The Little Witch And The Dark

She opened the tiny door and checked the candle inside. It was there, pale and still. She blew gently across it, as her mother had taught her.

“Glow,” Willa said. “Glow, glow, glow.”

The candle did not glow.

Willa closed the door. Her fingers felt cold around the handle. She looked toward home, but the path bent away between the trees. Without the lantern, she could not see the crooked stump. She could not see the brook’s silver edge. She could not even tell which shadows were leaves and which were rocks.

“I know this path,” she said.

Her voice sounded very small.

A leaf dropped from above and landed on her hat.

Willa squeaked and ducked. Then she touched the leaf. It was only a dry brown leaf, soft at the edges.

“I knew that,” she murmured, though she had not.

She tried to take three steps forward.

One step.

Two steps.

On the third, her boot bumped a root. Willa wobbled and grabbed a low branch. The branch was rough beneath her palm. She sat down on a flat stone and hugged the lantern to her chest.

The forest did not move closer. It only sounded louder now.

Rustle.

Whisper.

Drip, drip, drip from the brook.

Willa wished for the cottage window. She imagined its blue curtains and the round table inside. She imagined a cup of warm milk waiting beside her bed. Bedtime was not far away, but the dark path made it feel very far indeed.

“If I cannot see the path,” she said, “I cannot walk home.”

A small breeze slipped through the trees. It carried the smell of damp earth and fern leaves. Willa pulled her purple cloak around her shoulders.

She could try the lantern again. Perhaps it needed a shake. She held it out and gave it one careful shake.

Clink.

The candle inside moved a little.

Willa shook it again.

Clink, clink.

The lantern stayed dark.

She frowned at it. “I am trying to help you.”

The words came out sharper than she meant. The lantern, of course, said nothing.

Willa placed it on the ground. She reached into her pocket and found a small box of matches. Her mother had given them to her for lighting the stove, but Willa knew the match spell.

“Tiny spark, warm and bright,” she whispered. “Wake this flame and make it light.”

She struck a match against the side of the box.

Scratch.

A little orange flame sprang up. Willa smiled.

But the wind puffed.

The match went out.

Willa tried another. She cupped both hands around it, but her fingers trembled. The flame danced once, twice, and vanished.

The dark filled the space again.

Willa pressed her lips together. She wanted to cry, but she did not want to spend her tears on a match.

“I am not very good at this,” she said.

The old trees made a soft creaking sound overhead. Willa looked up. Their branches were wide and bent, but they did not seem to be reaching for her. They looked more like arms stretched over a roof.

The old oak stood just ahead.

Even in the dim light of the sky, Willa could see its broad trunk. Its roots made a little hollow beneath the branches. Ferns grew there in a soft green ring. The place looked dry and sheltered.

Willa picked up her lantern and walked carefully toward it. She kept one hand on the oak’s rough bark. The bark felt warm in some places and cool in others. Tiny bits of moss brushed her sleeve.

“There you are,” she whispered. “You are still here.”

The oak did not answer, but a round leaf slipped down and landed beside her boot.

Willa took it as a kind welcome.

She crouched beneath the wide branches. The wind sounded softer there. The leaves above made a roof, and the roots made a wall at her back. It was not her cottage, but it was a safe little nook.

Willa set the lantern beside her knees and tucked her cloak around her feet.

For a while, she listened.

The brook went on saying drip, drip, drip.

A night bird called once from far away. Another bird answered.

Willa’s breathing slowly became quiet. She could feel the oak behind her. She could feel the ground beneath her boots. She could smell the sweet green ferns.

The dark was still dark.

But it was not empty.

There were leaves in it. There was water. There were birds. There was the oak, standing steady and wide.

Willa reached for the lantern again. “One more try.”

She opened its little door and looked inside. The candle was not broken. The wick was not missing. It simply would not wake.

She touched the glass.

The glass was cold.

Willa sighed. “You got me this far.”

She remembered the path glowing beneath her feet. She remembered how proud she had felt when she first left the village at sunset. The lantern had shone, and Willa had believed she could walk all the way home without any trouble.

Now she was not home. Her lantern was dark. The trees seemed tall enough to touch the stars.

A tear slipped down her cheek.

“I wanted to be brave,” she whispered.

The oak leaves rustled above her, gently and slowly.

Willa listened to the sound. It was not a warning. It was more like a lullaby without words.

She leaned her head against the trunk. The bark pressed in a pattern against her hat. She took a long breath through her nose.

Pine.

Fern.

Damp soil.

She let the breath out.

“I can be frightened and still be safe,” she said.

The words felt strange at first. Then they felt warm.

Willa looked out from beneath the branches. The darkness no longer seemed like one huge thing. It was made of many small things: a dark leaf, a dark stone, a dark patch of earth, and spaces between them where the sky showed through.

She could not walk home yet. Not safely. The path was too hard to see.

But she had found a place to wait.

Willa pulled a folded cloth from her pocket and spread it over the driest part of the ground. She placed the lantern beside her, then rested both hands in her lap.

“Tomorrow, I will ask for help,” she said. “Tonight, I will stay here until the sky grows light.”

The thought of morning made her shoulders loosen.

She imagined the sun sliding over the treetops. She imagined finding the crooked stump again. She imagined her cottage door opening with its familiar creak.

A tiny sound came from somewhere beyond the oak.

Bzzzz.

Willa lifted her head.

The sound was soft and bright, almost like a little tune made of wings. She peered into the darkness, but she could not see its maker.

Bzzzz.

It drifted closer, then faded toward the brook.

Willa held the lantern close. It remained dark.

“Was that you?” she asked the night.

No answer came. Only the quiet sound of water and leaves.

Willa settled beneath the oak once more. She was still afraid, but now her fear had a small place beside her instead of filling the whole forest. The oak sheltered her. The path was waiting. Somewhere near the brook, a gentle humming sound moved through the dark.

Her lantern would not relight.

Still, Willa was not alone, and she was safe beneath the old oak.

Courage can begin with one small, steady breath, even when the light has gone out.

End of chapter one. 5 more chapters in the full book.