Leaf and Root

	Dulye stood in the middle of the deserted oak grove, her bare feet lost in a 
drift of withered leaves.  The late autumn wind whispered through the tangle of 
branches and she cocked her head, a look of listening in her eyes.  A smile flickered 
across her mouth and the tall, gaunt woman nodded once before stooping to the 
ground and picking up a solitary acorn.  She held it up, examining it carefully, then 
tossed it in the air, caught it, and slipped it into the pocket of her skirt.  She turned 
and left, leaves crunching underfoot.
	The young man started when she stepped back into the cottage, and guiltily 
dropped the wreath of dried flowers she had been examining.
	"Well?"   He said, rubbing his hands on his trousers.
	Dulye carefully made her way to the other side of the crowded, one room 
shack.  Herbs hung in bundles from the web-strung rafters, and the wicker walls 
were festooned with baskets, books and jars heaped randomly on shelves, and 
other objects the boy didn't feel inclined to identify. 
	"Did you get an answer?"  He persisted nervously.
	The woman gave him a bright, birdlike glance and grinned, showing 
crooked teeth. She tossed him the acorn.
	Caught by surprise,  he barely managed to catch it.  When he did, and 
realized what it was,  he was nonplused.
	"What do I do with this?"
	"Plant it,"  she said, as if that were obvious.  "Would you like some tea?"
	"Yes.  No.  Wait.  What do you mean, 'plant it'?"
	"Just that,"  Dulye answered,  squatting by the hearth and swinging the 
kettle above the glowing remains of a fire.  Her legs were brown and scratched by 
brambles.
	The young man, still in the knees-and-elbows stage, frowned.  "I asked you 
how to win Lena's heart.  Not for an acorn!"
	Dulye shrugged one bony shoulder.
	"Of all the--"  he muttered.  There were whispers in town about the crazy 
woods-witch that lived outside the village--they were true, he thought.  The crazy 
part, at least.
	She fixed him with her bright brown gaze.  Her eyes were the liveliest he'd 
ever seen, and gave life to the plain, almost homely contours of Dulye's face.
	"Plant it,"  she repeated.  "And listen.  You'll get what you want."  she 
handed him a cup, the handle broken off, which he accepted out of politeness.  He 
sipped the steaming liquid, grimacing at it's bitter tang.
	"No sugar,"  she said amiably.
	"How will planting an acorn get me what I want?"  He  protested, skeptical.
	The witch flashed him another feral smile.  "Ah.  If you knew that, you'd 
be a woods-witch yourself, wouldn't you?"
	The young man rose reluctantly.  "Are you sure it will work?"
	"You'll see,"  Dulye responded calmly.  She twitched her brown braid 
behind her shoulder with one hand.
	"Well."  he gripped the acorn tightly in one hand, and nodded at the bundle 
in the corner.  "There's some wheat."
	"Ah."  she gazed contemplatively towards the corner, her mug of tea 
clasped in both hands.
	Beydan left the small cottage, shaking his head in self-disgust.  Whatever 
had made him come here?  Did he truly think a wander-eyed,   woods-woman could 
help him with Lena?  Lena, with her teasing smile and laugh like sparrows,  Lena 
the unmerciful flirt? Lena, who had all the boys in the village tagging along behind 
her like so many well-bred sheep?  But still....he rubbed his thumb against the 
shiny brown acorn.  Plant it,  and listen.  Still.  It couldn't hurt to try.

