The Blood of the Oaks

Margaret had always believed in the healing power of the words of kindness and in the quiet, steady art when it came to mending things, whether they were broken bones or that of the broken mind. Her small cottage sitting on the edge of the village had once glowed with warmth, the hearth always lit and inviting, a kettle always hot, her fresh herbs drying slowly above, hung from the rafters. The laughter that drifted lazily through the open windows like summer smoke in the air. She had been the beating heart of the area once upon a time; she had once been the healer everyone visited even if they were not ill, a listener to problems to be solved, a keeper of secrets and the remedies sometimes for people's last hope.

But everything changed on that brittle, wind-bitten autumn afternoon, the moment when the past came barrelling through her front door in the shape of her injured brother.

Thomas had stumbled inside, blood soaked and barely able to stand by himself, the ghosts of war clinging to his skin like mud to his boots. He slumped lifelessly into the old armchair by the fire, his eyes wild with desperation, his hands shaking with more than just the cold as he cradled his arm.

“Margaret,” he rasped out in desperation, seizing her fingers like a drowning man clutching a rope, “you must help me. You must help us.” He implored. “My regiment… they're nearby. There are wounded among them. They are starving, no food for days. If they don’t get your help tonight, many of them will die.”

Her breath caught. This was her brother; this was her Thomas. The boy who used to hide wildflowers in her apron pocket and call her his safe place. She didn’t hesitate. She gave him what he asked of her: food, bandages, everything she could carry, then ran to the village to gather up more of the same. She didn't stop to wonder who might be watching. She didn’t think about the wider concerns of the war. Her brother needed her, her brother's comrades needed her skills. It was what was expected of her, it was what she did.

By morning her brother was gone, replaced by soldiers loyal to Parliament. They stormed the village; drawn by the trail she’d left like breadcrumbs through a forest. Even amongst her friends, there were people loyal to the Parliamentarians, watching and waiting for the unsuspected Royalist to make a connection that gave away their loyalties. She had been seen, but it had not been her they were interested in, they knew her leanings, her brother’s betrayal, they knew where her loyalties lay, no; it was her contacts that they were interested in. But they were wrong. Her loyalty was just to those she could help, the ones she could heal. No matter their beliefs.

Her kindness had summoned ruin to the village. Her friends and her neighbours, the people whose lives were stitched into the fabric of her own, they had been dragged from their houses, cut down in the streets without a second thought. The sounds of their cries haunted her still, revisiting her sleepless nights and every brittle dawn since her brother and his troop had left.

It had been a mistake, yes. But it had been her mistake.

Now, Margaret stood alone at her cottage window, the wood beneath her fingers worn smooth by years of use — or perhaps by nights just like this one. Outside, dusk rolled over the village like fog rolling across a forgotten graveyard of old, softening the outlines of rooftops and turning once-familiar lanes into uncertain paths.

No one came to her door anymore. When they did come, it was only out of desperation, sometimes in hatred, and sometimes, she wasn’t even sure which was worse. Her remedies were still whispered about in hushed tones, but no one left her doorstep with gratitude. They came hollow-eyed and left wordless. Not even a whisper of, “thank you,” passed over their lips.

So, when the knock came, a sharp, urgent, unexpected knock, Margaret froze, her body stiffening like a deer sensing the arrow just before the strike.

Was this it? Had grief turned to vengeance?

But then she heard the voice.

“Margaret, please…”

It was soft and earnest. It tinged with an uneasy fear.

It was Bridget’s voice; she knew that voice anywhere.

She opened the door slowly. And there she was. She was pale, trembling, like death warmed up, but she was still standing. A face Margaret once knew like her own. Her friend.

“Bridget,” she breathed. “What brings you here?” Her voice was laced with surprise and disbelief.

Bridget hesitated for a moment. Neither of them spoke. They were just two ghosts of the women they used to be, women who used to be such good friends not that long ago. Then Bridget’s voice broke that silence. “It’s the children.” She started. The children, they say the soldiers will be returning. They are coming before dawn. They plan to take our children as hostages, Margaret. We can’t allow that.” She blurted out, tears now in her eyes. “Our children—”

The words hit like a hammer. Margaret’s breath hesitated as she tried to take in this knowledge. “What… what do you expect me to do, Bridget?” she whispered, her throat dry. “After what I caused—”

“It’s not I that needs your help,” Bridget interrupted, though gently. Her voice trembled with the grief of it all, but still her eyes holding Margret’s. A silent plea. “But the village is desperate. You are our only chance; it is the whole village that needs your help. You know the Oak Woods better than anyone around here. Could you… could you help us hide the children in the forest?”

This had taken Margaret aback. The Oak Woods were vast. The ancient forest that had helped cradle her childhood, teaching her the secrets it held, that provided for her remedies, and offered her solitude since her world had fallen apart.

