The Demon The Forest Raised

The first rule Lillian learned was not to answer the door.

She learned it before she knew all her letters, before she could tie her own apron strings, before she understood why the cottage shutters stayed latched even on bright days. Her mother had knelt in front of her, both hands around Lillian’s small shoulders, and spoken in the soft voice she used for dangerous things.

“Lillian,” Elowen had said, “when someone knocks, you do not speak.”

Lillian had nodded because her mother looked frightened.

Elowen had touched the rough brown scarf wrapped around Lillian’s head. “You do not ask who it is. You do not peek. You come to me, and you hide where I tell you to hide.”

When she was four, Lillian thought the rule was meant to keep monsters out.

By seven, she knew the people from Bellweather were worse.

The village sat down the hill from their cottage, close enough that Lillian could hear the bells whenever they rang. Morning bell, market bell, warning bell, prayer bell, death bell. Each had its own voice. Lillian knew them all, though she had never stood beneath the tower that held them. She had never walked the square or touched the stone fountain. She knew Bellweather by sound and smell and the bits of stories her mother let slip when she was tired.

Their cottage stood where the meadow road began to climb toward the dark line of the forest. It was not truly in Bellweather, but it was not free of it either. Smoke, songs, and voices all carried uphill when the wind turned.

But Lillian was not allowed to carry down.

She sat on the kitchen floor with a wooden horse in her lap and the scarf tied tight over her hair. It scratched the tops of her ears and trapped heat against her scalp. Beneath it, her curls pressed and twisted, wanting out.

Elowen stood at the table kneading dough. Flour dusted her dark braid. She hummed under her breath, not loudly. Elowen never sang loudly when the window was open, and the window was only open the width of two fingers.

Lillian made the wooden horse trot along the hem of her dress. “Do they have horses at the festival?”

Elowen’s hands slowed in the dough. “Sometimes.”

“Real ones?” Lillian asked.

“Real ones. Wooden ones. Painted ones on sticks.” Elowen tried to smile. “Festival horses of every sort.”

Lillian tilted her chin toward the shuttered window. “Do girls get to ride?”

Elowen’s smile faded.

Outside, Bellweather was waking into celebration. Cart wheels rattled. Someone laughed. From the village square came the sharp, sweet smell of honey cakes baking.

Lillian lifted her head. “Could I go?”

Elowen stopped humming.

The cottage held only small sounds. Dough stretching. A bee tapping at the window glass. The old roof creaking as the sun warmed it.

Then Elowen wiped her hands on her apron and crossed to the shutters.

“Mother,” Lillian said, “you checked already.”

Elowen touched the latch anyway. Once. Twice. She looked through the narrow gap toward the road, then closed the shutters until the kitchen dimmed.

“Being tired of a rule does not mean we may break it,” Elowen said.

Lillian frowned. “I wasn’t talking about rules.”

“No,” Elowen answered. “You were talking about the festival.”

The spring bell festival came every year, though Lillian had never seen it. She knew when it was coming because wagons groaned along the road, bells rang brighter, and the sweetness of honey cakes floated up to the cottage.

Honey. Smoke. Warm bread. Cut rushes. Spring.

Elowen saw her breathing it in, and her face softened. “Lily.”

Lillian hated when her mother said her name that way, like sorry without saying sorry.

“I am seven,” Lillian insisted. “I can walk by myself.”

“Not to the village.”

“Why?”

“Because I said no.”

“That is not a why.” Lillian hugged the wooden horse to her chest. “You never tell me why.”

Elowen went silent.

Lillian folded her fingers into her palm. “You say don’t open the door. Don’t look out. Don’t sing. Don’t take my scarf off. Don’t, don’t, don’t.” Her voice grew smaller. “I do all the don’ts, and I still don’t get to go.”

Elowen’s gaze locked on the door.

That was what she always did when Lillian came too close to the question. She turned to the door or the windows, as though the answer might be crouched there with its ear pressed to the wood.

Lillian touched the edge of her scarf. “Am I sick?”

Elowen turned sharply. “No.”

“Am I ugly?”

“Never say that.” Elowen crossed the room and knelt before her. She took Lillian’s face between her floury hands. “Never, Lillian.”

Lillian’s lower lip trembled. “Then am I bad?”

Elowen made a broken sound and pulled her close. Lillian stood stiffly at first, because she was angry and wanted to stay angry. But her mother smelled of flour, soap, and morning smoke, and Lillian loved her so much that anger had trouble surviving it.

“You are not bad,” Elowen said against her scarf. “You are my bright thing. My brave heart. My own beloved girl.”

“Then why do I have to hide?” Lillian asked.

Outside, a horse passed on the road.

It was not close, but Elowen went rigid. Her hand moved at once to the knot of Lillian’s scarf, checking that it held.

Lillian stepped away. “You’re doing it again.”

Elowen whispered, “Stay behind me.”

“It’s only a horse.”

“Stay behind me,” Elowen warned, sharper now.

Lillian obeyed because her mother’s sharp voice was always more frightening than shouting. Shouting meant anger. Sharpness meant fear.

