Marmalade's Love Potion

This was not the way home.

Penelope frowned as the canopy above grew thicker and darker. Gnarled branches twisted overhead as the trail grew invisible. Soon the group was scrambling over snaking roots and rocky crevices, taking care not to crush glowing mushrooms underfoot, wary of poison.

“If I didn’t know any better,” Marmalade mused from the rear of the party, “I’d say we were in the Darkwood. But we shouldn’t have travelled near far enough north for that.”

“I’ve only been into deepest Darkwood a few times,” Steph panted. He seemed to be struggling the most out of all of them, tripping over roots while his clothes constantly snagged on thorny brambles. “But it definitely has the same... feeling.” Steph shuddered, his face looking pinched in the dim light.

“The forest feels sad here,” Penelope murmured, her voice quieted by the rising mist and sodden foliage. She stepped easily past roots as they shifted out of her path, thorns curling away before they could snag at hair and skin.

Steph moved to follow her, but slipped as the hood of his borrowed coat was caught on a spiny branch. Sister Rosin hoisted him upright, appraising for injury while Steph scowled at the trees.

Even Marmalade’s gaze was wary. “Penelope, the paths seem to be opening for you… where are they leading us, do you think?”

Penelope frowned. “I’m not sure. I’m just following the way as the path appears, the same as I always do. The path must have turned us all about, though I couldn't say why...”

“Hmmm.”

“Hold on, I’ll ask.”

“Ask?” Steph mumbled, as Penelope stepped up to a tree and placed her hand on the rough, tacky-looking bark. Penelope leaned closer.

“Be careful, Penelope, the sap of that tree is poisonous,” Marmalade said, stepping closer to her.

Penelope nodded, keeping her hands clear of the rivulets of glowing amber snaking down the cracked bark, and turned to whisper at the tree. “We seem to be a little bit lost. We need to get back to our cottage in the woods, do you think you can help us find our way home?”

Everyone flinched as the tree gave a keening cry, a mourning sound that rent Penelope’s heart with a grief so deep and ancient it was several moments before she could draw breath.

“The forest doesn’t want to let us go...” Marmalade murmured. “Never a good sign in the Darkwood.”

“Well, I for one have had enough of these creepy, thorny trees!” Sister Rosin shouted, drawing her blade and turning on the brambles now closing the path behind them.

“Sister Rosin, no! We just... If we just ask nicely... if we can give the forest a little of what it wants, we should be able to find our way through.” Penelope placed a hand over Sister Rosin’s arm, forcing her to lower the knife as the trees rustled menacingly around them.

“What does the forest want?” Steph asked, clearly disconcerted though trying not to show it. His face beaded with sweat as spiky branches pressed closer.

“Cut that out,” Penelope admonished the forest. “We don’t mean any harm, and Steph is my friend. We won’t cause any hurt, I promise.”

With an ominous creak the brambles and thorns eased slightly, allowing Steph room to move without catching on spines. He huffed in relief and stepped closer to Penelope.

“Thank you,” he whispered, gazing warily at the shadowed trees.

Marmalade cocked her head as though listening to something. Or feeling something. Penelope thought she could sense it, too. She could feel it in her marrow, the aching sadness of the forest around her. She could sense its yearning. A desperate pull towards something in the dark ahead.

Penelope shared a glance with the witch, feeling glum, though not afraid. The forest didn’t wish to harm her.

“I think we’ll need to follow the forest’s path to find out what it wants from us.” Penelope took a deep breath, then a step forward. As before, the underbrush and glowing fronds melted out of her way, and the others followed close behind as Penelope strode into the forest’s shadowed depths.

They continued walking in silence as the way grew darker still, lit only by the hazy luminescence of ferns, mushrooms, and quiet clouds of winking moonflies.

Penelope touched at boughs and vines as she passed, trying to impart warmth and comfort into the cold heart of the forest.

Fleeting silver lights flickered through the distant trees, accompanied by the barest whispers of choral song.

Penelope froze as a singing whisp—ferrifae—crossed the path ahead, but it paid them no heed as it disappeared behind a tree.

The atmosphere grew thicker, darker. The forest’s sorrow pooled like oil in her blood. She was beginning to panic, afraid now of where the path was herding them, when voices sounded in the distance.

Sister Rosin bustled up to take the lead, motioning them all to crouch low and remain silent as they inched towards the sound. Penelope could hear Marmot’s breaths coming in frantic little puffs, but he was otherwise quiet, curled up in Marmalade’s arms. Penelope and Steph glanced at each other, his face stony and brows knitted with anxiety as he reached out to squeeze her fingers.

