Editor’s note: The presence of nature spirits and of a natural cure in this tale grabbed my attention, as did the ending that left me pondering the protagonist’s future. Living on the edge of a bustling village, made so by a crossroad for travelers, lived a wise woman. She always offered her services for a fair fee, and it was because of this transient population that few bothered to give a thought to the life story of an old woman, let alone specifics such as her age or occupation. Until one day, when a boy of around 11 or 13 did notice, in the way that children do. He asked around about her in an innocent manner, but none could give an answer. He thought to ask the wise woman directly, but when he mentioned it to his ma, he felt his ear being clipped by the back of her hand, and so he thought better of it. Instead, he began to follow the wise old woman around like a shadow as she went about her business—in the village at first, and then, growing bolder, he began to follow her on gatherings within the woods. On this particular day the village was full of activity as preparations unfolded, revealing the scene that would burgeon into the Summer Solstice Festival that evening. Seeing the hustle and bustle, Ash gave a good-natured grin, his spirits high as he made his way towards the home of Hylde. He almost missed her leaving and quickened his step, as the old woman set a good pace. Into the mountains she went, a bird on her shoulder and her gathering bag swinging against her thigh. He followed along until midmorning, when the old woman disappeared behind a boulder. Ash searched for a way to find her while the sun rose; then, discovering a crevice hidden behind a large rock, he edged his way through, emerging into a sparsely covered area with a lake at its centre. The lake itself was a wonder, with luminescent lime green shining from its surface. Ash spotted Hylde making her way to the other side of the lake, gathering peach blooms as she went. Judging the distance and the light cover, Ash moved towards the lake. Kneeling at the water’s edge he skimmed his hand across the surface, able to see now how algae made the lake glisten. He turned his hand this way and that, examining it before having his attention was diverted to the sound of a violin playing. Ash looked up. A shadow had begun to fall across him, and the sun was obscured from its path. But Ash no longer noticed, nor did he hear the pleas from Hylde, who had stopped gathering blooms and had begun hurrying to reach the boy, stumbling on the smooth rocks in her haste, skirts giving hindrance in the bustling motion. Flying ahead, the small feathered companion of Hylde darted quickly to the dreaded water spirit Nokken, who, intent on the boy, continued to play his tune. Hylde’s bird dashed and darted in front of the water monster, but to no avail, as he was sent sprawling through the air by a gust of wind escaping from the Nokken, who was annoyed by the interference. Hylde’s screams penetrated the air. Meanwhile, Ash had risen from his place beside the lake, walking slowly, entranced by the violin into the luminescent water. From Hylde’s vantage point, she saw the two, boy and monster, moving ever closer to one another, and she searched frantically about herself for something to use against the Nokken; there was nothing. In desperation she called out: “Nykr! Nykr!” she bellowed. “Leave the boy alone. He knew not to enter the waters. It was a mistake,” she screamed, desperate. “You know the price, Huldra. You should not have bought him here. How long have you been sneaking here? Too long, but still the same as when I saw you last. Your husband remains uncured, I see. Annoying choice, a bird really. Huldra, couldn’t you have transformed him into something a little grander to keep his life unspent?” “Nykr. The boy wandered here by accident, a shadow he has been to me. I thought I had lost him today,” she said. “I am hungry, Huldra. I may have spared your husband’s life when last we met, but this boy is nothing, he is not one of us.” Hylde remembered back to a time when she was known as Huldra the forest spirit. Her marriage to a human was to have been the start of a new life, but it had been short lived when they had happened upon the Nokken, Nykr. Hylde’s now-recovered bird swooped again and again at the Nokken who fended the bird off, swinging bow and instrument about. The pause in music broke the trance Ash had been under long enough for him to run to shore. Falling to the ground with exhaustion, he lost consciousness. In an instant, Nokken submerged, his prey lost to the Huldra. Hylde quickly went about stripping the wet clothes from the boy and laid the blooms she had gathered at several points along his limp body. As the color drained from the flowers, the blue tinge that had spread across Ash’s skin abated, and his natural color returned. When his eyes opened, they looked directly into the blue eyes of Hylde, which were bordered by the creases of age. “It's your lucky day Ash, for on any other day, before or after Summer Solstice, these blooms would be near useless for gathering—one of the shortest windows for gathering I know of, and I know many.” “The blooms have many uses,” she continued, “but most especially, they draw the poison of the lake's algae from the blood streams of unsuspecting adventurers, such as yourself. Mind you, most will not know this, even if they make it back to shore.” She shook her head sadly. “Unlike you, of course, most will spend time being digested in the belly of the Nokken, but those that do find the shore again will usually be drawn into a deep sleep and be eaten slowly alive by the creepy crawlies.” Hylde had said her piece, and before Ash could reply, she motioned for him to follow her. And he did, as all shadows do. Ellie A. lives and works nestled between the Tarkine Forest and Cradle Mt National Park. She is published in books, ezines, magazines and anthologies across genres. She likes forests and old buildings and strangely trains. The image of a nokken is by Theodor Kittelsen