They waited until the hoofbeats faded downhill. No one knocked. No warning bell rang. The cottage remained a cottage.

Elowen exhaled and returned to the dough. Her knuckles pressed hard into it. “The festival is not for us.”

“Why not?” Lillian asked.

“Because Bellweather is afraid.”

“Of the forest?”

“Yes.”

Lillian glanced toward the shuttered window. The forest stood beyond the upper field, black and thick even in spring. No one hunted past the first brook. Sometimes things cried there with voices almost human.

“The festival is not in the forest,” Lillian said. “It’s in the square.”

Elowen closed her eyes. “Bellweather is afraid of the forest, and Bellweather is afraid of girls like you.”

Girls like you.

Lillian touched the scarf hiding her own hair and thought of her mother’s dark braid. Beneath the cloth, her curls felt hot and crowded.

“Because my hair is red?” Lillian asked.

Elowen paused too long before answering.

“It’s just hair,” Lillian said.

“To me, yes.”

“What is it to them?”

Elowen gripped the edge of the table. “Something it should not be.”

“What?”

“An old fear.”

Lillian scrunched her nose. “That doesn’t make sense.”

Elowen’s mouth opened.

For one breath, Lillian thought her mother would finally tell her. She saw the truth rise in Elowen’s face, the hidden thing behind the rules and shutters and cellar. Lillian leaned forward.

Then the festival bell rang downhill.

Once. Twice. Three times.

Not warning. Celebration.

The sound leapt across the fields. After it came cheering, fiddles, and children laughing. Bellweather lifted its voice, and Elowen shut her mouth.

Lillian understood that the village would always be louder than her.

She turned away before her mother could see her eyes fill. “I don’t want old fears. I want ribbons.”

“Lillian,” Elowen said.

“I want to hear the fiddles close up.” Lillian wiped her cheek with her sleeve. “I want to see the big bell. I want a honey cake that came from the festival.”

Elowen whispered, “You like my cakes.”

“I do.” Lillian’s face crumpled. “But I want one from there.”

“I know.” Elowen’s hand tightened.

“I want to see children,” Lillian said.

“You see me.”

“You’re my mother.”

“Yes,” Elowen whispered. “I am.”

“I want someone little,” Lillian said. “Someone who runs.”

The sadness in Elowen’s face nearly ended the argument.

Lillian held on anyway.

Lillian lifted her chin. “I don’t want to be a secret anymore.”

Elowen went pale. “You must never say that where anyone can hear.”

“No one can hear me,” Lillian said. “Nobody ever hears me.”

A knock sounded at the door.

Both of them froze.

“Elowen?” a woman called from outside.

Elowen seized Lillian’s wrist.

“Cellar,” Elowen mouthed.

Lillian’s anger vanished. It always did when the rules became real.

She ran to the back of the kitchen, where a trapdoor lay half hidden beneath a rag rug. Elowen lifted it, and Lillian slipped down into the cellar, which smelled of earth, apples, and old fear.

Lillian crouched behind the turnip sacks. Above her, the trapdoor closed, and darkness wrapped around her.

The door opened.

“Elowen,” Mistress Vale said, her voice muffled through the floorboards. “I thought you might need thread. There is a peddler in the square with good blue dye.”

“That is kind,” Elowen said. “But I have enough.”

“You are not coming down?”

“No. Too much work.”

“There are cakes,” Mistress Vale said. “The children are running wild for them.”

“Then I hope they enjoy them.”

Mistress Vale lowered her voice. “People ask after you, you know.”

“Let them ask,” Elowen replied.

“And after the child.”

Lillian stopped breathing.

“My daughter is shy,” Elowen said.

“Shy children still need air.”

“My daughter has air.”

A pause followed.

Then Mistress Vale said, not unkindly, “There is such a thing as hiding a child too well.”

At last, Elowen said, “There is such a thing as burying one too early.”

The silence after that was different.

Mistress Vale whispered, “Take care what you say.”

“I always do,” Elowen whispered.

The door closed.

Lillian stayed in the dark until the latch slid home and Elowen lifted the trapdoor. When light fell down the ladder, Lillian climbed out with dirty knees and the wooden horse still in one hand.

Elowen reached for her, but Lillian stepped aside.

“I did it right,” Lillian said.

Elowen’s eyes shone. “Yes.”

“I didn’t make any noise.”

“I know.”

“Then why do I feel bad?” Lillian asked.

Elowen had no answer.

The rest of the day stretched thin. Elowen burned the bread, pricked her finger while mending, and checked the shutters so often that Lillian began counting. Seven times. Eight. Nine.

Downhill, the festival grew louder.

There were pipes now, and drums. Bells rang between songs. Once, a cheer rose so bright that Lillian ran to the window before remembering herself. Elowen caught her by the shoulders and pulled her back.

“I wasn’t opening it,” Lillian snapped.

“I am sorry,” Elowen said.

“You pulled too hard.”

Elowen let go at once. “I am sorry.”

Lillian rubbed her arm though it did not really hurt. She wanted the hurt to be bigger, because then her anger would be fair.