Could she truly lead the innocent into the dark? Children. They wouldn’t go. They were afraid of her; they had always been afraid of the woods. Parents told ghost stories about the woods, about monsters to keep them safe from wild animals, and wild men.

Bridget stepped forward, taking Margaret’s hand between hers, a simple gesture, a human touch that bridged so much brokenness in their lives of late.

“Please,” she said, her voice shaking. “If not for the village… then for us, our friendship, and the children. For what we once were. We’ve both lost so much. Help me protect what little we still have in this broken world.”

Margaret didn’t answer right away. Instead, she stared at their joined hands, at the dirt under Bridget’s nails, at the way her fingers trembled ever so slightly. She remembered their laughter beneath the old oak tree at the rear of the house, sipping mint tea, the way they used to talk about their dreams, the future of children, the beauty of the garden full of flowers, and the smell of mint that permeated from their steaming cups.

“For you,” Margaret whispered at last. “For the children. I will. Of course, I will do it.”

A matter of hours later, under the ghostly silver moon lit night, Margaret moved swiftly through the forest, the gnarled branches above swaying in rhythm with her heartbeat. The children followed her closely, bundled in their cloaks, and she felt their fear. Their small faces looked pale beneath the moonlight sky. Every sound, the creak of bark rubbing bark, the breeze rustling leaves, the snap of every twig felt amplified in the shaded light, but all the same, these were not haunting sounds. These were the sounds of the forest, wishing them onward into their welcoming embrace.

Bridget walked quietly by her side, her arm wrapped around her youngest child, whose wool slippers dragged relentlessly through the underbrush. Margaret could feel the mother’s terror with every step she took — not for herself, but for that of her child.

Bridget had gathered them all silently, just before midnight. The villagers had roused their children from their sleep with a gentle hand and a whisper. Some cried, some clung to their mothers, but when they all sat before Margret in the old chapel, she spoke to them softly, and they listened.

“You must be quiet now,” Margaret had told them, her voice low and steady, her eyes kind but firm. “I know you’re scared. We are all scared, but we will only be away for the night. As we walk, you will need to make no sound, not even a small one. It won’t just be your lives that will be put in danger. It will also be your friend’s lives put in danger.”

She paused, letting that sink in. One girl sniffled. A boy clutched his toy soldier tighter.

“I’ve made mistakes by not thinking first when I should’ve stayed silent, stayed hidden from prying eyes,” she confessed, her voice carrying something raw and sorrowful. “But I won’t let those mistakes hurt you. Not ever again.”

The children hugged their mothers, kisses all around, then slipped into the night, as quiet as the chapel’s mice.

Now, deep in the heart of the Oak Woods, Margaret froze mid-step, ears pricked. A sound, something low but sharp, drifted through the trees. There were voices. They were male, and they were close.

“They’ve found us,” Margret whispered, turning sharply. “Quick, not a sound. This way.”

They slipped into the underbrush; the children stumbling over roots and stones as fear gave wings to their feet, and determination to their hearts. The murmurs of panic began to rise once again, the beginnings of whimpers, sobs were now audible in the silence.

Margaret turned back swiftly. Her voice, though quiet, was commanding.

“Shhh, little ones,” she said gently. “We're nearly there. You see that ridge over there? Well, just beyond it, there's a cave. Don’t worry, it's not haunted, I promise.” She added a small, conspiratorial smile. “It only looks like a bear's belly, but it doesn’t growl.”

Some of the children giggled, soft, nervous, but real. It was enough.

She led them to the cave that was hidden behind thick ivy and brambles, and ushered them inside. The air grew cooler, the outside sounds were now more distant. The cave wasn’t large by any means, but it was dry, and safe, it was also hidden, everything they needed.

“Stay here,” Margaret whispered to Bridget. “Keep them all quiet. Whatever happens… don’t leave. Stay here until noon before venturing out.”

Bridget grabbed at her arm, her voice cracking with fear. “Margaret. Don’t do this. It’s too dangerous. Stay here with us. They will leave.”

But Margaret only smiled faintly, touching Bridget’s hand one last time. “This is my choice. If they leave empty-handed, they will return. Let me do this one thing right. I have a debt to pay everyone. I also need to do this for me. I need to accept my mistake and what it cost the village. Hopefully, one day, the village will accept my apology.” Then she turned without another word, stepping once more into the darkness, into the cold air, toward the flicker of the burning torches, and the closing sound of boots against dead leaves.

Reaching them, she did not run. She did not cry.

She stood still. Facing them. Ready.

“I’m here,” she called out, her voice calm and steady, like wind moving through the trees. “It’s me you have been looking for.” She spoke louder this time, knowing she had a price to pay. She trembled slightly as they neared. She also knew her friend, her dearest fr—

The sword was swift and sharp; she felt nothing as her head hit the floor, seconds before her body joined it.