The 7 Consequences

The ice-ringed moon cast a terrible light, illuminating the perfectly smooth skin of where a face should have been. Gunnar pulled his little sister, Sigrún, back, away from the window. The monster they had named the Flower Girl had no face, no eyes, not ears or a nose, but somehow she had no trouble finding the kids in the village, no matter how dark the night turned. The inky nights were worse in fact because she could still find them but they could not see her coming. She moved silently with no mouth to utter a warning breath and green-stalked feet, too kindred with the crisp grass to raise even faint alarm.

Gunnar had marked where the monster’s path led before he had joined his sister, cowering beneath a sturdy oak table. There was some selfish relief that it wasn’t towards their small cottage. The girl with no face, no taller than Sigrún, and the obscenely pretty petals that severed as her mane, had been walking, sure and constant, to the cottage where Brita and Einar were similarly hiding. Gunnar wanted to look, to bear witness to the fate of his friends, but he did not want fate to catch him spectating and turn the monster on them instead.

The muted sound of crumbling wood was followed by a shattering scream. Gunnar held Sigrún tight, knowing with too much certainty that it could have easily been her screaming for her life, that it might well be her when the next moon brought it’s bale; happy only that they had been spared another night.

Gunnar was barely showing manhood at the age of 10, but he felt aged and drawn beyond his years. This horror had seemed to stretch for too many nights, nights beyond count. They had all been warped beyond their years- Gunnar and all the children in their village had lost their childhoods on the day they lost their parents.

It had always been accepted that Elves occupied the hidden and wild places all around them. It was a game that children learned from their parents- to bring a little offering, to say some well meant words of thanks for the safe birth of a babe or a storm blowing away south, and to walk carefully so as not to disturb those fickle Fey. And because it was a game, there were kids who didn’t take it seriously. The fantasy of cute, helpful folk hiding in the woods was, for some brash kids, a chance to prove their pluck. There had been such a boy, a star of the village, named Baldur. Brawny and beautiful, he saw himself as the hero reborn, and he had a girl in the village who he professed was his Nanna, the legendary love of his namesake. One sunny morning he decided to prove his love for this fair girl. He strode boldly into the coiled and looming woods, on a path leading to the venerable glade where it was said a fairy princess had spilled blood. The splash of her ethereal blood had ruptured the ground with spring shoots, bonneted with ichor-dipped petals.

Baldur’s quest was unknown to the adults of the village, but the kids had stood huddled with whispered words, waiting for the brave boy’s return and fearing, in their tender imaginations, that he may not. When he finally marched forth from the verdant shadows, cocksure as ever, the cheers and whoops elevated him even higher. His Nanna blushed, red as the enchanted flowers that he presented, and all the kids, seeing that their champion had suffered no ill, lost faith in Elves.

The new born hero did not hold this honor beyond the next day. In the raw morning light, news spread in gasps and murmurs that Baldur was missing from his bed. He was a favored son in the community, his mother and father leaders during both peace and conflict. They raised the other adults, every man and women above a certain age, to brandish iron and follow them into the woods to find their cherished son. Not a one of them returned to their warm hearths and waiting families.

A pounding on the door set Sigrún whimpering, but Gunnar was too worn to worry.

“The Flower Girl don’t knock,” he said, as much for his own sake as for Sigrún. He gave his sister a reassuring squeeze, then pried himself from her and moved soft and quick to the door. The moment the bar finished sliding out of place, the heavy wood heaved against Gunnar. Before he could push back, Brita slipped through the cracked entry and slammed the door back in place for him. Only after the girl, younger even than Sigrún, had rammed the bar back into place, did she let herself mind anything else. She turned to see Sigrún and Gunnar staring at her in amazement. They had both been sure that the scream they had heard had meant her loamy end.

Brita knew why they stared. She had stared at other survivors the same way, if you could call it survival to escape death for one more day. There were words she wanted to speak, to tell them what they must already assume, but it was a dreadful admission.

