The tale of "The Mosswives"
A tale by Steve – @nachtgarm777 on IG
The tavern grew quiet as night settled. The fire sank, leaving just a faint pulse of embers under the ashes. The wind rustled past the house, making the ancient wood groan. The old villager sat closest to the dying fire, hunched over on a stool that ached with his every move. He watched the dying embers…
The travelers had questioned the locals about the Rot spreading in the northern reaches of the Weald and about the strange things people claimed to have seen on the old roads. The people in the tavern only replied with shrugs and turned around, but the old man waited until the room grew quiet before he spoke… He started speaking of old whispers in the Weald, perhaps even older than the Rot itself…
Then, lowering his voice into a mere whisper, he started speaking of the Mosswives. He‘s never seen one, few ever did, he said. But the stories, they were always there. As long as he remembers. Like whispered warnings passed between hamlets, yet never fully believed, but never ignored either. Mosswives, they say, lived deep within the woods where the paths gave out and trees pressed in. They weren’t found in hamlets or villages, nor on farms, but in secret spots, far from any path, under old tree roots, deep in thorn-filled clearings, or within mossy, ivy-covered ruins. Some called them Healers, others told of widows who had drifted from their villages. Others, in disgust, spoke of hags. The Weald is not kind to those who want to live in it and only few ever returned from it, he said. But if the stories are true, the Mosswives lived there for a long, long time. It was rumored they knew the forest better than anyone else. Every part of every plant, right down to the tiny shoots and each bitter herb in the shadowy ground.
When normal medicine failed or the Rot grew to strong, sick folks sometimes went searching for them. Those who did, were careful to bring offerings. Bread, honey, wool, a knife made of iron … if they had one. Still, payment was not always simple. Sometimes, the Mosswives asked for less common things. An untold story. A newborn’s hair. A chicken’s heart or just a promise…
People said it was unwise to refuse these requests. The old villager poked the remaining embers, giving birth to a dull glow that tried to enlighten the room. There were other stories too, he went on. They talked to the forest spirits, those silent things dwelling in rivers, and under rocks, and inside old hollow trees. They knew the secret paths within the Weald, paths no one else could find. Since the Rot arrived, their name was always on people’s lips. Some folks thought the Mosswives were fighting the Rot, others said the Mosswives just watched the Rot grow. Some even whispered that the Rot was no accident, but a destiny chosen. Not once did the old villager say whether he believed that, or not … but there were always signs he said… A bundle of herbs above a doorway, with no one remembering how it got there. Footprints in the mud stopping mid-path. A traveler claiming that an old woman, living in the woods, helped him find his way home in a stormy night, though the place he described could never be found afterwards. The old villager leaned back as the last ember gave its final breath. Perhaps, he said, Mosswives were merely tales. Living so close to that ancient forest always stirred up rumors….
But in the Weald, many things began as rumors, and not all of them stayed that way.