Elowen knelt beside her. “I know you hate this.”

“I hate the scarf,” Lillian said.

“I know.”

“I hate the cellar.”

“I know.”

“I hate the rules.”

Elowen turned toward the shuttered window. “Sometimes I do too.”

That surprised Lillian into silence.

After a moment, Elowen loosened the scarf. Air touched Lillian’s scalp, cool and wonderful. Her hair tumbled down in red curls, not orange like carrots or brown like autumn leaves, but red like embers when the fire was stirred.

Elowen touched one curl with the back of her finger. Fear remained in her face, but so did wonder.

“My bright thing,” Elowen murmured.

Lillian tucked her chin. “Then why do I have to stay in the dark?”

Elowen’s hand fell.

When evening light began to slope through the cracks around the shutters, Elowen retied the scarf and went outside to fetch water from the covered barrel. She hesitated at the door.

“Do not open the door,” Elowen warned.

“I know.”

“Do not stand at the window.”

“I know.”

“Keep your scarf on.”

Lillian touched the knot. “I know.”

Elowen studied her face. “I will only be a moment.”

“You always say that,” Lillian said.

Her mother stepped outside.

Lillian stood in the middle of the kitchen. The festival music had changed into evening dance. Fiddles rose on the wind. Children clapped and shouted. Someone laughed so hard the sound seemed to land at Lillian’s feet.

She went to the window.

She did not open the shutters. She only stood near them. Through a narrow split in the wood, she saw the empty lane beyond the wall.

The laughter came again.

The door seemed to pull at her.

Outside, Elowen was at the side of the cottage. Lillian heard the scrape of the bucket rope and the soft grunt as her mother lifted water from the barrel.

Only a moment.

Lillian’s hand found the latch.

She did not mean to open the door. She meant only to know what leaving felt like. But the latch rose, the door eased inward, and spring rushed over her face.

Grass. Smoke. Honey. Bells.

Lillian stepped outside.

The world did not end.

She ran across the garden to the low stone wall, where an elder bush leaned over the lane. If she climbed there, she might see the road bend downhill. She might glimpse a ribbon. A cart. A child with sugar on his hands.

Her heart beat so loudly she thought it might ring like the bells.

She climbed the wall, scraping one knee on the stone. Elder leaves brushed her face. She parted them with both hands and looked.

There was the festival road.

People moved along it in little groups. Women with baskets. Men with cups. Children chasing one another with streamer sticks. A girl in yellow spun until her skirt opened like a flower. A boy carried a honey cake in each hand.

The bell tower rose behind them, taller than she had imagined, with red, blue, and white ribbons fluttering below it.

So this was what the world looked like when it was not hiding.

A laugh escaped her.

Small. Soft. Too full of wonder to hold.

On the road below, a boy stopped.

He was about her age, with dark eyes and a festival ribbon tied crookedly around one wrist. He held a streamer stick, but the colored strips dragged forgotten in the dust.

He looked up.

Lillian froze.

The elder branch shifted.

Her scarf caught on a twig.

She felt the tug, reached for it too late, and the knot slipped loose. The brown cloth peeled back from her head and snagged above her, hanging from the branch like a shed skin.

Her red hair spilled into the sun.

The boy stared.

Lillian stared back.

For one heartbeat, nothing happened. He did not scream. He did not point. He did not run for the elders. His eyes widened, not with hatred, but with helpless wonder.

Somehow, that hurt more.

From behind the cottage, Elowen called, “Lillian?”

Terror broke the spell.

Lillian snatched at the scarf, but it tangled in the leaves. The boy took one step closer.

Lillian dropped from the wall and ran.

“Lillian!” Elowen cried.

Lillian reached the door just as her mother rounded the cottage. Elowen saw her uncovered hair, the missing scarf, and Lillian’s face.

The bucket fell.

Water burst across the dirt.

Elowen seized Lillian and pulled her inside. She slammed the door and dropped the bar into place with shaking hands.

“Who saw?” Elowen asked.

Lillian could barely speak. “A boy.”

Elowen knelt before her. “What boy?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did he shout?”

“No.”

“Did he run?”

“No.”

Elowen gripped Lillian’s arms, then seemed to realize she was hurting her and let go. She turned once in place, lost for what to do next, then checked every shutter latch again.

Lillian stood by the cold hearth with her red hair loose around her shoulders.

“I only wanted to look,” Lillian whispered.

Elowen stopped with one hand on the shutter.

“I only wanted the ribbons,” Lillian said.

Elowen crossed the room and pulled her close. For once, Lillian did not feel hidden by the embrace. She felt trapped inside it, inside the pounding of her mother’s heart, inside the fear that had been waiting all her life for a door to open.

Elowen pressed her lips to Lillian’s hair. “My bright thing,” she whispered. “What have we done?”

Downhill, the festival music went on.

At the bend in the road, Tavin stood beneath the elder bush with the brown scarf caught above him. Another child called his name, then came running back with a half-eaten cake in hand.

“What are you staring at?” the child asked.

Tavin did not look away from the cottage.

“The cottage girl has red hair,” Tavin whispered.