“She got Einar. He stood for me, gave me time-”

The siblings could see the horror playing back in Brita’s eyes. She didn’t have to say more, but she made herself speak, to honor her brother’s heroic end.

“He attacked the Flower Girl with our father’s spear. I ran. I wasn’t supposed to look back, but I did. I saw him-”

The sorrow of the moment overwhelmed her. Gunnar led the rattling wisp of girl to sit beside Sigrún. He sat on the other side and they held her and grieved with her until the vain spears of morning’s first light lanced in through the window.

When the adults first failed to return, the kids, being accustomed to the necessities of a household, had tried to continue on without them. Most held hope that their parents would return before too long. Days passed with no sign, good or ill. A number of the older kids, those who had been friends of bright Balder, made plans to go south to the next village. They left, promising to send help. It was only a day of steady walking to reach Húsavík, but days went by and no one came for them. The clawing woods stood sentinel around them, swallowing anyone that entered, swallowing their hope.

A steady, numb sort of normal fell on the kids. They tended the animals, foraged food and found fun where they could. The older kids became surrogate caretakers for the younger ones. It was hard, but there was enough sea-battered Dane blood in their veins to bear hardship. And so it was surreal when, on a peaceful night, someone finally exited the forest.

The kids of the village had all gathered around, thinking at last they might find some joy. They marveled at this person, beautiful and strange. She looked like any of the girls standing round, except she had no face, just smooth, fresh skin, and instead of hair, velvet petals cascaded down her neck, wrapping her shoulders in their florid finery. Beneath her clothes, which were fine but not strange in their land, there seemed to be a shifting and straining as though snakes were sliding under the cloth. Her hands were normal hands, soft and gentle. In one, she held a single flower, as carnelian red as the flowers Balder had lamentably carried from the forest. The only aspect of this creature that was wholly inhuman were her feet. They branched from beneath her well-embroidered skirt like hale saplings; taloned twigs serving as toes.

The Flower Girl’s glossy smooth skin and vivid coloration stood out in the dark of twilight. The kids, with their wonder and need for hope, tried to talk to the strange plant girl. They smiled and waved shyly and some of the younger kids wanted to reach out and touch her fine hem and her intriguing mane of blossoms. The Flower Girl looked around her, as much as one can with no eyes, at the gawking kids. Her focus fixed on one girl, little Sóley. She faced Sóley and held out her hand, offering the girl the remarkable flower.

“For me?” Sóley had asked sweetly. Then she reached out and took the flower gently from the fay creature.

Holding the slim green stem with its ichor-dipped petals, Sóley began to giggle. “It tickles.” But then her snickering choked off. A terror seeped into her bright blue eyes, though her lips stayed locked. All the kids who had been sharing in her joy now stared at her in fear and confusion.

It started at her fingertips, where she held the savage flower. The skin grew dark and rough, crumbling away as if it were reduced to dirt. Sóley stumbled and her friends tried to hold her up. In their arms, the metamorphosis continued, spreading from her fingers and hand, tearing and warping her body in silent convulsions until her friends lurched away from a shower of russet soil. The only proof of little Sóley’s life was her stained smock sprouting from the fresh earth.

It would be hard to say who screamed first, but soon every kid, filled with a horror unimaginable, was screaming and running for the perceived safety of their homes and their firm wooden doors. They did not have faculty to notice, but the Flower Girl knelt by the new pile of dirt, patted it smooth, then departed, unhurried, back into the cruel forest.

In the light of another morning, the remaining children of the village gathered as they did every morning. Gunnar led Sigrún and Brita, both with red-stained eyes and persistent sniffles. Gathering was always a grim remainder of how few were left, and one less than the day before.

“So Einar’s dirt then,” said a goggle-eyed boy with spiky blond hair. “Well, it’s like old Hlynur Trollfoot used to say: An enemy left alive is an enemy for life. We shoulda tried harder to kill that monstrosity when we had the chance.”

Sigrún wrapped her arms around Brita as tears sprang anew.

“Shut up, Jónas. Einar protected Brita- he died a warrior.” Gunnar scowled around at the crowd of forlorn-faced kids, looking for any objection.

