The Woodland Stranger

Lydia looked out across the lake, sketchbook balancing on her lap and grasping the gold necklace draped around her neck. She often found creative inspiration while holding the heirloom handed down by her mother. The cold, heavy accessory kept her calm and was oftentimes a source of peace from her tumultuous thoughts. 

The day was sunny and perfectly balanced, the slight breeze keeping the air from becoming uncomfortably warm and dissipating any hint of irritation before it could take root. Lydia looked down at the undeveloped lines running across the page of her sketchbook. She sighed. What had started out as an invigorating morning had quickly faded as her thoughts drifted to other things. Holding onto her necklace—a sapphire jewel encased in the center—wasn’t working as well as it normally did. She placed her charcoal down in the crease of the sketchpad and shut it, tying the leather string to bind the pages and charcoal inside. She decided to pack up and head back to her cottage to fix herself a suitable lunch, hoping sustenance would fuel more than just a few rudimentary lines on a page. As she placed everything back into her satchel, she was vaguely aware of a subtle shift in the breeze. A pleasant aroma of fresh blossoms and dew grazed her senses as a shape appeared from the corner of her eye. She looked up and gasped in alarm. A tall, handsome man was standing before her, leaning against one of the trees skirting the edge of the forest which surrounded the lake. No—not a man. Much too beautiful to be human.

“Um hello. Can I help you?” Lydia asked, a tad more uncertainly than she wanted to come off to a stranger in the woods. Her cottage was no more than a mile away, nestled in an opening between thick groves of trees, her sanctuary. He smiled a wickedly charming smile, which made her even more wary. “I was out for a walk, just observing the serenity of the day and coming to my favorite place to have a rest. I’m sorry if I startled you. My name is Henry.” He pushed off the tree trunk and took a couple steps toward her. Lydia stepped back slightly. Henry took note of the hesitation and halted his procession.

“I’m sorry to have disturbed your day, my lady,” he said, slightly bowing and turning to step aside, giving her ample room to walk past him. Giving no response, Lydia shouldered her satchel and walked in the direction of the wooded path to her cottage, keeping one eye on the strange man. He smiled as she walked past and disappeared from view as the trees surrounded the trail. She had heard old stories of women vanishing in these woods but had brushed them off as mere colloquial folklore. As far as she knew, no one had disappeared here in her lifetime. Growing up on this land, Lydia had never encountered anything that had shook her as this man had, though. The air shifted in his presence as if a storm were hovering nearby, the breeze electric and blanketing her skin—not unpleasantly, but rather with delightful anticipation. It was peaceful and yet laced with a note of authority. And his beauty! She blushed recalling his handsome features; chocolate curls that would’ve seemed unkempt on anyone else and dark eyes that paradoxically had a brightness about them. Lydia shook her head. That’s just about enough of that, she told herself. Taking a deep breath, she clutched her necklace again and closed her eyes as she walked. She knew this path forward and backward, inside and out, every pothole and pebble. From the moment of its discovery as a child, she plodded along, never really wondering how it had gotten there in the first place. 

A few meditative steps later, she suddenly found herself lurching forward, gravity pushing her swiftly towards the dusty ground with the clumsiness of a youth. The impact knocked the wind out of her and had her utterly sprawled out in the dirt; she could already feel every ache and bruise forming on her body. Lydia winced as she rolled onto her back, coughing up the dust she had inhaled on the descent. How on earth could this have happened! She looked back in the direction from which she’d come and noticed a snaking root running perpendicular along the pathway and fading into a grove of peculiar mushrooms on the other side. That had definitely not been there this morning, she thought. Nor had she ever seen this type of mushroom either. Dusting herself off, Lydia stood up to compose herself and looked about for her things strewn from her bag. She wanted to forget about this frustrating afternoon entirely!

“Is this your offering to the woods by chance?” The voice drifted to her on a mysterious breeze, encircling her with its charm and slight arrogance.  “I’ve never heard of anyone sacrificing their art to the denizens that reside here.” Lydia whirled around to find the stranger from before. “Are you following me??” Lydia demanded. “Because if so, I highly suggest you stop.” She straightened a little more, feigning confidence, as if she hadn’t just made a fool of herself.

“And what, pray tell, will you do to me if I am?” Henry asked, highly amused at the threat. Lydia lifted her chin in response. “I may look inept at fighting, but I assure you Lord Henry, I am very capable of handling myself. I have lived in these woods my entire life.” 