Through the gaps between fallen logs and twisting vines, Penelope spied a half dozen figures dressed in thick, dark linens and leathers. They were armoured in what appeared to be woven bone, with ribbed breast plates and spiny vambraces. Their faces were obscured by animal masks of bleached bone, each bearing intricate carvings of varying design.

“Grimwood Rangers,” Sister Rosin mouthed as the group moved to crouch behind a broad log, peering at the scene in the clearing beyond.

A tall man wearing a dragon mask and hooded mantle stepped forward, leading an adolescent elk to the centre of the clearing. The small emblem of green and bronze embroidered on his breast denoted the rank of royalty. A Prince, and First Scion at that, Penelope reckoned by the heraldry.

Though yoked by rope, the creature seemed utterly placid, and the man was gentle as he manoeuvred it into place. The other Rangers made a ring around man and beast, clutching empty, lidded crucibles of water-clear quartz. The smooth, glassy surfaces rippled with a blue sheen, flaring with occasional gold.

The prince moved around the elk, his silhouette obscuring the creature’s neck and head. The man made a quick, fluid movement with his arm. Penelope bit her gloved hand to keep from gasping as the elk fell to the earth, unmoving. The creature had made no sound of distress, only a dull thud as its body hit the forest floor.

The prince bent down, placing a clear, blue stone in the creature’s mouth before hastily stepping into the circle with the other Rangers.

His fingers were quick and sure as he stowed his knife and withdrew his own crucible, grasping the handle lid as though readying for something.

Penelope bit down harder on her hand to contain a squeal as a glimmering form rose from the elk’s limp body. The ghostly shape of an elk stood in the clearing, looking as placid as it had in life. Its pale, translucent form writhed with globes of colour. Golds and apricots and butternut browns twisted about each other, flecked with yellows of pale sunshine.

It looked much like the ghostly insects which often spilled from the Ticklish Oak, only much larger and more substantial in its form.

Sister Rosin’s face was a mask of frozen horror, her blade clutched tightly in hand. Steph was staring at the spectre in awe, leaning forwards the better to see, while Marmalade looked grim. Marmot was trembling under Marmalade’s cloak. Penelope felt an enthralled sort of apprehension, as the Rangers were clearly waiting for something to happen.

Penelope felt tension coiling in her body, wanting to do something. Though what, she had no idea. She could feel the forest whispering, its leaves bristling in the breezeless air, almost chanting in its desperation. The whispers grew louder and louder, a wind-whipped fury that tore at Penelope’s aching heart. The Rangers glanced about themselves, clearly wary, yet they did not yield their positions.

Vines whipped out, lashing towards the circle of Rangers. In a ruthless motion, fluid as mercury, the prince withdrew a club from its hilt and slashed at the encroaching vines. They squealed and hissed, as if in pain, and withdrew, leaking small pools of liquid amber. Cradling his crucible in one hand, the prince holstered his club and withdrew another stone of clear blue from a pouch at his waist. He heaved it at the attacking tree.

It shattered against the rough-barked trunk. Ice burst outwards in long radial fingers, like the shadow of a dead sun. The tree shuddered, boughs splintering with the unnatural frost. The tree blackened, the glow of its sap dimming to grey, and was still. The trees nearby seethed and rustled, yet did not attack again. Nodding with a satisfied smirk, the prince reassumed his position, clasping his crucible with both hands.

Penelope ground her teeth and made to stand, the wrath of the Darkwood burning like poison in her veins until her vision blurred with furious tears.

She felt a hand on her shoulder and looked into Sister Rosin’s narrowed eyes. Her gaze was hard, almost cold, and serious in a way Penelope rarely ever saw. She shook her head in sharp admonishment, and Penelope released a shaky breath, settling down further behind the log.

The whispers of the forest shifted into something crooning and helpless, a leaden sorrow that weighed Penelope in place.

Watch and witness... the whispers said. Witness... witness...

Peneleope nodded and brushed away her tears, returning her gaze to the scene in the clearing. Penelope felt a gentle tug on her hand, and she clutched Steph’s fingers in a bruising grip.

At a gesture from the prince, the Rangers shifted, widening their stances and grasping the lids of their crucibles more tightly.

The ghost of the elk turned about, seeming confused, but not alarmed, when a silver light erupted from the earth.

The shining silver pearl of a ferrifae twisted through the misty air. Penelope could feel the pull of its eerie song… a silent chorus in her heart and mind compelling a desire to follow the siren. Yet underneath the chorus she could feel a deeper grip, hard and icy, holding her in place. As though the forest itself had rooted her to the earth.

The ferrifae began approaching the elk, which seemed similarly frozen, mesmerised by the dancing pearl of light.