“Fine. They’ll be toasting him in Valhalla or whatever,” said Jónas, tempting Gunnar’s ire. “Einar was tough though, and now he’s dead. The smart kids went south. They’re probably eating hot stews and sleeping through the night, while we don’t dare peek out our windows after the sun sets, ’cause it might bring the Flower Girl to our house, and if not, then to one of our friends. Either way, someone ends up as dirt.”

“We’re not going in the woods,” growled Gunnar. He had been having this argument with Jónas for days. Gunnar was sure those kids who had gone south had never made it, and instead of hot stew, were probably gnawing cold fish heads in Helheim.

“What do we do?” asked Brita, trying to form the words between sobs. The question was repeated by several of the more vocal kids.

Gunnar looked around at the adolescent assembly. Eleven boys remained, none older than himself. The only two girls remaining were huddled together: Brita and Sigrún. He had an itch of a thought and he could see all the desperate eyes looking at him for some answer that should have been the burden of an adult. But the adults had not had the answer. They had acted rashly and not returned. What hope was there for a boy? when all the adults had failed.

There was the itch though. Gunnar knew that there were painful thoughts behind that itch, but also perhaps an answer. He let memories spill in, nights of horror, but somewhere in that nightmare was something important.

“Flower Girl hasn’t gone to your house, Jónas. Right?”

“I’m standing here aren’t I?”

“This is serious,” Gunnar snapped.

“Fine. No, she hasn’t. So what?” There was a defensiveness in Jónas’s tone as though he were being accused of something.

“Right,” said Gunner, ignoring Jónas’s rancor. “The first person she- gave a flower to was Sóley-”

“We know, we all saw it.” Jónas had been fond of Sóley. Since her death, he would grow agitated at any mention of her name.

Gunnar continued, trying to ignore him. “Remember, the next night she went to Selma and Rut’s house. Both are- gone now.”

“Two more dirt piles. We know-”

“Shut up Jónas,” Gunnar had to say for the second time. “I’m making a point that you’re too gummed up your ass to see. The Flower Girl only goes after girls.”

“That’s bullocks.” Jónas seemed intent on being contrary. “Einar just bit it, not whiny Brita.”

“Hey!”

Gunnar stifled Sigrún’s protest. “Einar was protecting Brita, otherwise it would have been her. The Flower Girl hasn’t gone to any house without a girl. And now we only have two left.”

“Perfect,” said Jónas with a smile. “You’re saying we’re all safe, it’s just those two what has to worry. I’m gonna go home then, and find something to eat.”

The crowd of kids watched in disbelief as Jónas left them. Such callousness was frightening for kids who sought to be protected by the older boys like Gunnar and Jónas.

Gunnar had to get over his shock and refocus the kids. He had a plan, but he had to get them moving before any more deserted. He knew how tempting it would be for the boys to feel relief that they weren’t in danger and abandon his sister to a terrible fate.

“Fuck that kid.” That got their attention. “This is actually really good news.”

The mumbling, grumbling dissent made Gunnar hurry to recapture their loyalty.

“Listen! It means we only have to protect two people, not all thirteen of us.”

With Jónas gone there weren’t any outspoken opponents, but little Matthías timidly raised his hand to speak. “We tried fighting. We tried using our parents’ iron on the Flower Girl.”

Matthías was talking about the second night the Flower Girl had come to their village. For much of that day, kids had stood around Sóley’s resting place, chief among them Jónas. They had looked, unbelieving, at the pile of dirt that had sprouted small flowers into the inviting glow of morning sun. No one dared touch the blooms.

Sóley’s death had been a fresh tear in their already lacerated hearts. Most of the kids found comfort in doing their chores and trying to return to the strange normal they’d fallen in to. But as dusk drew near, a tension, evident in their strained young bodies, culminated until all the kids retreated to their homes with the doors bared shut.

