Murder in the Marigolds

"Up, Mari!" rang my mother's muffled voice.

My eyes peeled open. I tossed the rag I used for a blanket off and sat up, glancing out the window at the graying sky.

My bones felt stiff as I shifted my feet to the cold, wooden floor.

It creaked with the few steps it took to reach my old chest with its cloudy mirror and a bowl of icy water. I forced myself to cup some and scrub my eyes and cheeks. After drying, my eyes still ached, but I felt slightly more alert.

Dressing for the cool spring weather required two tunics—only one would be too threadbare and holey—and two pairs of trousers for the same reason. My mother had knitted me a pair of thick wool socks for Yule nearly six months ago and those mercifully kept my feet warm and dry.

My boots were in a similar condition as the rest of my clothes. I slipped my feet inside and examined my face in the mirror.

My hair was mockingly golden, as much as money and jewelry.

I hated it.

I ripped a brush through it and wrapped it around my hand until I could coil its length and pin it at the bottom of my head.

Knowing there would be nothing to eat, I walked straight through the small dark cottage to the back door.

My bag of supplies—small traps, a hunting knife, and an empty water bottle—hung by the door alongside my crossbow. Only two arrows were left. I snatched both off the hook, slinging my bow over my back and the satchel across my side, and opened the door. The cool morning air bit my face as harshly as the water had.

The grounds were misty and quiet, except for my mother in the small barn yelling at the few animals we did have to "get up and eat." All we had was an ass, a cock, five hens, and a handful of farm cats.

Hoping she wouldn't hear me, I strode toward the back gate that opened right to the forest entrance.

I considered skipping it but thought better and stopped at our well knowing I was too thirsty and hungry to make it to the crick further in the woods.

Palming a freshly filled water bottle, I went to open the gate when my mother bustled out of the barn and said, "You still haven't left yet?"

I halted and turned to face her, cursing myself for not being quicker.

She had her hands on her hips and I said, "I was just about to head out."

"Well, try to come back with something today, will you?"

"I try every day, Mother," I said. "But there hasn't been anything around here." Where all the animals were, I didn't know. They all seemed to have finally been hunted to nothing.

My mother pursed her lips and glared at me. "Well, do your best then." Before I could turn and leave, she added, "And watch out for bears."

It was the same warning every day. I wasn't sure if she cared because she loved me, or because she would have to go out and hunt herself if I were eaten.

"I'll see you tonight, mother."

Then I left, walking along the trail that split the dense forest of young trees in two. The leaves chattered while I periodically set traps, hoping for some smaller game, but saving the bulk of my equipment for deeper.

Our narrow path met the far wider main one about a mile inward. I turned right, heading north. I didn’t bother setting traps here. There was too much traffic. Not only was it unlikely I'd catch anything, but anything I did would surely get snatched up by travelers.

Two miles down this path, another cut straight into the forest center.

I set a few traps along this trail, still minding my supplies. I’d been doing this for years and learned to trust my gut. Something told me that I’d pick these back up later completely empty. 

Deeper I walked until I hit the crossroads marking the heart of the wood.

My aunt, who taught me how to hunt, told me only to proceed straight, to the right, or back the way I came.

“Never to the left,” she said. “Never.”

I had sworn that I wouldn't—but I wasn’t as hungry then as I was now.

I looked down the overgrown path I'd been avoiding for years.

For a moment, I weighed the promise I had made to my aunt against the empty belly I’d been lugging around for two weeks.

When I finally started shifting toward the path ahead, my stomach growled in protest, as if knowing there wouldn't be anything that way.

I took a deep breath.

And then turned left instead.

My nerves were alive, but everything else was silent. The trees looked sickly and the ground appeared to be rotting. It was as if everything was dying.

Not far in, I paused and dislodged the hunting knife from its holder at my hip. The fluttering feeling that started in my stomach crept outward. I was about to turn back when I stopped and laughed at myself. This was nonsense. There was nothing this way that should have me so terrified.

On the day my aunt left to hunt and never returned, I had promised her that I would take care of Mother and myself if anything ever happened to her.

And that had been far more recently than my promise to never venture here.

So I kept going, deeper and deeper. With each step, I expected the forest to look less sickly. Even though I expected it, I was still surprised when it did.

Everything turned green and lush and looked serene. The clouds broke open and the low sun's buttery light shone through the trees in thick slants.

Eventually, I came upon a blackberry bush. The ones by our home weren’t quite ready for picking.

I stopped, shoving fistfuls of the sweet fruit into my mouth, juice dripping down my chin and neck. I packed some in my bag to bring back home, too.