The prince nodded and the Ranger to his side lifted the lid of her crucible. The ferrifae halted, spinning to face the Ranger, before being sucked into the crucible’s hollow depths.

Clapping the lid in place, the Ranger deftly tied the lid down with a length of braided twine and stepped back, away from the circle. With swift fingers, she looped more twine around the crucible and fixed it to her belt.

The leaden hold over Penelope’s limbs eased once the ferrifae was trapped, feeling flooding back into her prickling nerves.

A few of the Rangers shifted in place, rolling their shoulders and adjusting their stances. They drank down fizzing potions of nightshade blue, mouths twisting at the taste.

Another ferrifae emerged. And another, and another. As each siren appeared, drawn to the ghostly presence in the Rangers' midst, the prince nodded for the next Ranger in turn to capture the twisting light. Turn by turn, each Ranger trapped a ferrifae within their crucible, then stepped back towards the shadows of the encircling trees, securing the containers to their belts.

When there were only three Rangers remaining with empty crucibles, the Rangers outside the circle began stepping forward, clutching small quartz phials. In the space between the capture of one ferrifae and the emergence of the next, the Rangers moved forward, holding their phials aloft.

Each Ranger touched the lip of their phial to a cloud of glimmering colour. As with the ferrifae, the colours were sucked down into the hollows of the quartz containers. The Rangers filled each phial to the brim before corking it and holding out another.

The elk seemed distressed now. Its remaining colours flared in panic, but it could not move away, compelled to stillness by the song of the ferrifae and the strangling hold of the forest.

The Rangers moved in quick, calculated movements, seeming immune to the forest’s grasp. They darted back and forth, retreating when the ferrifae emerged, approaching the elk once the wisp was captured. It was a cold and efficient dance that made Penelope’s stomach writhe, watching as the elk’s essence was leached away, piece by piece.

By the time the last crucible lid had closed on a ferrifae, now buzzing in agitation within its prison of quartz, all the colours within the elk’s form had been captured. Its spirits were now gruesomely stowed within little jars, tucked into the Rangers’ packs and pouches. The few wan wisps left of the elk’s form dissipated to mist until all that remained was a thready ball of silver light, pulsing like a heart made of starlight.

Its rippling light was wondrous. Gentle and pure, ancient and innocent. It glittered with something of the eternal, though it seemed fragile as silk.

The prince stepped forward, holding up a new crucible of thick black stone gleaming with oily rainbows. Lifting the crucible’s lid, the small star was captured within its inky black depths. Slamming the lid back into place, the prince tied the container to his belt alongside his captured ferrifae.

A Ranger with a tall, broad build stepped forward. At a nod from the prince, she hefted the elk’s body over one shoulder and strode towards a break in the trees. The group trailed behind her. With a final glance around the clearing, the prince followed last. Their forms melted like shadows into the dark of the forest, and were soon gone from sight.

Penelope released Steph’s hand to wipe at the tears spilling silently down her cheeks. Sister Rosin looked utterly disturbed and Steph’s brow was furrowed, his face pale. Marmalade’s head was bowed as though in prayer, whispering rapidly in a language Penelope did not understand.

“What in the deepest realms was that,” Sister Rosin broke the silence, her voice hoarse and shaking. Penelope shook her head, mute with disgust.

The forest about them seemed to trill. A soft, pleading cry of grief accompanied by an echoing ripple of foliage that promised retribution.

“This,” Penelope murmured, finally finding her voice. “This is what the forest wanted. For us to witness...”

Marmalade nodded sharply, her lips pressed into a line, eyes blazing with feral intensity. Steph said nothing, merely nodding in agreement as he turned to slump against the log.

“Are you alright?” Steph rolled his head against the bark to look over at Penelope. He reached out to grasp her fingers again, which trembled where they clutched at bark.

She settled her hand into his. Nodding slowly, then shaking her head, Penelope huffed a shaky breath.

“Maybe you were right,” she whispered with a sad smile. Steph raised his brows in question. “About the princes of Grimwood being the worst of the lot…”

Steph swallowed, opening his mouth to reply, but was cut off by Sister Rosin.

“I think we should leave now.” Sister Rosin rose to her feet.

“Excellent idea.” Penelope let go of Steph’s hand with a soft squeeze and followed suit.

Steph lurched to his feet, brushing earth and damp leaves from his pants. He leaned a palm against a nearby tree as he plucked a rock from the tread of his boot, gasping as his finger brushed a thorn that tore through the material of his glove. A bead of blood smeared the silver bark.

He looked up to say something as Marmalade stepped forward when a flailing vine curled about his throat, spines tearing into the flesh of his neck.