The Flower Girl came when dark had settled, walking as carefree as a girl in a humming spring meadow. She held a fresh flower in each hand. Those bright petals that had seemed dipped in crushed carnelian were now clearly stained with the stolen lifeblood of their friend. The monster in her embroidered skirt walked unerringly to the door that sheltered Selma and Rut. The heavy wood seemed so staunch compared to the fragile faceless girl. Wide eyes peered from every window to see what would happen. Surly the unyielding gate would safeguard the girls inside.

A quiet took hold of the village as the Flower Girl stood pondering the oaken obstruction. She cocked her head to the side, flowery tresses bouncing, as if pondering a thing she’d never seen before. She placed her featureless face against the rings and knots, as if whispering to a lover. And her words of love must have stirred the wood because, to the terror of all those peering eyes, the wood seemed to melt, falling away, leaving a wide open portal into which the Flower Girl stepped. A pair of screams ripped away the silence.

The Dane blood was stirred by those screams. Boys forced down their terror and picked up their parents’ iron. Some bore swords and spears, others hoes and sickles, anything that would kill a man when swung with deadly intent. They flew from every household, converging on the Flower Girl as she egressed, oblivious of the rage she’d incited.

She made no effort to defend herself. Small furious arms stabbed and chopped. They vented all their fear and uncertainty into that small, pretty girl. The blades and razor points seemed to pierce and cut through flesh, leaving satisfying rips and gashes in the smooth skin. But the Flower Girl didn’t falter, and instead of emboldening blood, some green, foaming, noxious poison leaked from the wounds.

The boys fell back from the acrid fumes that clawed at their windpipes, making them choke and spume. Weapons were forgotten, a coward’s gift to the battlefield, they fled back to their homes. The Flower Girl had walked, as unaffected as always, back into the woods, leaving a trail of vitreous green following her into the yawning black.

In the circle of forlorn youth, yearning eyes looked to Gunnar, hoping more answers would come. He knew Matthías was right, fighting seemed sure to fail again. Fleeing was no option either- the starving woods were only too eager to welcome them.

“We’re not going to fight. We’re going to hide them.”

Matthías, having taken over as prime dissenter, said, “She always finds us. She don’t have eyes, or nose, or even ears, but she knows exactly where we are every time.”

“I know,” said Gunnar. He’d argued this same thing in his head. “She is a plant, a fay creature from the woods. She knows the grass and dirt and trees. It’s no wonder she can find us in homes made from those same things. I say we make a hiding place of iron and stone- things she doesn’t know. And maybe they won’t reveal their secrets to her.”

Matthías and several others looked around their simple village. There was stone, and some implements of iron, but the houses were primarily weathered, mossy birch with loamy turf roofs.

“There is scarce rock and less iron, and the Flower Girl will return tonight, as she has every night,” said Matthías. “We don’t have the time we’d need or the supplies.”

“He’s right,” piped in Sigrún. “I know you’re trying to protect us, Gun, but how’re we to do it?”

Gunnar had been nodding, accepting these concerns, and then turned to a young lad wearing a heavy apron that looked ridiculously large on him.

“Pétur, you’ve been keeping the forge fire going, yes?”

Pétur was the shy son of the village blacksmith. His mother had been dead since his birth, the one causing the other. His sensitive nature and unfortunate circumstance had left him nervous around others, except his father, whom he had helped run the forge since the day he could pump a bellows. His eyes had been hollow before the adults had disappeared, and the loss of his father had furthered his transformation into something more specter than boy. But he had never been unkind to anyone, a credit that few can claim.

When Pétur had worked up his courage to answer, he spoke with gaze averted and with a heavy tongue from disuse. “Ye- yes. I kept the fire going for when my da comes back. But- uh, I don’t think any of us has strength enough to lift his hammer if- if you were planning to make something…”

“That’s fine,” said Gunnar. “What I’m wondering is how long does it take to cool the forge once the fire is out?”

Pétur looked at Gunnar as if he’d asked the boy to pull out his own fingernails. “I- uh- We mustn’t. My da would be right upset.”

Gunnar knew the fragility of the boy, but time was short. “Your da will understand, Pétur. He would want Sigrún and Brita to be safe, wouldn’t he?”