After a large drink of water, I continued, feeling more hopeful than when I first entered the woods.

Wildlife activity sounded all around me—birds singing, animals moving through the brush—but I saw nothing. I laid a trap here and there, hoping to find something on my way back.

Further along, I came to a clearing. The trees around it whispered wildly and a gushing stream cut through the space.

In the center of everything, stood a thatched-roof cottage. The windows were dark and it looked like it had been long forgotten.

Perhaps there was some merit to my aunt's story. Perhaps once, long ago, three men did hunt this land for sport. However, perhaps they long ago left us with a lifeless wood, so we could starve, while they lived fat and happy till the end of their days. 

Angrily, I was stomping toward the wood beyond the cabin when I smelled something impossible to resist coming from the cottage. Even after the berries, my stomach still stabbed with the knives of hunger.

Maybe whoever was inside would share whatever they cooked with a poor starving girl.

I walked to the door and knocked on the worn wood, rotting with age.

No one answered.

I knocked again more desperately, realizing my stomach was in charge. Somewhere in the catacombs of my mind, a much more sensible Mari screamed at me to turn around. It’s not worth it. No one’s home, get out.

But the starving Mari turned the doorknob and slowly opened it a crack, peering into an empty kitchen. She opened the door further and was met with the warm, heady scent of a lovingly prepared breakfast now steaming in three large bowls on the table. A fire burned in the vacant sitting area in the next room, though I didn't remember seeing any chimney smoke. The narrow passage that led upstairs was dark.

“Hello?” I called out.

No one answered.

I stepped inside, padding softly to the table. Three enormous bowls sat with something brownish-gray and lumpy with spoons stuck in the center. Even though it looked abhorrent, it smelled marvelous.

I sat down and lifted my hand to pick up the wooden spoon and eat. I paused and thought, This is madness. This is someone’s food. And it isn’t mine.

But then, the starving Mari took over again, picked up the utensil, and brought the food to my mouth before I could reconsider.

The thick porridge—for it was porridge in these bowls—burned the roof of my mouth so terribly that I nearly spat it back out.

I tried the next bowl, which was far too cold for my taste. The final bowl’s contents were perfect. The entire thing was gone before I even knew what happened. I looked at the other bowls, considering eating those contents, too, but a weird feeling overcame me—satiation. I was too full to eat anything else. 

Smiling, I stood to walk out but my eyes snagged on the fire and the sitting room with three enormous chairs.

My hands were still chilled from the cold spring morning. I decided to warm them at the hearth, ready to leap out of the open window if the front door opened. 

When an ember of wood popped out, it startled me so greatly that I fell back into the smallest chair, breaking it to bits beneath me.

“Shit,” I whispered. They would know someone was here now if the empty breakfast bowl didn't do it.

I examined the pieces. It looked fixable. I searched through the cabinets in the kitchen but didn't find any tools. So, I tiptoed up the stairs. Something I knew was risky—it made a quick escape much harder—but my conscience insisted that I couldn’t leave having both eaten their food and ruined their furniture.

By the top of the landing, the food in my stomach which had been turning from nerves, was settling deep into my gut. My whole body relaxed, coaxing me toward sleep. 

I closed my eyes and shook my head, willing myself to focus, but when I opened them back up, I only saw three massive beds and all thoughts drifted away. I slid the satchel and crossbow to the floor in the middle of the room.

All I wanted to do now was figure out which of these beds would provide the best nap. 

It was not the first as it was too high at the head.

Nor was it the second, far too high at the foot.

The third, however, was like sinking into a cloud.

Sleep dragged my heavy-lidded eyes further to sleep no matter how hard I tried to open them.

Soon, I began to dream of my aunt and our first day in the woods.

At the crossroads, I asked why we didn't go to the left

Eleanor’s gaze was hard as she considered me, her hair as golden as mine. She narrowed her eyes and pursed her lips, before continuing down the path ahead.

We walked silently when she finally said, “Did you know that this forest is said to connect to Faeryland, Marigold?”

“What?” My aunt was the only one who called me by my full name. “That’s preposterous. Faeries aren’t real.” 

Eleanor side-eyed me and smirked. “It’s true!"

“Is that why we don’t go down that path? Because the entrance to Faery is that way.”

She laughed. “No, silly girl.”

The wood around us grew denser. It was cloudy, and gray light struggled to pierce through the canopy.

As we hunted, my aunt began to quietly tell a story.

“Once, three friends had a cabin down that way. Apparently, they lived with wives and families in a nearby village. They only traveled here sometimes to spend weeks hunting the forest ruthlessly.”

