The Mistress of the Mire

The grove was sick. You could feel it even through your boots: the roots beneath the ground moved not like living things, but like those long dead that should never move again.

Yet deep in the thicket stood a cottage small, crooked, its roof overgrown with moss and something that shifted under the lichen. On the porch, an old woman in a headscarf sat with a basket full of herbs, sorting through them, clicking her tongue as if counting her own teeth.

— Oh, child, what are you doing, coming into this mire? The old woman's voice was rough but oddly warm. This grove is cursed. Sick, the wicked thing. I've been trying to heal it—ten years, maybe more. Still nothing.

Ellie stood at the edge of the rotten path. She bowed slightly, out of habit. The voice sounded peaceful, but there was something scratching beneath the words, like a claw on the lid of a kettle.

— I'm here on guild business. Researching. And if I can—helping. This place... it matters.

— Oh, of course it does. Everything matters to someone these days. But the minute it started to rot, everyone forgot. Well, never mind. You be careful now, under that second root it's still breathing. Ah-ha. — She laughed, and it sounded hollow.

Ellie felt her back tense.

— I'm careful. And I haven't disturbed what's not mine.

The old woman clucked her tongue.

— Not yours, you say? And do you know who lived here before you? Before your maps, your protocols, your neat little notebooks?

— I know,— Ellie said slowly, — that this grove is dying. And if it's not helped, nothing will be left.

— Oh my, aren't you the charitable one, the old woman rolled her eyes, sharp and untheatrical. Like a cockroach, crawling in without asking. Like a dirty sole stepping on something alive. You're a bug, child. A little one. You're not supposed to be here at all. You slipped through by mistake.

Ellie tensed. The witch's words cut too close, too personal. This wasn't just a herbalist's grumbling. This was the feeling of a master whose threshold had been crossed.

— And who are you to decide where I belong? Ellie's voice broke. Mistress of rot? Queen of a moldy stump? Who are you to decide whose grove this is? It's dying not because I'm here. But because you're burning it out from the inside.

— I am fire, the old woman hissed. I am cleansing. I am the knife. While you're listening, I'm cutting. That's the difference. You fear pain. I've become it.

— Quite an honor, Ellie muttered, tired, — being rot convinced it's a cure.

The old woman stood up. Slowly. And all around seemed to go stiller than before. Branches behind her began to bow. The water in the pit beneath Ellie's feet darkened. The air turned sweet, like a dead orchid.

— You'll leave on your own, the old woman said. Or do I need to remind you how a person drowns when they forget their place?

Ellie stood her ground, silent and stubborn.

— Remind me.

— Aren't you fierce, the witch grinned, wide, unnaturally. The dead didn't let go of their friends, did they? So now you bite everyone. I was being nice. Met you, didn't swat you. Cockroach comes in the house and I don't even lift the broom.

— Maybe you should have, Ellie tilted her head, her voice quiet but ringing. At least then you'd be honest.

— Honest? the witch's shoulders jerked, her face stretching for a moment, masklike. You think honesty means warning you that you're dying?

— I think a rotting face is warning enough.

Silence. The house groaned. Moss on the roof shuddered.

Ellie held herself still. Face blank, breath steady. But her fingers clenched. Behind her, the roots began to move.

And in front of her—wasn't an old woman. It was something that had forgotten how not to be a witch.

...she staggers.

Not running. Not walking. She lurches, limps, falls and rises again, mud in her teeth and ears. Her left leg is drawn up, burning from hip to ankle, as if a shard of rusty iron is lodged inside. The right leg, strong, alive, drags her onward like a pack horse.

Almost there.

There, a stick with a red rag, stabbed into the ground near the tent. Her own marker. The cloth swarmed with gnats, but it's still there. That means camp.

Ellie drops to her knees. Fumbles in her pack. Fingers numb and clumsy. Where's the flask? Where's the salve? Finds a bottle. Not the right one. Another. The neck cracks—it doesn't matter. She pours everything she can onto her leg. She screams—a low, ragged, animal sound.

Her body arches; she bites into her sleeve to keep from howling. The ointment works—late.

Too late, but enough to keep her conscious. That's when the memories begin to come, in fragments.

It all started with silence.

So deep she could hear her own breath rolling inside her skull. Ellie stood on the edge of black rot, between the windfall and a crooked, charred stump.

Across from her—the witch. No longer a crone, not "wise."

She'd shed her disguise. Skin ashen green, slick with slime. The headscarf gone. Hair like mossy threads, tangled, moving like tendrils. The face stretched, indistinct, as if made from cracked wax. In places, the skin was translucent, as if roots moved beneath.

She didn't attack immediately. She watched. As if deciding if Ellie was worth dirtying herself over.

— Leave, the witch said. Her voice like a rotten hive.

— Too late, Ellie replied.

And then everything trembled.