	"Hello?"  
	Dulye looked up from her feathers and bark to see a form by the door, 
sillouhetted against the sunlight.
	"Come in, then, since you're here,"  was her greeting.
	The man stooped through the doorway, straightening once he was inside.  
His knees-and-elbows frame had fulfilled the promise of youth and broadened into 
well-muscled arms and a stocky, broad chest.  His hands were rough and brown, 
and his eyes had the squint of the plowman.
	"It's me,"  he said.  "Beydan.  Remember?"
	Dulye gave the shrug that seemed to be her universal answer. "How's the 
tree?"  She asked.
	Beydan had to think for a moment, and then smiled.  "Well enough."  He 
perched uneasily on a stool.  "I'm here for Lena.  She's having trouble with 
childbirth--could you, well,  help?  The last two have been stillborn."
	She looked up, catching him with the intensity of her gaze, and then looked 
down again at the crow feathers in her lap, thinking.  She quirked her mouth, and 
frowned slightly.  She had changed little from when he had seen her last;  there 
were lines to either side of her mouth and eyes, but her simple grey-green dress 
was as worn and patched, and  her hair as nut-brown as ever.
	"All right."  The woods-witch stood, placing her work on the precariously 
overloaded table, and stepped outside.  She motioned for him to follow.  
	The two wandered through the trees,  Dulye easily eluding the catbriar that 
caught Beydan with every step, until they stopped, suddenly, at no place in 
particular.  The farmer looked around, wondering why they had halted, and then 
looked at the woman.  She stood stock still, an intense and distant look on her face, 
before wandering over to a fallen tree and peeling off a section of bark, which she 
carefully folded into a  square and handed to him.  Without a word,  she started 
back.
	They were standing in front of the cottage when she knelt,  picking up two 
pebbles, and gave them to him as well.
	The man stared at her,  bark in one hand and stones in the other.
	Tell her to drink the bark in a tea,"  Dulye instructed,  "And put the pebbles 
under the bed."
	He nodded, doubtful.
	"And tell her to sing."
	At this,  Beydan's jaw dropped.  "Sing?"  He said disbelievingly.  "Sing 
what?"
	Dulye smiled her crooked smile.  "Tell her to listen,"  she said.  "She'll hear 
what she needs."
	He clenched his jaw, and then relaxed it.  "Well."
	The witch walked into the small wicker dwelling and he followed, blinking 
until his eyes adjusted to the dimness.
	"Tea?"  She asked.
	"I suppose."  He reached down to the small packet he had left on the table, 
and handed it to her.  "Sugar."
	Dulye smiled, and then laughed, a laugh like the whisper of wind in leaves.  
"Thanks."
	He drank the tea and left,  his gift tucked in his pocket.  The summer sun 
shone down through the leaves,  turning the path a dappled green.


	She was sitting before the door of her cabin with her legs folded under her, 
sorting nuts, when her visitor arrived.  She gave him a nod, her quick fingers never 
slowing.  "The birds are singing beautifully today,"  she commented.
	The brawny man sat down beside her.  "Yes.  They are."  The golden light 
of late afternoon lay gently on his weathered visage.  His shirt,  washed and well-
worn, was damp with sweat.  "It'll turn cold soon,  they say.  Going to be a rough 
winter, they say."
	She looked out at the woods for a long moment before turning back to her 
task.  "We've another two weeks yet.  Eighteen days."
	Beydan gave her a look of mixed amusement and exasperation.  "Do you 
know that,  or are you just saying so?"
	She flashed him a glance, humour glinting in her eyes, and lifted a shoulder 
in a shrug.
	Beydan swung the bag he had been carrying off of his shoulder, and set it 
before them.  "Here's some woolen cloth,"  he said diffidently.  "Undyed.  Lena 
figured you could use some--a cloak, or something.  For winter."
	"Yes."
	The clearing was silent save for the rush of wind through leaves and the 
liquid fall of birdsong.
	"It's Lsali,"  the man said finally.  "Our youngest.  Keeps getting into 
trouble--it was a knife fight with the blacksmith's son last week,  and a couple of 
days ago two belts stolen off of the tinker's cart.  Lena's at her wit's end.  So'm  
I."  He scratched his grey-streaked hair.  "They say it's just a phase--but when I 
was that age,  I knew enough to behave myself."
	Dulye had stopped her sorting and was looking directly at him.
	"What do you do?"  She asked.
	"What can I do?"  He made a sharp, abrupt gesture with one hand.  "I love 
the girl--she's got spirit enough for two--but nothing works.  Threats, strappings,  
pleas--nothing."
	Dulye was silent, looking off into the distance.  A light breeze ruffled 
strands escaped from her braids.  "Tell her to come here,"  the woman said finally, 
turning her plain, beautiful face to his.
	"To visit you?"  
	"Yes."
	"I can't guarantee she'll come,"  Beydan said warningly.  "She's like to 
laugh at the idea."
	She smiled, a secret smile.  "Just tell her."
	