I gave a funny look at that. These woods were notoriously lacking in huntable wildlife.

Eleanor noticed and smirked again. She directed me to set a trap and waited silently.

When we continued on, so did her tale. “There’s not much to hunt now, but there used to be. Anyway, these men weren’t the kind who hunted for food. They were rich. They didn’t fend for themselves.” She rolled her eyes. “They hunted for sport.”

I scrunched my eyebrows together.

“They looked for bucks, fat pheasants, wild bores. Anything really. I think honestly believe they just liked to kill stuff. One day, they saw a great brown bear. After days of hunting it down, they managed to trap it, kill it, and skin it, leaving his innards on the forest floor to rot, taking the magnificent bear skin with them.”

I laid another trap and my aunt waited for me to finish.

“When they returned to the cabin, smoke billowed from the chimney. At first, they were angry. They burst through the door to kill the intruder but found only a golden-haired maiden. The men’s fury thawed quickly, awed by this beauty who appeared to be cooking them a hot meal. She wooed and fawned over them for hours, serving them drinks and porridge and telling them delightful stories.”

“When the men’s bellies were full and their eyes heavy, the girl picked up the bearskin and said, ‘I didn’t much like when you killed me.’ The men were confused. They would, of course, remember killing a beautiful girl. She wrapped herself in the pelt and told them Fae protected this forest and they had taken advantage, even killing its guardian. Now, this forest would grow sick and they would be trapped as the very thing they last hunted. The men were too tired to move, protest, or even ask the girl what she meant. Nor could they stop her from leaving with their prize. She was gone and the men fell asleep."

We stopped and she looked at me, "When they roused the next morning, can you guess what they awoke as?”

My aunt peered behind me, and her mischievous face grew grave.

“You must awaken, girl.”

I sat upright in the bed.

My hair had come out of its knot and fell in fat ringlets around my face. Disoriented, I surveyed my surroundings. What I found was three massive brown bears ascending the staircase, snarling at their unwanted guest.

Me.

My heart pounded in my chest and I let out a scream that ripped through the small room. The bears buried their heads into the floorboards and covered their soft ears with paws as large as stew pots.

I jumped out of the bed.

My carving knife was still at my side, but my crossbow was lying forgotten in the middle of the room—right between me and the three animals ready to tear my throat out.

When they began moving toward me again, I let out a louder, higher-pitched scream.

Again, they buried their heads. And I moved.

I dove to the ground and got the first arrow nocked and ready. From my back, I released the switch that held it in place, driving it through the chest of the first bear who had begun stalking toward me.

Time stopped as he let out a pathetic roar, falling with a wall-shattering thud.

The other two bears looked at their fallen friend, sniffing and pawing at him. 

When he didn't move, they looked at me again. I scrambled to my feet, working to set another bolt, but my hands trembled too terribly. The two beasts stamped toward me, drool dripping from their great snarling maws. I backed away until I hit the wall with an oof, as the crossbow finally clicked into place.

I smirked in what I imagined was the same way my aunt used to before pressing the release button with my forefinger.

The bolt shot with a whistle and sunk into the chest of the second bear who went down as the first had.

The third let out an ear-shattering roar that left my eardrums ringing. He charged the last few feet toward me and I rolled out of the way. He slammed into the wall with a sickening crack that sent plaster falling in dusty plumes around us.

He stood slowly, shaking his head. I began inching toward the door, hoping he would be disoriented long enough for me to escape. I abandoned the crossbow and palmed the hunting knife, keeping my eyes on his back as I crawled toward the staircase.

I bumped into one of the fallen bears.

His head perked up and he whipped it in my direction. When his eyes focused on me, he bellowed, reared up on his haunches, and sent his claws down at me with a killing blow.

I only just dodged the first and prepared for the second.

When he reared up to swipe again, I pushed myself up off the floor and drove the knife into his beating chest.

His eyes blackened and dulled before he crumbled to the floor in a massive heap.

My pounding heart settled and the room seemed to shift. I went to inspect the dead animals, but what I found instead were what appeared to be three dead men stuffed inside rotting bearskins.

My stomach turned from the smell.

I ambled downstairs and looked around the empty rooms. The hearth was still burning as if someone just tended to it. I grabbed the poker and pulled all the blazing logs onto the hardwood floors. Choosing one that was only burning at one end, I carried it outside and walked to the creek's edge.

I looked up at the dry thatched roof and threw the torch as hard as possible and it immediately caught fire.

I watched for a little while as it spread, ridding the world of its sickness, and then began my journey home to the other side of the woods.