Pétur allowed his narrow neck the smallest nod.

Gunnar looked around at the assembled kids. “Listen, all of you. The forge is large, made of stone and has a strong iron door for when the fire is being preserved, as it is now. We don’t need to make anything. Pétur has the perfect hiding spot for our girls, if it can be cooled in time.”

There was a light of hope in the faces of the kids. And though Pétur looked like he was trying to swallow a lump of coal, he spoke with a little more confidence. “Could be done. Could be. We’d have to put the fire out right away. I once touched the stones an hour after the flames died and still got a mark.” He held up his left hand to show a dull pink welt. “But, we have some hours, so I- uh, I think we can do it.”

Gunnar had no experience with forges. They had proceeded to the smithy and he was readying a bucket full of water to dose the fire, but Pétur flung himself in the way to prevent it. In his over-sized apron and similarly large mitts, he explained that water in the forge could shatter the whole thing. To quell the flame quickly, he explained, you have to remove the coals. Gunnar bowed to his expertise and stepped aside. Pétur used his awkward mitts and a heavy shovel to laboriously spread the white seething coals safely on a bed of flat stones. With the fire out, they left the forge to cool.

That day seemed to wear on. The approach of night held both trepidation and excitement. Their plan’s failure would come with unthinkable consequences, but success would ignite a new hope.

Gunnar and Pétur checked the forge when the sun had reached its shallow zenith.

Gunnar yanked his smarting fingers back and stuck them in his mouth. “It’s still too hot, Pétur,” he said around his finger. “Can we poor water on it now that the coals are gone? If we don’t, it will still be too hot by nightfall.”

“No. No water. The stone can shatter if you cool it like that and- the steam. It’s not good.”

Gunnar knelt to capture Pétur’s hollow gaze. “We have to do something.” He had felt the strain of responsibility for a long time, but with a little hope in the air he felt it 1000 times more. “We’ve all lost, but I can’t lose Sigrún. Help me Pétur.”

Those deep-welled eyes seemed to be holding something back, but Gunnar’s plea brought it forth.

“Um, so- there is a way.” Gunnar’s entreating eyes kept him talking. “It’ll make my da furious. I’ll be cleaning it for a week, but mud from by the river can cool it down safely. We just need to bring a cart load of it here and stick it in the forge.”

Gunnar let out a whoop, wrapped Pétur in a quick hug, then ran out of the smithy to recruit some mud collectors.

The appeal of collecting mud enticed many volunteers. They marched down to the river behind Gunnar and a handcart, nattering and laughing, finding joy as only kids can.

The collection of mud took a while. More mud ended up on the kids than in the cart. But they were happy. They forgot their losses and mortal danger for an afternoon. Exhausted and caked with cracking brown earth, the kids trudged back to the village, grinning and flicking dry flakes of mud at each other. Gunner and Pétur were left to pack mud into the forge while the other kids went to relieve themselves of their earthen armor.

When the sun began to set on the only happy day in an age, Gunnar climbed into the forge to test its readiness.

“Close the door,” his muffled voice called to Pétur.

The iron rang its closing, and Gunnar was left with only a bare arc of light from where the door met the uneven stone. Without a stream of fresh air, it was still very warm, but tolerable. The walls were stained black with soot, the floor a slick mess of mud. It would not be clean, but Gunnar hoped it would save his sister’s life.

There was a quiet meal shared in the village commons. All the kids, except doubting Jónas, were in attendance. There was still an air of contentment from the day’s foolery, but with the waning light the tension returned.

“Are you sure?” Sigrún asked as Gunnar helped her into the forge. Brita had already climbed in wordlessly.

“I’m sure,” her brother answered, with a surety that he didn’t feel. As he closed the heavy iron, he knew that there would be no escape if the Flower Girl found them there. And if his sister died from his folly, there would be no reason for him to go on.

Gunnar stayed in the smithy, taking up a post with Pétur by the window. Pétur was warming to the company of others; his visage was a little less wraith-like. The Flower Girl was very punctual, and that night was no exception. The boys had a view of the path as it entered the forest. From those overhanging shadows she came, crimson blossomed mane bouncing with her jaunty steps.

