Wihrmirgrand

Stig didn’t believe that the Wihrmirgrand was haunted. Father said it wasn’t, at least, and Father was always right. That was the one thing in which he -- despite his stern, icy demeanor -- expressed complete adamance.

The townspeople didn’t like them. Stig figured they were frightened of them -- or the swamp, it made no difference. But they were happy to buy his wild berries on the occasions he traveled for trade. His fingers were lined with small white scars, a testament to the hours of foraging he did weekly. He also sold game, pelts, and medicinal plants.

Stig ignored the stolen looks of unease from the adults and other children whenever he traveled to the little farming town to sell his wares. It never bothered him that they avoided him like he was something to shy from; it was the pity in their eyes that irked him.

The children that weren’t scared of him liked to pick on him. Small for his age and as frail-looking as a fishing rod made Stig an easy target. His head was topped with a mop of matted yellow hair that if given a proper washing would shine like threaded gold. Peering through the filthy locks were a pair of perpetually wide eyes the color of mud. Freckles speckled his deeply tanned skin, spattered across his cheeks and arms. The older boys -- and some girls, too -- liked to shove him around, or pull his hair and race away, shrieking in disgust, feign retching and trying to wipe the invisible grime onto one another. He retaliated by pummeling the bigger boys with feeble fists and spewing an onslaught of swears and rude gestures he picked up from his father, though he only had a vague idea of what half of them meant.

The other children were stupid, anyways. They didn’t know how to fish, or build a raft, or hunt for duck eggs, or skin a rabbit, or row a boat, or tell the difference between sassafras and saw palmetto. Why would he want to be friends with people like that?

But most just stayed away from him . . . and whatever they thought lurked in the Wihrmirgrand.

The theories varied. Many speculated that some kind of monster skulked in the swamp. Others thought it cursed. Only one thing was certain: those who wandered unwelcome into the heart of the Wirhmirgrand were often never seen again.

More stupid stories. He explored the swamp every day and never got lost. He never saw any people, either. Well, not really. Sometimes, during sleepless nights, peering through the grimy glass of his window, he saw shifting lights deep in the thicket. They were always too far and faint to count. Why anyone would brave the swamp that late, he had no idea. At least they had the sense to bring lanterns with them, he supposed. When he asked Father about it, he was answered with a silent shrug.

“Might be trappers like us,” he surmised. “Or just local fisherman lookin’ to get an early start.”

Stig kept that in mind, even if it didn’t make a lot of sense.

He woke up with an unusual eagerness to start the day. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he plunged his hands underneath his pillow, a familiar thrill shooting down his spine as he produced a little leather bag, cinched tight to secure his prize. Normally the early venture to the farming town filled him with dread, but not today; today, he was excited.

Stig dressed in a hurry, stripping off his nightclothes and wriggling into a pair of grimy overalls over an unwashed shirt and fresh britches. He stuffs everything into a basket into the corner of his tiny room, bare save for his bed and dresser, then crams his feet into his boots and races to the kitchen. The harsh thuds of his footfalls thunder throughout the empty house. He eats a quick meal of hot oats for breakfast in oppressive silence. The lonesome plate across from him filled the absence of his father, already out fishing. The grey-blue light of early dawn plunged the house in ominous shadow. Fog billowed outside, blanketing the water in an opaque sheet so thick he could barely see a couple feet past the edge of the deck outside. The thought of rowing through it made Stig shiver. He rummaged through the pantry and stuffed a fistful of jerky into the front pocket of his overalls, next to the little leather bag. He patted it and smiled to himself, then snatched his hat hanging on the back of the door and pulled it over his mussy hair.

Loading the little raft docked to the porch took some time. Despite being old and battered, it was reliable and had served them well for several years. He had helped his father build it, fastening tapered planks of wood and reeds to the framework. To this day, it was his pride and joy. He noted the absence of their little fishing boat and thought of Father, brooding out on the water somewhere like the very air gave him cause to sulk.

Stig lugged several bags laden with fruit, pelts, game, and plants as carefully as he could, though their weight put uncomfortable strain on his arms. When he was done he climbed on carefully, ensuring the weight was evenly distributed before lowering himself inside. Then he was off, dipping his paddle tentatively into the water as he slowly propelled away from the dock, drifting northward towards the Tielogiou. Through the brume the house looked like an eerie, ancient thing. A canopy of mist served as a ghostly cowl to shroud the slate-top roof. The grimy windows were dark, menacing eyes, and the beams that supported the house on a raised platform made it seem like the beginnings of a gaping maw, waiting to lurch from the surface and swallow him whole. It looked like a home to house some haunting thing. Soon it was lost behind him, swallowed in the fog.

