Under other circumstances—say as a picture on someone’s wall—the forest might have been beautiful. The big old trees towered around them, their leaves washed clean and brilliant green. The rain and mist added a soft gray backdrop and the landscape reminded Wiz of a Japanese garden. There was no sound but the gentle drip of water from the branches and, off in the distance, the rushing chuckle of a stream running over rocks.
Abstractly, Wiz could appreciate the beauty. But only very abstractly. Concretely, he was wet, chilled, miserable, exhausted and hungry.
"Fortuna!" Moira exclaimed. Wiz looked up and saw she had thrown back her cloak and pulled up her skirt, exposing her left leg and a considerable expanse of creamy thigh lightly dusted with freckles.
"Close your mouth and stop gaping," she said crossly. "I hurt my knee when I slipped crossing that last stream."
"How bad is it?" he asked as he scrambled over next to her.
Moira prodded the joint. "Bad enough. It is starting to swell."
"Does it hurt?"
"Of course it hurts!" she said in disgust. "But more importantly I will not be able to walk on it much longer."
"Maybe you should put some ice on it."
Moira glared at him.
"Sorry. I forgot."
"What I need is a healing poultice. I have the materials in my pouch, but they must be boiled and steeped." She looked around and sighed. "We are unlikely to find dry wood anywhere in the Wild Wood this day."
"There are ways of finding dry wood even in a rain."
Moira looked interested. "Do you know how?"
Wiz realized he hadn’t the faintest idea. His apartment didn’t even have a fireplace and his method of starting a barbeque involved liberal lashings of lighter fluid followed by the application of a propane torch.
"Well, no," he admitted. "But I know you can do it."
"That I know also," Moira snorted. "Were I a ranger or a woodsman I would doubtless know how it is done. But I am neither, nor are you."
"Can’t you use magic?"
She shook her head. "I dare not. A spell to light wet wood is obvious and could well betray us. Besides, I threw away my fire lighter."
"What are you going to do?"
"I can walk for a while longer. As we came over the last rise I saw a clearing that looked man-made. We shall have to go in that direction and hope we can find someone who will grant us the use of his fire."
"That’s dangerous."
"Less dangerous than using magic, if we are careful. We will approach cautiously and if aught seems amiss we will depart quietly. Now, give me your hand."
Wiz pulled the hedge witch to her feet and for a brief tingling instant their bodies touched down the whole length. Then Moira turned away and started off.
Mercifully, the going was easier in the new direction. There were no hills to climb and the rain gradually slacked off. Moira started to limp, but she refused Wiz’s offer of assistance.
As afternoon faded to evening, they threaded their way through the dripping trees until at last Moira motioned Wiz to stop and eased forward carefully.
There, in a rude clearing hacked into the forest, stood a cottage. Some of the felled trees had gone to build the dwelling and some into the split-rail fences around the field. Knee-high stumps still stood among the crops. The cottage was roofed with shingles and the chimney was stone. A thin curl of smoke hung low over the field. It was crude and Spartan, but to Wiz it looked beautiful.
"Hallo the house!" Moira called without entering the clearing.
"Who calls?" came a man’s voice from the cabin.
"Two travellers seeking a fire."
"Show yourselves then."
Moira limped into the clearing with Wiz following. Ostentatiously she reached up and threw back the hood of her cloak. She nudged Wiz and he did the same.
The householder stepped into the door of the cabin. He was a stocky middle-aged man with a full black beard shot with streaks of gray. Wiz noticed that one hand was out of sight, possibly holding a weapon.
"Advance then, the two of you," he called. Wiz and Moira picked their way across the field to the cabin door.
The man stood in the door, just inside the threshold. "I will not invite you in," he said stolidly. Moira nodded and stepped forward. He backed away to let her enter.
She turned and they both looked at Wiz, but neither Moira nor the householder bade him enter nor made any motion to him. They looked and Wiz looked. Finally he got tired of it and stepped inside.
"Welcome," said the peasant, smiling. "Welcome, Lady." He nodded to Wiz. "Sir."
The cottage was a single large room with a fireplace at one end. There was a ladder leading to the loft and at the loft trap Wiz saw three wide-eyed children peeking down.
The furniture was plain and obviously home-made, built to last rather than for comfort. A spinning wheel stood in the corner next to a bag of wool. The smell of smoke and wool oil filled the house.
"Seat yourselves, please." Their host gestured to a high-backed bench to one side of the fireplace.
"What was that all about?" Wiz asked as they sat down.
"What?"
"The business at the door."
"There are things which can take human form and deceive all save the most clever. But few of those can enter a house unbidden. In the Wild Wood only the foolish or very powerful invite a guest within."
"Umm," said Wiz.
The cottager settled himself on a similar bench across from them. "I am called Lothar," he said.
"I am called Moira, a hedge witch. He," she jerked a nod at Wiz, "is called Sparrow. We thank you for the use of your fire. I have injured my leg and wish to brew a healing poultice, if you will allow it. If you or any of yours have ills that I may treat I will be happy to do so."
"You’re welcome to the fire, Lady, but none of us are in need of healing."
Moira looked skeptical but said nothing.
"You are also welcome to spend the night within if you so wish," Lothar said grandly.
"Thank you, Goodman. We would be most grateful."
Moira produced the small bronze kettle from her pack and Lothar called the children down from the loft. He sent the oldest, a boy of about ten, to fetch water. While Moira laid out her kit on the rough plank table the other two children, a boy and a girl about eight and six respectively, watched in awe.
When the water was fetched, Moira selected several leaves and roots from the packets in her pouch and put them to simmer over the fire. Meanwhile Lothar bustled about fixing a meal.
They dined on venison, tubers and vegetables and Lothar served up a pitcher of beer to wash it down. It was a delicious change from trail food and Wiz wolfed down his portion.
As they ate the twilight deepened to night. The only light came from the fire crackling on the hearth. The smell of pine smoke filled the room. Outside the crickets began to sing.
After dinner they retired to the fireside. Although Lothar had said little while they were eating, he began to pump them for news as soon as they were seated. Since he was mostly concerned with the happenings around his old village of Oakstorm Crossing, and since that village was fairly far from Moira’s there was little she could tell him. She answered as best she could and Wiz and the children listened.
"How fare you, Goodman?" Moira asked when she had run out of information.
Lothar smiled and Wiz saw two of his front teeth were missing. "Well enough, Lady. Well enough."
"You are far from neighbors here."
"Aye, but I’ve good land. And more for the clearing."
"Did you not have a farm where you were before?"
"Well, you know how it is on the Fringe. Farms are small and the soil is worn thin. It’s hard to make a living in the best of times, and when the crops aren’t good, well…" He shrugged his massive shoulders.