Even from that distance, Gunnar could see that she held two flowers. His heart seized inside his chest, refusing to beat. She had come for both girls, surely she knew they were together. An urge flooded him to slam open the iron door and scream at them to run. But he dug his nails into the window sill and held himself there, debating if he could be as brave as Einar and give his own life to protect his sister.

The Flower Girl walked to the village commons and then did something they had never seen her do- she paused. Faceless, she turned every direction, but seemed unable to find what she was looking for. Gunnar wanted to shout his victory, but didn’t dare. The Flower Girl stayed for nearly an hour, turning slowly the whole time. There was no face to convey her confusion, but it was evident. The monster was as lost and confused as the little girl she appeared to be. Gunnar and Pétur and likely every other set of eyeballs stayed vigilant the whole time, watching until she stopped her turning. The Flower Girl knelt and stuck her two flowers, the sweet petals that had been meant to kill Brita and his sister, into the dirt of the commons, and then walked back into the umbral woods.

The girls slept in the forge that night, to be safe. There was a thrill of success but everyone was exhausted, and they finally felt like they could sleep.

The light of day brought celebration. They had won a victory over the fey- it was no mean feat. The kids prepared more food than they could afford and more than they could eat. Matthías produced some mead and several of the boys knew how to make merry music on flutes and drums and Brita had a hand for the lyre. There was talk that maybe the Flower Girl wouldn’t bother returning. Perhaps they were free from the nights of terror. Relief and joy filled their spirits, good food and mead filled their bellies. They were so content that it took Pétur’s timid warnings to make them realize that the day had rushed past them and the sun was nearly departed.

Gunnar shook his head, then shook Sigrún from a nap. He ushered the girls quickly to the smithy. The iron door was stiff in its bolts, the baked metal moved more naturally with a fire warming it. Gunnar wrenched it open and helped Sigrún climb in. Brita had neglected to set aside the lyre, and was having difficulty untangling herself from it’s shoulder strap in her panicked state. Gunnar came to her aid and then heaved her into the forge, ungentle in his haste. Brita’s ankle caught some edge of the metal door and left a smear of blood on the dark iron.

Gunnar shoved shut the heavy iron door and whispered, “Stay calm, stay quiet, and you’ll stay safe.” Then he and Pétur took up their post at the window. There was a chance that the Flower Girl wouldn’t return, but he would take no chance with his sister’s life.

The sun’s last rays burned through the sky and then twilight settled upon them. In the sudden dark Gunnar surveyed his village. It did not look like they were under attack. It looked very much like it always had, except for the rich beds of dirt scattered all over, flourishing with viperous red flowers, their faces as blank as the Flower Girl and just as deadly. The two boys kept their eyes locked on the forest shadows, but their ears gave them first warning. The insects’ gentle hum became a rush of sound, and then stopped abruptly as the Flower Girl came strolling out of the woods.

On her sapling legs she strolled again to the village common, to the very spot that only hours ago they had celebrated their victory over her. Gunnar saw that she had two fresh flowers, one for each girl. Somehow she knew they were still there, even if she couldn’t divine their location. But the stone and iron had defeated her once, he felt certain it would continue to do so.

A sprightly breeze tumbled through the village, plucking early-fallen leaves from their earth-bound existence, making wooden shudders creak. As the mischievous zephyr danced past the smithy and circled the perturbed fay creature, she seemed to hear some secret from the wind. She stopped her absent circling and faced the stout structure of the blacksmith.

Bile rose in Gunnar’s throat. It was clear that she knew. Somehow- had the wind truly betrayed them or was it- the blood. He knew it with a certainty as he looked at the ruddy smudge.

“She’s coming,” hissed Pétur, backing away from the window. “She’s coming!”

Gunnar moved slowly, fear and doubt each grabbing a leg, making him drag his feet as he moved to stand between the door and the forge. Then he stood there in tortuous silence. Pétur had hid in a tool cupboard. The girls were staying quiet, perhaps not even realizing what was going on. From the whirl of thoughts careening through his head, Gunnar snatched at one- he needed a weapon.