The wet season was miserable. Travel became brutal, struggling against harsh barrages of ruthless storms. But it made boat travel easy and paramount. Stig liked boating better than trudging through miles of bog anyway, even if the fog made everything damp and cold. Dew beaded on his skin and soaked his hair in slick tendrils plastered to his brow. Water rippled out from the raft, wrinkling the glassy surface of the pond. Soughing pines bristled in his wake, piercing the sky like a phalanx of Wihmirgrand sentinels.

The swamp didn’t scare him -- but sometimes he swore it could have been watching him. Passing judgment as he lived day by day, scrutinizing for visible offense. Certainly, on days like this, he could feel it probing him for faults, as if encouraging him to . . . what? Stig was never sure, could never put it into words if he tried. But he kept an active eye, scanning the waterfront for this elusive, ineffable so-and-so that set his teeth on edge.

At daybreak, the last of the evening gloom dissipated in a wash of muted pink and yellow. For a moment, the contrast only made the woods seem all the darker and foreboding -- then the daylight penetrated through the dense forest and Stig’s heart lightened as the color came back in a rush of radiant evergreen. Pine tinged the air, sharp and clean, cleansing his nose of the stinging smell of brine. Sunlight warmed his skin and dried his hair to its usual matted mess.

The Tielogiou branched off, forcing him to veer right towards the town. He went left once out of curiosity and found himself back in the thick of the Whihrmirgrand. Had he decided to venture deeper rather than turning back, he feared he might have gotten lost.

Little cottages festooned the riverbank, visible in a clearing through the trees. Beyond that, lush farming fields stretched on for acres, yielding rice and sweet roots and fresh herbs. Cattle pens dotted the verdant lea like square patches on a grassy green quilt.

Stig docked his raft and unloaded his goods. First he sold the game to the butcher, then traded the pelts for a heavy sheet of tarred canvas and half a gallon of lamp oil -- the canvas to keep water out of their boats during the stormy season, the oil because they were running low at home. He strolled through the farmers market, vending the fresh berries and herbs. One woman traded him a fresh loaf of bread for a basket of wild blueberries. The rest of his earnings he slipped into a small coin purse hidden in the torso of his overalls, stitched into the fabric inside of his front pocket.

Stig bundled the bread and the bottle of oil in the new tarp and tucked it under his arm, gnawing on a piece of jerky as he strolled to the potters shop. Upon entering he was immediately struck with the earthy stench of wet mud.

The woman hunched at the pottery wheel raised her watery eyes and beamed. Her skin was the color of baked clay. Wrinkles lined her forehead and the edges of her eyes and mouth, a testament to a lifetime of smiling and laughter. Her thick black hair hung over her shoulder in a sleek braid. Thin, masterful fingers continued molding the lump of clay at the wheel, slowly shaping it to a new purpose.

“Welcome, Little Duck.”

Stig felt his ears burn at the nickname, quickly swallowing the last morsels of jerky and returning her smile.

“Do you have new gifts for me today?” she asked fondly.

He nodded eagerly, producing the leather drawstring bag from his front pocket. She liked the odd treasures he brought her from the swamp, rewarding his curiosity with little luxuries he couldn’t get living in the Wihrmirgrand. In the past he’s traded bundles of colorful feathers for a beaded bracelet, a bouquet of wildflowers for sweets, and once he got a small ceramic drinking cup for offering an empty turtle shell he found.

She rinsed the clay from her hands in a bucket of fresh water, accepting his gift with gentle hands. Pride swelled in his chest as he watched her pull the bag open and peer inside.

Stig had found them near a pond while he was out foraging before the first week of storms, when the water was still low. Birdsong chimed through the trees and bugs swarmed around his head, buzzing in the balmy air. Soft mud squelched between his toes as he crouched in the bushes, stuffing his small wicker basket with blackberries beside various herbs and roots, wary not to prick his fingers. He had taken a moment to rest before trekking back home, creeping close to the shore to search for skipping stones. Sinking his fingers in the cool mire, he grabbed a fat rock and sent it sailing into the still water with a satisfying splunk.

Digging for more, he found a small stone unlike any he had seen before -- not that it was anything special to look at, but the peculiar shape caught his eye. It was a dull, off-white color and fit in the palm of his hand, longer than it was round with two knobbed edges. He hesitated to throw it in the water and pocketed it instead. It wasn’t long before he found another one, and another, until he had five total.

The potter blinked, perplexed. Stig watched as her dark eyes widened in mounting horror. She dropped the pouch with a shriek, sending his stones scattering across the wooden floor. Stig dropped to his knees and quickly scooped them into his hands.

"Out!" she cried, thrusting a shaking finger at the door. "Leave!"

Panicked, Stig grabbed his belongings and sprinted out the door. He ran until he reached the docks, loosing his raft and paddling like his life depended on it, the potter's scathing words echoing over his shoulder. Out, out, out . . .