Roots burst from the ground, like snakes. One shot for her leg—Ellie managed to dodge, but another grazed her thigh, tearing a ragged wound.

She fell, rolled, grabbed a jar of powder—threw it in the air. Salt scattered, dry sparks mixed with crushed nettle.

Water hissed. Grass danced.

But the witch didn't even flinch. She murmured—her whispers ran through the earth. White mushrooms crawled from the stumps. They grew quickly, bursting and spraying thick, sweet pollen. Ellie retreated, yanked on her mask.

— Poison, she muttered.

She didn't fall for it.

— You're no warrior, the witch sneered. You're a book with legs. Paper that decided it could argue with ink.

— I'm an observer, Ellie breathed. And you, it seems, forgot you're being watched.

The witch cackled, too loud.

— Who'll remember paper if it burns?

And she struck. Not with a hand, not magic, but roots.

A knot of wood punched from the ground, scratching Ellie's arm. Ellie struck back, not at the body, but at the root itself.

Knife, oil, bitterness, potion—she used everything. Darting like a mouse in a trap, each time catching more pain. Knife to the hand. She lunged sideways, cut the witch's arm. The flesh parted like moss, but closed instantly. No blood—just a wet crackle.

— You're not the one who should cut, the witch hissed. You're the one they bury.

She slammed her palm to the ground. Beneath Ellie, roots boiled up. One stabbed up through the dirt, pierced her leg, left a gaping hole in her thigh.

She cried out—not loud, but guttural, like a beast denied a quick death. She staggered back. Fingers shook. Her head roared. The witch advanced—unhurried.

— You think you can challenge those who knew this land before your line began?

— I think, Ellie wiped her mouth, — that you just forgot: this isn't your flesh. It's theirs. And you're a parasite.

The witch shrieked. And everything surged. Branches crashed down on Ellie like chains, mushrooms clawed up from below, earth sodden and heavy. She ran—not from fear, but toward her goal. Toward the stump.

The one she'd seen the day before—dry, split. Underneath it, the ancient mark, three circles, three lines.

She knew: this was the place where the witch wove herself in.

Ellie threw a jar of strong alcohol tincture and set it alight. The fire flashed, not a wave, but a flare—like fury. And the witch screamed, for the first time, truly.

The earth trembled. Roots recoiled. Dust scattered. The witch lunged at Ellie and she drove her knife into its chest. There was no heart. Just a sluggish, sticky lump. It howled, and the witch's body burst into ashen slime.

Ellie collapsed.

The wound in her leg throbbed, twisting the joint from the inside. She tore out the root, bandaged herself. For a long time. Through the pain.

She crawled. Then stood. Then limped.

Ellie stood at the edge of the grove. The trees no longer screamed. But they didn't whisper, either.

The swamp had fallen silent—not peaceful, but stunned, as after an explosion that leaves no smoke. Only stench.

Behind her, by the uprooted root, a rotting rag still smoldered, which had been the witch's dress that morning. Around it, totems: sticks stabbed into the ground in a circle, each tied with cloth, guts, moss, some with animal teeth woven in.

She came closer. One. Another.

Each totem, as she neared, made her throat burn, as if her guts clenched. They hadn't been planted as mere charms—they were anchors, pounding another's will into the soil. A net holding the grove in forced balance.

Ellie pulled on her gloves. Took a knife with a carved handle. And started cutting them free. One by one. Slowly. First she sliced away the cloth, then drew them from the earth. She didn't just break them—she packed the fragments into a bag she'd brought for this.

When the circle was broken, the soil beneath the main willow, the one at the center—the one she'd hidden in during the fight—began to shudder. Quietly. Almost imperceptibly.

As if something inside it had rolled over in its sleep.

— I know, Ellie said. I didn't come to command.

She opened her flask. Inside was a cloudy, stinking brew—not a potion, but an alchemical infusion she'd made on the third day—from white mushrooms, dried tea, ashes, a drop of her own blood, and filtered swamp water left overnight on coals. Old books said these brews could revive "places of power"—if their soul had not yet left. She poured it all out under the roots.

Slowly. The liquid hissed, sinking into the earth, leaving a dark streak, as if a vein ran beneath the roots. Ellie crouched, bracing herself on her arm. Her breath was heavy. Her wound throbbed.

At that moment, the stumps began to whisper. Not out loud—in her, somewhere between her shoulder blades.

"You're still an outsider."

— I know.

"But you remembered."

— Always.

"You didn't ask for anything."

— I had nothing to ask for.

"You brought back life."

Ellie didn't reply. She just stood up. Her back to the willow, her face to the mire.

Behind her, a sound. Like a wet breath. The willow stirred—not with its branches, but its trunk. The split began to heal. Very slowly. With difficulty. But on its own.

And at the edge of sight, at the border of the clearing—a slender sprout pierced the charred earth. She limped away, not looking back.