He forced his obdurate legs to move, slow steps over to the blacksmith’s hammer. Wrapping his small hands around the sweat-hard leather handle he tried to lift it. Pétur had been right, it was heavy. Gunnar strained to lift it, but it wouldn’t work, he didn’t have the strength to wield it.

A sound made him turn, a popping like that variety of black pods that violently eject their seeds on the hottest summer days. The sturdy door that would have stopped a raging bear fell like chaff to the Flower Girl. And there she stood, insufferable blank face, hands bearing those beautiful weapons of death. No matter how much Gunnar thought he should be protecting his sister, his feet had fused to their spots on the floor.

The Flower Girl walked unobstructed to the forge, still not sure what to make of this human contrivance. She set the fatal flowers on the cold anvil, then put her hands to the hard rock chimney. Gunnar tried to move, tried to call out, but fear held him captive. His mouth hung uselessly open. Whipping tendrils spread from her fingers, plunging into the stone, scattering white dust about the dim chamber. She jerked her hands back and cracked the forge like the shell of an egg, leaving two little chicks, exposed and helpless. They screamed.

The Flower Girl showed no sign of triumph or satisfaction. She simply picked her blossoms from the anvil and held them towards the huddled, screaming girls.

“Stop!” Gunnar briefly wondered if it was his voice that had finally broken out, but no. Pétur had come out of his closet and stood face-to-no-face with the Flower Girl.

She seemed to regard him for a moment. The room stood still except for dust filtering through beams of moonlight from the open doorway. Pétur’s hollow face stayed focused on the place where a face should have been, and it seemed as though there was some understanding between the two. But then the Flower Girl gave a slight shake of her head and turned serenely back towards the terror-filled girls.

She held out the flowers again, but before she could move closer, Pétur moved with impossible alacrity. He snatched both flowers from the monster’s hands. The Flower Girl whipped back to face him. It was the first time they’d seen her move with anything more than casual indifference. They all watched, kids and fay, as Pétur stumbled back. He tripped on his own feet and fell. Nothing but dirt hit the well worn floor boards, with a heavy apron covering the mound.

Gunnar turned back to the weighty hammer and pulled with grief and rage. He managed to heft it onto his shoulder, but when he turned to find his foe, the Flower Girl was gone. His sister and Brita still sat in the remnants of the forge, staring with tear-soaked eyes at the pile of fresh earth on the floor.

Only barely noticed by Gunnar, the room filled with kids as they left their homes to see what new tragedy the Flower Girl had wrought. Jónas was there, helping Brita and Sigrún from the rubble of shattered rock. Amazingly, the iron door still hung in place, supported by a straggle of surviving stone. Both girls had some minor scratches and purpling blushes of bruised skin, but Brita had a more substantial slash where a shard of rock had drawn a line across her forehead.

They all came to stand with Gunnar around the earthy remains. A second boy had sacrificed himself so Brita could live, and that burden was wracking her. She knelt, weeping over the incidental grave. The rich dirt stained with her tears and the blood dripping from her head. One crimson drop splashed on the red-stained petals- the mocking blossoms that had taken his life were already sprouted from the bed of their nasty work.

The flower seemed to drink in the globular essence, but instead of enriching its red blush it bleached the petals to a pale white, like faded bone. Jónas noticed first. He reached out for the flower. When the others saw his intent they cried out for him to stop, but it was too late. He plucked the potent bloom from the grave dirt and without hesitation held it to his nose and sniffed.

“It’s called Sea Mayweed,” said Jónas with a tinge of wonder. “My ma used to collect it for salving bruises and the like.”

He crushed the petals in his fingers and reached towards Sigrún’s purpled cheek. Gunnar grabbed his wrist with panicked strength.

“Are you mad?” he demanded. But all the kids could see that Jónas had not dissolved to dirt. The white flower was harmless.