Henry nodded and seemed to be mulling over her words, particularly her assumption of his title. “Is that why I came to find you face down on the forest floor with a mouthful of dirt? If that is proof of your capabilities, then I am utterly unconvinced.” Lydia frowned at the insult and turned away. “I simply wasn’t watching where I was going and tripped over a tree root that had not been there this morning,” she admitted a little flustered and rather still puzzled by its appearance. “It could happen to anyone.” She made to be on her way, but Henry called to her. “Don’t forget your satchel, Miss…” He trailed off, apparently waiting for her to give up a name. She turned and reluctantly strode over to where he stood on the path, carefully stepping over the newly formed roots, and snatched her bag from his hands. “You may continue to call me Miss.” And with that she turned and strode away toward her house, stepping with focused precision this time. “And do not even think of following me.” She did not dare glance over her shoulder, mostly from annoyance that he may be smirking after her.

Lydia reached her cottage, feeling safe at last. Stepping through the doorway, she hung her belongings on the hook to the left and quickly shut the door behind her. She knew he would not dare set foot on her land. Her mother had planted many herbs surrounding the cottage, most of which were meant to keep unwanted visitors from approaching. Many of the townsfolk had referred to her mother as a woodland witch, not bearing any negative connotations, but quite the opposite. As a child, Lydia had spent hours watching her mother create tinctures and remedies for the people who came to her with their ailments. When Lydia was old enough, she took to recording recipes in her notebooks to study. By the time she’d reached adulthood, Lydia practically had a library of her own to reference, ranging from healing herbs to concoctions for hair loss and everything in between. Each entry had proven itself to be useful and thus had earned a permanent place on her shelves. She was grateful to have been her mother’s pupil, but she always felt a pang of resentment when thinking back on their last days together. A master of healing magic, and her mother couldn’t even save herself from the blight of influenza that took her.

By now it was late afternoon, the sun shadowed behind the grove of trees surrounding her cottage. She walked over and lit a small fire in the hearth. A cup of tea is exactly what she needed right now. Comforted by the appearance of the fire, she reached toward her throat, yearning for the weight of the gold necklace in her fingers—only to find it was missing! Panicking, she looked down at her skirts, hoping it had merely fallen and gotten tangled. After patting herself down, though, it was still nowhere to be found. Had it fallen off during her tussle with the roots? She must find it. Grabbing her cloak, she hurried back down the path into the woods. She scoured every inch of the trail, knowing with a sinking feeling that she would not find it there. Her intuition screamed that it had been stolen from her, an unwilling sacrifice to the Lord of the woods. Furious, she went back to her cottage and began pulling books off her library shelves. Herbs to Calm the Mind—no. Tinctures of the Heart—no. Flipping through her collection as fast as she could, she finally found what she was looking for. It was a book of various concoctions that she rarely resorted to—Potions of Wit and Calculation. A broad spectrum of recipes to outsmart, unbind, or in some cases, take revenge.

Lydia opened the leather-bound book, the front cover a swirl of engraved floral design. She flipped through the pages until she landed upon a recipe she thought might work against Lord Henry’s thievery. It’s entry as follows:

-GAZPACHO OF SCORN-

To obtain vengeance on one who has wrongfully acquired something of value, such as title or token, mix ingredients together and serve to offender as one would normally serve revenge—cold.

Lydia quickly read through the recipe, taking note of her stock of herbs and oils in her pantry. She had everything she needed. Her anger kept her focused and she worked quickly on the soup. Cucumbers from her garden (spells are generally more powerful when using produce derived from one’s own garden), and herbs from her stores—a bay leaf for manifesting his presence quickly, basil for protection and a little bit of luck, garlic and black pepper for banishment of spells or negative energies he could use against her, as well as a few other herbs. She knew these items alone would not simply bring Lord Henry to her front door, nor did she wish to draw him near her beloved cottage. To make such ingredients work together in the intended manner, you must speak a set of intentions over each of the contents. They say a woodland witch’s magic is made up mostly of herbs and fortitude. If you do not have strong intentions, the ingredients combined will simply be a delicious meal and nothing more. 

Lydia worked in a way she had seen her mother do many times, with precision and determination. She did not wish to harm Henry, only to acquire her sacred heirloom back. She would set up a lovely picnic, the ingredients combined together would simply create an opportunistic meeting, giving Lydia the chance to seize her necklace.

