing better than to hastily crawl into safety and leave only her bones at the mercy of the witch’s gentle touch.

Finally did Vecca break the long silence in the hut, murmuring: “Sometimes grey is better than green or blue.”

Releasing her hold of Gwyllion’s chin, Vecca wheeled around and hobbled across the floor, the drumming of her staff once again marking the rhythm of her footsteps. “So tell me, my little thief”, she inquired, her hunched back still turned to her captive, “what do you seek from Vecca’s hut? Wished to see how my hovel spins, hmm?”

“So you hut does spin?” blurted out Gwyllion, who still had not fully recovered from the witch’s scrutiny. “Tales tell –“

But again Vecca cut the younger woman short with a wave of hand and half-turned to look over her shoulder. “The tales tell that my hut spins on wooden legs, east, west, north and south, following the turning of the seasons in the world. Bah!” Her exclamation echoed even within the confines of the room. “Poppycock and petty talk, tales of frightened peasants! Vecca the witch spins for no one!”

Perhaps it was the tone of Vecca’s voice, perhaps the tiny twinkle in her eyes, but there was something in the witch’s demeanor that Gwyllion found encouraging and, despite her situation, she was forced to suppress a smile that attempted to make its way up to her lips. “Grandmother”, the young woman said abruptly, “I seek aid.”

And it was then that the flood of words erupted from Gwyllion’s mouth, filling the hut with images and sentences that then trickled into the waiting ears of Vecca the witch, telling the old woman the tale of the kelpies, of the mischief done to the boats, of the disappearance of one Culgan McBruaich, of the villages filled with fear and, finally, of Gwyllion’s own perilous journey to seek aid from the only possible source she could think of.

Vecca stood through this all silently, a hunched shape in the flickering glow of the hearth. So still and unmoving was she that by the time Gwyllion drew to the end of her tale, the young woman feared that the old crone had fallen asleep on her feet and with her eyes open, too.

Vecca, however, proved this assumption incorrect only a moment later, as she drew in a long, wheezing breath and asked gravely: “And what did you bring to buy you the aid of a witch? Gleaming gold, perhaps?”

Gwyllion swallowed as her heart sank under a sudden weight. In all her haste to fetch help for the villages, she had indeed forgotten an old knowledge that stated that there was always a price to be paid when one would seek compassion from a witch. Shaking her head slowly, she was forced to answer truthfully: “No, no gold.”

Vecca’s eyebrows rose high onto her furrowed forehead. “Shining silver?”

“No, no silver.”

Upon hearing this, the witch barked out a sudden, croaking laugh. It was a mocking sound, yes, but Gwyllion could have sworn that she also heard an odd trace of delight in the old woman’s voice. “So you journeyed through mist and mud to buy the compassion of a witch with your word?”

Gwyllion lifted her head, not quite believing what she had just heard. “With my… word?”

“Sound not so glum, cookie!” Vecca intoned and snapped her fingers, the sound like a dry tree branch breaking in two. “Words hold more power than many a man believe. ‘Tis true what I say, especially in the fey-realms where your journey is taking you, little cookie. And don’t claim that you do not know how to wield words! Your tongue flew and danced like a swallow in the wind when we spoke about your teeth and hair and eyes…” Thus saying did the crone once again lean comfortably on her cane, her feet placed solidly onto the floor, her faze proud and expectant like that of a matron waiting to welcome a line of esteemed guests into her house. “So let us see, child, if you can buy the aid of a witch with words alone!”

Gwyllion pondered upon this for a moment. Sometimes a handful of kind words could hold greater value than sacks of silver and gold – this was something she knew. But what could she purchase from Vecca with a word or two? What power could a few sentences hold over a witch? This was something she did not know.

“Well?” Vecca urged.

Correction, Gwyllion decided and drew her mouth into a tight line, she would not know unless she tried.

“It’s only the good and prudent deed to do to aid those who need help. It’s the least one owes to her fellows, isn’t it?”

Again Vecca cackled a laugh, and this time there was nothing but contempt and mockery in her mirth. “Bah! Whatever I have owed to the proud folk of this land has been doubly paid and booked by listening to their fear and loathing, their tales and gossips whispered when they think that Vecca does not hear. Witch, witch they say and part like water from my path!” Abruptly did she take a step forward, her cane thumping hollowly against the floor. Her eyes burning like two dark coals, her voice was rough and harsh as she continued her utterances: “Let my shadow fall onto a chicken or a sow, and off the poor thing goes, thrown away to get rid of meat spoiled by the presence of a witch! Why, even the Duke once sent a company of warriors clad in leather and steel to drive me away from poisoning his lands!”

“What became of them?” Gwyllion had to ask, even as her mind filled up with dreary imagines.