Editor’s note: The sweet simplicity of this story is a delight. It really could be a fable from thousands of years ago. Very satisfying If you could live at any time in any place, I would strongly urge you not to choose eleventh century Japan. It was a time of terror and turmoil; a place ravaged by wars, plagues, and disasters. In a tiny village in the foothills of Mount Fuji, a youth anxiously tended his sick mother. His name was Yosoji, but we’ll call him Yoshi as that sits more comfortably on the Western tongue. The scourge of smallpox was the latest and worst plague to visit Japan. There was hardly a household in the land that had escaped the deadly grip of this disease. More tears were shed, more incense burned, more desperate offerings made at shrines and temples throughout the land than ever before. As his mother slid closer to death, Yoshi decided to consult a fortune-teller, since all other options had been exhausted. The fortune-teller was firm and clear in his advice. “You must muster all your strength and courage, but there is a cure for your mother if you are brave enough to fetch it. In a dangerous place, half a day’s journey from here, a stream flows down from Mount Fuji whose water is said to cure all ills. “You will need to take care as the forested areas you will pass through are full of dangers; of wild animals and demons, as well as men who would kill you for the robe you have on your back.” Bowing in thanks, Yoshi returned home to make his mother comfortable before setting out on the journey described to him by the fortune-teller. The uphill way was rough and rocky, but Yoshi strode out, brimming with a joy born of hope. Eventually, he came to a point where the path divided into three. Uncertain which path to take, he looked each way, straining his eyes to catch a glimpse of the healing stream. Out of a white mist, a young woman appeared before him. Dressed all in white, with shimmering crystals in her hair, she was the most beautiful woman Yoshi had ever seen. She greeted him in a voice that rang out with the silvery sound of birdsong. Yoshi was surprised to learn she knew why he was there. Indeed, she seemed to know everything about him, and she offered to be his guide. “You are a good son, she told him. Your filial piety will earn you the reward you seek, so I will take you to the stream. Its healing waters will certainly cure your mother.” Gratefully, Yoshi followed her lead. Before long, they reached a stream that rushed down the side of the sacred mountain. It was as pure as it could be, with every pebble on the bed of the stream clearly visible. The woman urged him to fill his gourd and return quickly to his mother so that she could drink her fill. “Drink some yourself also,” she told him. “That way you will protect yourself from the illness. You will need to be in good health to look after your mother. Meet me here again after three days.” After she’d guided him back to the three paths, Yoshi asked to whom he was indebted. “I cannot tell, nor should you ask,” she replied firmly. He thanked her, bowed low and quickly took his leave. Arriving home that evening, Yoshi found his mother’s condition had worsened, but he helped her to drink the water from the mystic stream. The next day she was much better. Yoshi gave her some more water at intervals throughout the next two days. On the third day, he set off again to find his guide already waiting for him at the junction of the three paths. Again, Yoshi filled his gourd, taking enough of the magical water to share with all the stricken villagers at home. Five times Yoshi made the journey to and from the stream, aided each time by the mysterious, white-robed woman. By this time, not only had his mother made a full recovery, but all the people in his village were well again. Yoshi was hailed as a hero. The fortune-teller whom he’d consulted in the first instance also came in for lavish praise. People took him gifts of rice and steamed dumplings as an expression of their gratitude. Amidst all this adulation, Yoshi alone was uneasy. The person most deserving of their gratitude was the beautiful woman in white who had guided him to the healing stream. He felt he should visit her once more in order to thank her properly. He looked around for a suitable gift for her. His eyes lit on a wild bush whose pure white flowers were the closest in purity to the exquisite beauty of his guide. Snatching a branch, he determined to take it to her. As he made this final journey on his own, Yoshi was nervous. His youthful courage had deserted him. The pine forests were oppressive, closing in on him. The previously benign mass of Mount Fuji took on the shape of thunder, the color of war. Reaching the stream, Yoshi found it had dried up. The pebbles that had shone up from its depths were now covered with rotting weed that emitted an unpleasant odor. Kneeling, Yoshi willed his guide to reveal herself to him. Suddenly and silently, she appeared before him. Yoshi held out the floral gift he had brought her. Once again, he asked her to tell him who she was. But in a flash of intuition he knew – she was the White Goddess who served the sacred mountain. She accepted the branch graciously but told him gravely he must not return now the stream was dry and no longer needed. Raising the branch above her head, she threw it as far as she could. Where it landed, it immediately took root and grew into a beautiful, white-flowered tree even as Yoshi watched. A white cloud descended, enveloping the goddess. Yoshi’s yearning gaze followed her, but he never saw her again. It is said that dew from the leaves of Yoshi’s tree can cure all ailments. Even today, people travel from miles around to stand under the tree and test its healing powers. Most of these people have forgotten who Yoshi was, but I don’t think we should. You never know when we might need to seek the help of the healing waters. Mary Cook is a UK-based writer whose articles, short stories and poems have appeared in numerous publications, both in print and online. She has contributed to many anthologies, including the To Japan with Love series and has worked as an overseas correspondent for the Tokyo-based Hiragana Times.

Editor’s note: Food and spells. Food as spells. Completely irresistible and so we didn’t resist it! Brittany and Sara are scholar poets who are also terrific teachers of folklore and writing. Learn more about their latest writing course here. But before that, enjoy this delightful poem. There are spells of cast iron we know with lines that echo, soft and low, in our minds, in our hearts, that help us not to fall apart. The simplest one is easy to make, soothing to mix, cleansing to bake, a bit of milk, vanilla flower, cinnamon for spice and power. The brightest pumpkin from your path, a few quick tears and buried wrath, a circle of protective salt, the knowledge that it's not your fault. We sugar the spell a bit too sweet, get distracted, drag our feet, But it comes together, nonetheless, this easeful comfort we possess. And when the world is just too much, we let our lips this hearth spell touch - and in that act of letting go, our next right steps begin to glow. Dr. Sara Cleto and Dr. Brittany Warman are award-winning folklorists, teachers, and writers. Together, they founded The Carterhaugh School of Folklore and the Fantastic, teaching creative souls how to re-enchant their lives through folklore and fairy tales. Their fiction and poetry can be found in Enchanted Living, Uncanny Magazine, Apex Magazine, Liminality, and others.