Hollow is the Willow

The Prologue

“Beneath the limb where no sun stays,

The willow weeps and never sways.

A silver boy with eyes like rain,

Will ask you once what you wish to gain.

Give him a tear, a name, a thread,

He’ll gift you dreams or take your head.

But should you love what fae can’t keep,

You’ll wake with roots and fall asleep.”

Excerpt from “The Folktales for the Wandering”

Every story told of the little folk started with a willow.

It mattered little where these stories were found, whether abandoned upon a market stall or passed from one child to another. Their prologues differed, and rarely seemed to hold much meaning, yet never was there a fairy tale found in the little town of Saint-Laurent that failed to mention a willow. The stories appeared without warning, written upon parchment and accompanied by sketched illustrations of all manner of curious creatures. Some were no more than a few pages long, while others unfolded into tales of considerable length. Some offered warnings, others riddles, and a few were so poorly written that their meanings could scarcely be deciphered. No one knew where they came from, nor who had taken the trouble to write them.

Saint-Laurent was not an especially remarkable town. It had its church, its market, its respectable families, and its fair share of people who stuck their noses down at those they deemed lacking. Beyond its houses lay a forest, and at the forest’s edge stood an old willow tree whose branches hung so low that they nearly touched the earth.

Perhaps it was the presence of this tree that first made the townspeople uneasy. Or perhaps it was merely the disposition of a society not yet acquainted with revolution, where superstition remained a perfectly respectable explanation for anything that could not otherwise be understood. Regardless of the reason, people in the small town of Saint-Laurent began to avoid such books.

Now, this was back when superstitions were the science of the world, and such feelings warned against writings with peculiar creatures and no author. And so, the citizens of Saint-Laurent behaved as though anyone would, really, and hid them away.

They collected and bound these stories, storing them together and out of sight of sensible minds. Each new story that appeared was quietly added to the others, until the scattered writings became known collectively as The Folktales for the Wandering, the name found from one of the few pages that were titled. A library of half-truths and hidden meanings, for those who wished to interpret them. The collection was eventually placed within the monastery at the center of town, where few would think to look for it and where, it was hoped, the holiness of the grounds might keep whatever evil the books carried at bay.

Now, you may be wondering why these stories were not simply burned. It was, after all, a considerably easier solution than collecting them, binding them, and troubling the clergy with their safekeeping.

The truth is that they had tried.

Monsieur le Maire, a man who had purchased his title and was therefore particularly determined to appear deserving of it, had quietly ordered a fire lit to dispose of the troublesome collection Yet when the wood had blackened and the flames had reduced the kindling to ash, the books remained. They innocently sat in the hearth, unmarred and unburned.

The officials, being sensible men when it suited them, decided it was better to conceal the books than to explain their peculiar nature to the townspeople. And so, the collection remained hidden within the monastery, gathering dust as the years passed and the stories within it were slowly forgotten.

The stories always began with the mention of a willow.

Except this one.

This one begins with a crying girl.