The next morning, everything was ready. She carried a basket along the path down towards the lake, hoping it would look more inviting and less conspicuous than taking a seat near the spot where he cleverly tripped her with enchanted roots. Laying out a blanket, she carefully set up a variety of dishes she had put together along with the intended gazpacho. For even better chances of success, she brought along a pot of hot cinnamon coffee, which can often make its consumer feel a tad bit more grounded and at ease. Once everything was laid out, she took her bay leaf and struck a match, burning it quickly while thinking clearly of Lord Henry. The bay leaf, the cinnamon coffee, and the basil garnishing the delectable gazpacho—all brought together with strong intentions—should bring him around rather quickly, she thought. No sooner had the thought crossed her mind did he appear at the edge of the forest, his suave nature and scent of fresh earth hung on the unnatural breeze.

She startled slightly, forgetting just how handsome he was. “Oh, it’s you.” Lydia said, acting as if his presence was completely unexpected. “Haven’t you had enough of following me yet?” She said, with a tone of exasperation, though maybe genuinely curious. “It may seem that I’m following you,” Henry said with a smirk, “but something tells me that today, you have come looking for me instead of the other way around.” He strode toward her with such grace and elegance that she momentarily lost her senses. Remember what he took from you, she urged herself. “Well since you’re already intruding on my picnic, why don’t you accompany me. Allow me to invite you this time, instead of insisting on nosing about.” Lydia gestured toward the empty spot upon her blanket. Henry managed his respectful slight bow before he all but leapt onto the blanket. She knew he couldn’t resist under her invisible spell.

Lydia poured him a cup of coffee and, with as much grace as she could muster in front of him, assembled his plate of picnic delights. He rose an eyebrow at the gazpacho, as if to say it was out of place for a picnic. “It happens to be a childhood favorite of mine,” Lydia offered up as a reasonable explanation. The lord accepted his plate in thanks and gratefully sipped his coffee. Lydia also plated food for herself, knowing it would not have the same spell binding effects on her own body. He seemed to eye her as he politely ate his portion, setting down his empty plate and finishing off his coffee. Lydia casually reached into her bag and stood up, startling Henry who had now relaxed into the blanket. He made to rise, but found he could not stand! 

“What have you done to me??” He stared at her, his eyes seeming to have lost all arrogance and brightness upon being grounded onto her picnic blanket, as was the intention behind the cinnamon coffee. Lydia glared at him. “The simple spell I have placed on you is nothing in comparison to what you stole from me.” Henry narrowed his eyes at her, and then it dawned on him. “The gazpacho…a revenge dish—best served cold, of course,” he said to himself, clearly surprised at her sheer wit in luring him here. He flashed that taunting smirk at her. “You are a clever witch. I must admit I did not see it coming.”

Lydia waved her hand, brushing off the compliment. “Most overused sayings often originate from the literal sense of the phrase.” And she was right, of course. The use of revenge dishes being served as cold soups, or even mugs of ale, predated the highly used idiom by centuries.

He still managed a handsome grin while stuck to the picnic blanket on the ground. “What will you do with me now, though?” Henry crossed his arms, waiting for an answer. She pulled a knife from behind her back and held it to his throat. “I will have my necklace back now, if you please.” Henry swallowed, though not even a flicker of fear crossed his handsome features. If anything, she saw a hint of pleading in his eyes. “You don’t know what you’re doing,” he said quietly. In response, Lydia pulled the collar of his fine jacket to one side, revealing the gold necklace adorning his neck. Still holding the knife to his throat, she yanked at the necklace with her other hand, freeing it off his smooth olive skin. She quickly stepped back out of reach, knowing he would be stuck to the blanket for quite some time. “You’re lucky I didn’t use the revenge dish to its full potential,” she said through clenched teeth. 

“That’s not even your necklace to flaunt around your unworthy neck,” Henry spat at her. Lydia shot him a seething look in return. “It is my necklace by right! My mother gave it to me before she died, as her mother gave it to her. It is my family heirloom!” She grabbed her satchel and shoved the knife inside. “Now you can sit here and rot for all I care, with only grounding coffee to quench your thirst. Enjoy the repercussions of your thievery.” With that, she turned and left him to his demise on the blanket, knowing he would now be wary of the other dishes from her basket as well and would go hungry for the duration of his grounding.

She reached her cottage, having ran the whole way, and placed extra sprigs of lavender on her windowsills and doorstep for added protection. As she relit her fire, she couldn’t help but ponder the last words he’d spoken before she had left him there. Why would he make such a claim? She reached into the pocket of her skirt and gripped the necklace, sensing that it would not be the last time she would see Henry. She dismissed the thought, only caring that her beloved treasure had returned safely.