Into the Deep Wood

Useless creatures.

No good for their spoiled meat, completely inedible and foul. There was no use for their hide as it’d shed like snakeskin off their flesh upon death. Their bones were too brittle for craft but still too tough to grind to powder. Their teeth, so plagued by disease and ever-present mouth sores, were not usable for anything but attracting flies.

Chorts were the worst of those who haunted the wood—not in the way of danger but like vermin, infesting the shadows with their echoing whispers. One could walk and bump right into a chort here. They carried all sorts of diseases on them—unclean and nasty things. Skittish creatures ran from noise if there was any chance it would be a danger to them - yet hunted others with the determination of hounds.

A chort obsessed over prey and often to their demise. They followed it into open sunlight beyond the woods, where they shriveled up and died, leaving only a sticky, oily substance behind. But were one to catch you, it would tear you piece by piece. They left their meals messy, often dragging the bodies into trees and leaving guts, bits of skin and fat along the trunks and branches. The remains of a chort’s feast would rot and attract flies and maggots - an overall grisly and unpleasant sight to come upon while on a walk.

Snap, pull - out of the darkness of the branches, Marat would pull the irregular shape, and as it smacked on the ground and struggled to get away - its limbs flailing and slashing - he would tie its arms and legs to its torso. He wrapped a thick wool cloth around its ears, ensuring it was as tight as possible. They did not scream, as none had a voice of their own to scream. Just thrashed helplessly.

Erlan had dragged two more into camp. No fire was lit; it would warn too many of their brethren away.

“There is no rhyme or rhythm to this. It’s maddening.” Marat said, frustrated at guessing where a leg or arm began and ended. Two on one side, a leg on the other. So many of their features were that of men, yet they resembled no man. “Abominations should have been aborted in their mother’s womb.”

“I have never known chorts to have mothers or be in an infantile state.” Erlan sat, exhausted, between three or four they’d already collected. All the bundles kept moving like bugs trapped on their back. “How many?”

“I’d say ten or twelve. It’s hard to know how many will retreat into the forest after.” Marat examined their collection, “At least one or two will have the self-preservation to get more than fifteen feet away.”

"Don't try to be funny and teach them shit words. You'll scare her if one of them comes raving about swamp whores." Erlan snorted.

He hated chorts. He’d rather spend a day diving for nymphs or water merchants in the swamp. At least the other beasts resembled beasts. These looked so human, yet they were twisted and warped mutations.

Beyond the trees was early evening, although late night there in the woods, but the time they gathered enough.

“Quickly. We don’t have long.” Marat urged. The brothers nodded to each other to begin, and not a word would be spoken out of place from here on out.

They each started pulling the headwraps from the chorts, whispering recited words into their ears - then releasing the ties, setting them free. None of the chorts felt the need to stay and carry out their revenge. Distressed, they scurried into the Deep Wood and out of sight of the men’s newly lit torches.

Val had not been addressed by the Hag since the men left. As the door closed, the old woman returned to sorting her treasures, cooing to herself and reciting rhymes. Val did not move once from where she stood when the confrontation happened. The men had stayed til morning, and night had fallen before the Hag remembered about her.

“Don’t just stand there! Standing as if a tree and just as dumb!” She flew to her, wooden spoon in hand. It was her preferred method toward Val; a wooden spoon would not harm too much no matter how much force the Hag had put behind it. “Go! You have not done a chore all day! No sleep, no rest until you earn your stay!”

Val hurried, grabbing a broom and a basket on her way out. She was still shaken from the day’s events. She had not seen people in so long that she had forgotten what they looked like. This was the closest she came to having any semblance of hope in a long time, even if it resulted in nothing. They had bartered for her, and for a moment, it felt… like something she used to remember once.

She hurried down the hill and tried hard to find that memory. It was an itching right at the back of her head that held remnants of her life in the village. There were so few now. She did not remember her grandmother’s face, the names of her friends, or what color her home had been painted. She did not remember the songs they sang, the stories they told, or the gods they prayed to. She did not remember how many name days she had celebrated during the hot summer months.

Now, days were only lived for the Hag. Her friends were the birds that sang in the trees and bushes. The frogs whose song had filled her nights. The thing that floated up to the surface of the water threatening to bite her when it fed. Her home was the dirt paths that weaved through the bog. The garden behind the hut. The grassy field and the winding path.

At the house, she was to sweep and mop to change the linens on the Hag’s bed. She’d clear the ashes from the stove and scrub the cauldron free of coals and remnants of cooked food. She was to wipe all furniture twice, dust the shelves and clear the cobwebs above the door where spiders built their intricate webs almost daily.

She was to till the soil, weed, and eventually pick the yields from the garden. She was not to have a single bite, not a pea pod or tomato. Not a gooseberry from the bush. She’d overstepped and eaten from the patch a long time ago, and the Hag always knew. Her penance was as many days without food as there were peas in that pod.

And now and then, she’d have to bring bucket after bucket from the well below and wash every outside inch of the hut - from base to roof. This took her nearly all day, especially if the day was hot. The trek from the well to the hut was long, and the hill steep. If she tripped, she’d waste a bucket and have to go back down. On those miserable days, she still had to finish all her other chores and often did not sleep.

The Hag had her cook the food, lavish meals of baked goods and meat. Val was only allowed twice daily plain bread, some butter, and water.

The only place in the Glade that Val was never asked to go was the gathering circle where, once upon a time, she’d seen the hag in her great numbers dancing around the effigy. This event, although she believed it was somehow significant, was in a memory long past and did not concern Val anymore. That side of the clearing was overgrown, and she was never asked to go there. If she were not so exhausted, she’d wonder why.

Finishing all the tasks the crone had demanded after the men’s departure had taken two days and nights before she was allowed to sleep. At dawn, she rose to begin everything anew. It was a day where she would have to haul many buckets of water up to the garden and drench the soil. This also took her most of the day and well into the evening. So exhausted, her knees buckled under her as she walked for the final time down the hill to return the bucket. The evening drew so close to the night she began hearing the whispers beyond the meadow as she neared the well. She set the bucket down and collapsed, her back to the well. Her eyes closed, even though she would have to pay dearly if she were to fall asleep there and then.

She must have dozed off, the weight of the day crushing her beneath it. In her dream, the strange men had returned to take her with them.

“Girl, come with us.” They had begged her, “Think of the thing she gifted you when you had come. Burn it, burn it in the circle.”

She startled awake, her heart beating fast in her chest. Just beyond the tree line, the chorts whispered.

“Giiiiirl….”

“Burn, burn it…”

“Hag’s giiiift…”

“In the cleaaaaaaring!”

She stood up quickly, doubting if she was awake or still in a dream.

“First came, Haaaaaaag’s gift…”

“Girrrrrrrl…”

“Cleaaaaaaring, buuuuurn!”

“Comeeeeee…”

“Burn with uuuuuuus!...”

"Comeeeee withhhh ussss!"

“Buuuuuuuurn…”