	It was a week before the girl came.  She walked in, her chin up, and stood 
there in the doorway.  "Well?"  She said.
	Dulye sat in one corner,  a fox on her lap.  The creature lay curled up, it's 
nose hidden under a bushy tail and black paws tucked under.
	"Lsali.  You like stargazing, don't you?  Sit."
	The girl stared at the woodswitch, put off balance.  She'd heard things 
whispered of the wood-woman, many of them derogatory and some of them 
fearful;  but Dulye,  with her nondescript features and nondescript clothing and eyes 
that gleamed like still water, was nothing like what she had expected.
	She sat.  She was all lines and angles,  her dark eyebrows two straight 
slashes above a pair of  green eyes,  her face narrow,  her nose sharp and 
inquisitive.  "What of it?"  She demanded suspiciously.  Her hand fingered the 
dagger at her side.
	Dulye stood, the fox cub in her arms, and approached.  She set the creature 
down on the bench beside the girl.  The cub, newly awoken, yawned and showed a 
miniature set of teeth and curling tongue.  He gazed up at Lsali,  his eyes as bright 
as the woman's.  
	"He is yours,"  Dulye said simply.
	Lsali looked from the fox to her and back again.  "What do you mean?  I 
don't want a pet!"  Her voice was scornful, but her face was uncertain.
	"He is not a pet.  He is yours, and yours alone."
	The young woman reached out a hand, and tentatively stroked the russet 
fur.  It was very soft.  The cub wiggled,  turning and nipping at her fingers.
	"I don't understand.  Why would I want a fox?"
	"I'll tell you a thing,"  Dulye said conversationally.  "Listen."  It was an 
invitation and not a command, and Lsali looked at her.  Dulye sat down on the 
ground, and was silent.
	"The world is wide,"  the woodswitch said finally.  "Very wide.  And it 
holds wonders for everyone."
	"Wonders,"  Lsali repeated disdainfully, but the suspicion in her voice was 
fainter then it had been.  "Wonders?  The growing grain, and the birth of calves?"
	Dulye shook her head, her braid twisting like a snake.  "A certain wonder 
for every person.  A certain one for you, different than any other.  All you have to 
do is find it."
	Lsali rolled her eyes.
	"Listen.  There are different ways:  you can fight what you don't like,  or 
search for what you do like."
	She said no more.  "That's all?"  Lsali said finally.  "And if I behave 
myself, I'll find contentment and wealth?"
	Dulye looked up and gave the girl a wry grin, her eyes dancing.  "You'll do 
as you wish and nothing else;  but I doubt you'll find contentment,"  she said 
candidly.  "Not for long."  Reluctantly,  Lsali grinned back.  Dulye stood,  dusting 
off her dark-brown tunic.
	"The fox is yours,"  she repeated.  Lsali rose to her feet,  gathering the cub 
into her arms.  She opened her mouth to reply, and hesitated.
	"He has things to tell you,  too,"  Dulye added.  "Foxes are wiser than most 
people think."
	The black-haired girl cocked a sardonic eyebrow.  "Let me guess:  he's a 
magic fox, and can talk at the full of the moon."
	"Magic's a tenuous thing,"  the woman returned soberly.  "But yes,  you 
can hear what he has to say."
	"How?"  the skepticism was back, but less marked.
	"Listen,"  Dulye said softly.  Her brown eyes held those of Lsali.  "Listen,  
and you'll hear."