“It was blood,” said Jónas. “The simple stuff of life is the weapon we’ve been looking for.”

He yanked his hand free of Gunnar’s grasp and left the smithy, the entire assembly of kids trailing behind. He led them to the patch of flowers that had been Sóley. Pulling a blade from his belt he drew it across his palm with a wince.

“Watch this,” he said to his audience, and let a few ruby drops splash onto the bitter blossoms. Instead of bleaching the petals white, they drank in his blood and grew darker- an ashy black spreading from petal to stem. The stems began to convulse and grow, black petals reached out like claws. The crowd of kids backed away as the distending flowers started belching black smoke. Jónas didn’t pull back his bloody hand fast enough and the smoke wrapped it in sinuous tendrils. He fell back, pulling his hand free from the smoke’s grasp. There were screams when the kids saw his hand, the boiled flesh, hanging loose, dripping yellow fluid.

Gunnar stepped in. The heavy hammer was still perched on his shoulder and with the fury of someone pushed so far beyond their limits, he brought the hammer down on the black stalks and taloned petals. Like one of those famed berserkers, a rage had seized him and he kept smashing the corrupted flowers until there was nothing left but a noxious paste ground into the earth.

Gunnar’s chest was heaving from his exertion and his arms ached. Jónas sat whimpering, nursing his ruined hand. The rest of the kids stood around in various degrees of shock and confusion as to what had just happened.

“Of course. Our blood is nothing to them. They just want the girls’ blood,” said Gunnar when he’d slowed his breathing. “Then they’ll have it. No more hiding.”

As the sun sank behind the wall of old, unforgiving trees, the village stood in quiet resolution. All the kids old enough to wield a weapon stood in the village commons in a line, even Jónas with his bandaged hand. Sigrún and Brita stood ahead of them, holding hands for courage, both looked ghostly pale in the failing light. They all stood as they had every night, eyes fixed on the spot where the road left the woods.

The unsettling smooth skin of her face was the first thing they could see as it bobbed through the shadows of the forest, reflecting the first beams of moonlight. She walked as always, with purpose, with no hesitation or consideration, singular in her mission. Again she had a flower for each girl. The urge to flee was felt by every kid, but the girls stood their ground so the boys did too. It was very reminiscent of that first night: the Flower Girl approached without any sign of malice or aggression. She would seem a marvel to anyone who didn’t know the horror wrought by her tokens.

The Flower Girl stood before Sigrún and Brita and raised both arms, offering each a flower. With tremors in their limbs, both girls reached up to accept. Gunnar couldn’t breath as he watched. Blood stained fingers plucked the fresh green stems from the Flower Girl’s delicate grasp. Some of the blood from Brita’s fingers rubbed off on the fay’s soft skin and the Flower Girl pulled back as if burned. A fierce confidence filled Gunnar when he saw- he knew he had been right.

The girls dropped the now pure white flowers to the ground, made tame by their loosed blood. They pulled blades from their belts and smeared blood from their hands where it still oozed from the cuts they’d made to their palms, along the hungry iron. The boys fanned out around the Flower Girl. Their blades were already wet with donated blood from the girls.

Each cut into the deceptively tough flesh made the Flower Girl writhe. Each deep piercing thrust, instead of drawing blood or the poisonous green fluid that had defeated them previously, turned flesh to withering white flakes, leaving gaping holes in the modest body. But it was all in silence except for the sounds of the kids’ exertions; she had no mouth to scream as her victims had.

The sun rose on a small village. A pile of kids, exhausted but victorious, rested near a pile of blood streaked iron blades. Further along, a mound of fresh dark earth sat strangely in the middle of the village common. From the fertile soil- the remains of their enemy- a small sapling was stretching its limbs towards the morning light. In years to come, when the sapling had matured into a sturdy wild cherry tree, it would drop white blossoms on the ground, like tears falling from an eyeless face.

Editor’s Note: Many in Iceland still respect the Fey- seeking their succor and eschewing their ire. To this day, in a small village near the northern shores, signs fervently warm the tourists: “Do NOT Pick the Flowers.”