“Did you not see them?” Vecca asked, her hand sweeping meaningfully in a wide arch that encompassed all the four walls of the hovel. “They now guard my hut atop their wooden poles, and warn the wanderers of what lies ahead.”

Gwyllion thought of the skull she had encountered on her way and shuddered, her mouth suddenly very dry. Swallowing, she forced her mind to focus on the task at hand, to think of some other way to sway the witch’s mind.

“No, cookie”, the old crone continued and shook her head. “I do not owe the people of this land anything.”

“But I’m certain that the folk of all the villages would show their gratitude if you but lent them your knowledge and power!” Gwyllion argued on, her voice like a fresh ray of light against the dark, thundering storm of the witch’s words.

“You are not deaf”, Vecca countered with a shake of a bony finger, “but you could just as well be if you do not listen to what others say. Let a witch be able to double the harvest, heal a feverish child and blunt the worst edge of a stinging winter, but she could not make folk’s hearts feel gratitude! Years and generations have passed, yet their feelings of loathing and fear toward witches have never changed.”

“And they never will if you do nothing to make them mend their ways!”

Even Vecca flinched with surprise as Gwyllion suddenly dashed forward, covering the distance between them with only three strides and laying her hands onto the older woman’s shoulders. “Perhaps the folk won’t change, perhaps they want to keep their old ways and view you with suspicion, but you will never know for certain if you won’t even try!”

It was a magical moment, a moment when the rabbit turned to face the wolf and the sparrow rose up to challenge the eagle. It was a moment when all the creatures of the swamp held their breaths and Gwyllion’s grey eyes stared into the dark ones of Vecca the witch – not as a foolish young girl in the presence of an old and mighty grandmother, but as an equal. Not necessarily equal in the terms of power and age, but perhaps in belief and will.

No moment can last forever, and even a heartbeat filled with magic must abide by this rule. Slowly did Gwyllion realize what she had done, and meekly lifted her hands from Vecca’s shoulders. Keeping her palms between the witch and herself, the young woman took a step backwards, moving gingerly and apologetically as if putting distance to a fragile and valuable vase.

Having long since recovered from the surprise, Vecca watched her go with the barest shade of a smile tugging at the wrinkles of her face. There was a sparkle dancing in the crone’s eyes as she murmured softly: “Aid asked for, and paid with words.” Gesturing at the spot in the floor where her witchcraft had nailed Gwyllion not so long ago, she added almost mirthfully: “And the power of your words broke you free from the clutches of my command as well!”

Following Vecca’s finger with her gaze, Gwyllion was too astonished to utter another of her supposedly powerful words. She had forgotten the existence of the entire spell! When had it ceased to bind her?

“Yes… yes…” Vecca nodded to herself, her hair swinging lazily in the rhythm of her bobbing head. “I do think, my sweet little cookie, that you have bought yourself the compassion of a witch…”

“Then you will aid us?” Gwyllion exclaimed, her eyes lighting up with a glimmer of hope.

“I shall, I shall”, Vecca responded, this time with the voice well fitting for a true, gentle grandmother. “But we must not tarry, for kelpies do not lie idle in their dark depths, either. Now, hop!” The witch made a shooing gesture with her hand, as if driving a little child to a bed. “Be a sweetie and journey to the forest spreading its green cape south of this swamp. Once there, catch me a leprechaun.”

“What?” The word popped out from Gwyllion’s mouth before she could even think of anything else to say. The witch’s demand had been too sudden, too staggering and, honestly, too ridiculous to be taken without surprise. “You wish me to… what?”

“A leprechaun”, Vecca repeated. “The nimble-foot and half-a-shoe mender of the fey-folk. We shall need his aid to combat the kelpies of the watery graves, but he shan’t stay put long enough to listen to your pleas. This is why you must capture him first before you can even have a chance to beg for his aid.”

“But why me?” Gwyllion had to ask, her mouth still hanging open. Yet somewhere in the back of her mind, a little part of the young woman was already pondering, scheming and making plans… A little part that, despite the fact that this meant another complicated turn in her quest to get the lake rid of kelpies, was dancing with delight with the knowledge that there was another journey, another adventure for her to take.

Perhaps Vecca saw this part of Gwyllion’s soul, for she chuckled softly and brushed the young woman’s chin with her fingers. “Vecca the witch is old… Old like the land itself, yet age does not come alone. My bones ache and my legs are stiff. I cannot go tramping around the bushes seeking wee-men in green. This is why I ask you to do the deed for me, little cookie. ‘Tis not an easy task, but I know you shall succeed.”

Once again leaning against her cane, her form hunched and wrinkled and old, Vecca the witch gave the young woman a gap-toothed smile and added: “I shall pay that deed with my word!”