	The wind howled through the cracks in the daub-and wattle walls,  a faint 
counterpoint to the crackle of the flames in the fireplace.  The two figures sat, 
sipping tea quietly from chipped mugs:  a woman of middle years, her face lined 
and eyes bright, and a man carved out of the elements:  wood, earth, stone.
	"It's a bad winter,"  he said.  "They're getting worse, lately;  when I was 
young, the snow was gone by the lambing time."
	"Well, then."  The woman's face was serene.  "The winter wind's a right to 
blow, same as you or I."
	Beydan cocked a glance at the woman, his green eyes slightly amused.  
"You're no farmer,"  he said definitively.
	"We both work the earth."
	"You?  I've never seen a garden out back."
	Dulye shrugged.
	"You'd think this place would blow away,  in a wind like this,"  he said 
after a contemplative silence.
	"Nothing lasts."
	"You're the strangest woman,"  he said,  half-annoyed, and was rewarded 
by a low chuckle.  "I mean it.   When Lsali showed up with that fox...well,  I was 
hard put to get Lena not to toss him into the wood."
	"But she didn't."
	"No."  He frowned into his cup.  "What did you say to her, really?"
	She looked over at him, her head cocked to one side.  "What she needed to 
hear."
	"Well,  she's doing all right, I suppose...though I myself never thought 
being  a caravan guard an occupation for decent folk.  The stories she comes home 
with!"  He shook his head, and sipped the tea.  Silence drifted down.  A log 
popped.
	"I don't suppose you have a remedy for lonliness,"  he said abruptly.  
Dulye gazed at him wordlessly.  He grimaced.  "It's just that since Lena's 
gone...well..."  he trailed off, making a vague gesture with one arm.
	The woman stood and made her barefoot way over to one of the walls, 
where she lifted down a strange concatenation of wood and feathers, and shells.  It 
clinked slightly as she brought it back over to the fire and handed it to him.
	"What is this?"  He said, examining it from all angles.  The crow feathers 
gleamed in the light.
	"Hang it from the oak tree you planted,"  Dulye said as she once again 
resumed her seat and picked up her tea.  Her greying braid swung over one 
shoulder.
	"In weather like this?"
	"Later.  When it warms.  Hang it from the lowest branch,  the one the 
children used to swing on."
	He gazed at her is something close to wonder.  "How--never mind."  He 
held the fragile creation high, and it spun slightly, firelight glinting off polished 
wood.  "So what do I do then?"  He glanced at her.  "Oh,  I know,  I know.  
'Listen'."
	Dulye gave him a smile, lifting her cup in a toast.  "Indeed."
	Beydan shook his head.  "How will listening help?"
	Dulye sipped her cup of tea.  "Listen,"  she said.  "You'll find what you 
need."


	The two walked in companionable silence along the dirt path, moving at the 
leisurly pace of the aged.
	"How do I know you're a witch at all?"  The man said irritably.  Though 
still strong,  his heavily built frame had thinned with advancing years.  "You never 
did anything,  really.  Nothing proveable.  How do I know you're not just a crazy 
old woman, cracked in the head, living in the woods and giving whatever advice 
comes to your tongue?"
	Dulye shrugged a shoulder.  Her face wasn't one to become more beautiful 
with age, and her deft fingers were slightly swollen at the joints, but her eyes were 
as bird-bright as ever.  She had caught her white braid in one hand and was 
nibbling absently at it.
	"You came to me,"  she pointed out finally.
	"Hmmph."
	"Did you ever regret my advice?"
	"Well,  no....but it's deuced hard advice to follow.  I could have won Lena 
on my own.  She could have given birth on her own...Lsali,  who knows.  Maybe 
it just was a phase."
	"Maybe,"  Dulye agreed.  Her back was straight,  and her birdlike frame 
accentuated with the passing of the seasons.  She shot him a glance.  "But I did 
give you tea."
	He chuckled, a rusty sound.  "You did give me tea.  Tell me--I've always 
wondered.  How did you come to be a woodswitch?  No, let me guess:  the trees 
taught you."
	Dulye smiled, her face a wrinkled walnut.  "Trees are better 
conversationalists than most people."
	"Better than you, at any rate.  You've leaves in your hair,  you know."
	The old woman was silent.  She made no move to brush them away. They 
entered the glade where a small daub and wattle cottage stood,  wood-wild, the 
color of leaves and earth.
	"I'd best be getting on,"  the man said.  "Bedoon's bringing the 
grandchildren to visit.  Oh, did I tell you?  That oak tree--the old one in the front 
yard--It's been doing poorly, lately.  Losing its leaves."
	"Ah."
	"Well."  He gave her a nod, and continued  down the vague and ill-defined 
path towards the village.
	Dulye watched him go, and then turned into her dwelling.  She surveyed the 
interior,  filled with a lifetime's quixotic array of odds and ends, and nodded once.  
Turning, she set out one last time into the woods.
	It was late autumn again, and her bare feet, broad and horned with tough 
callouses, trod through sticks and fallen leaves; her knee-length dress, belted with a 
twist of twine, blended with the sombre colors of bark and brush.  She walked far, 
with a slow and tired step, until she reached a grove of old oak trees.  There Dulye 
sat with a deep sigh, settling against a rough, moss-covered log.
	Her wrinkled hands moved caressingly through the brown remnants of 
summer's green as she she leaned her head back and looked out through the maze 
of upright trunks.  It was silent save for a solitary woodpecker, and the rustling 
clack of wind through bare branches.  Dulye smiled, faintly.
	There was a look of listening in her eyes.









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