The Summer She Learned the Forest’s Secrets

The first time I saw her, a crimson ribbon crowned her hair, contrasting with the earthy green of the forest. A worn leather backpack slung across her small shoulders. She moved through the trees like a shadow learning its edges—lifting stones, parting ferns, listening to the wind as if it whispered answers only she could understand.

She froze suddenly at a snapping twig, poised like a startled deer. Then she bent low again, folding over herself, searching. I knew what she sought. Her sister, lost to a careless fairy bargain made in anger—the kind the fey delight in, where consent comes without comprehension.

The cost was terrible. One sister had wished to become the other, and the second had wished an intrusive cousin away. The fey granted the wishes, twisted as always: the girls swapped places, and one vanished.

I did not interfere with her search. But I watched, fascinated by her ritual. Every year, on the same day, she returned to the forest, repeating the same desperate gestures. Perhaps the ritual that had taken her sister might also bring her back. I stayed hidden under the old weeping willow, observing her devotion.

She stepped into a mushroom circle, laying out her offerings: a small blade, a fragrant slice of something like chocolate cake, and a tiny bone—maybe a tooth. Her hands were steady, precise. Yet she lacked the wisdom of the forest, of the craft. Her intent was true, but technique alone could not bend the fey.

Years of this ritual would break her. Her grief would eat her alive, and I could not let that happen. After all, this forest was mine, and with it came responsibility—even for stubborn children who think themselves alone.

Before the summer ended, I let her see me. The villagers called me the dark witch of Veilwood. They whispered of devils and spoiled milk, of mischief and fear. They believed whatever they needed to survive. Only the brave—or desperate—dared approach.

I did not need to scare her away. I needed her curiosity. A shadow crossing the field, a glimpse in the distance, and she began watching me. Weeks passed. She was wild-eyed, sharp, patient. Like a fox, she weighed the risk and the hunger inside her.

When she finally reached my cabin, she did not knock. Children of the forest rarely do. “I was told you know the rules,” she said, eyes fierce beneath her ribbon. Her hands were stained—berries, perhaps, but something darker. Dried blood.

“Who taught you to draw a circle like that?” I asked.

“My sister,” she pressed her lips to a thin line. That worried me more than tears could have.

Magic is not in words alone. It is the offering of yourself with intention. Blood is not power—it is the clarity behind it. Someone had to teach her, and I would.

I offered her a hot brew of skullcap, lemon balm, and nettles. Silence draped over us. Eventually, I spoke. “Bargains are law. Not just granted wishes.” Sparrows tapped the window frame as if listening.

“Marie,” she said. I already knew.

“You may call me Estelle.”

Fairy bargains are subtle, dangerous. What she wanted required more than reversing a deal. Initially, I refused to help. Yet she returned, again and again, learning the rhythms of the forest like a shadow learning to move unseen.

“There’s a lot to learn before you can perform your task,” I warned.

“I can learn anything.”

“Anything… but not everything,” I corrected. That day, she became my apprentice. Morning, midday, and dusk, she followed me—silent, determined, growing bolder.

Within weeks, she could read the wind like scripture, tell time by flowers, predict the weather from tiny shifts in light and air. Every insect, every herb, every whisper of the forest learned her name. She was ready for more.

Summer faded. She returned home with a list of texts, a journal, and the duty of practice. She studied circles, protection spells, divination. By next June, Marie returned brighter, thinner, more determined. Her journal was meticulous, a testament to obsession and hope entwined.

She prepared her usual offerings: blade, fresh brownies, thyme, milk tooth. But one ingredient remained missing—something no recipe could supply. I explained the missing piece: desperation, anger, hate, and shame were useless. She must offer a part of herself, not her blood, but her soul. Intent, pure and full, was the magic.

The ritual day arrived. She cast her circle, sage smoke curling around her, boundaries marked in salt, calling on the five elements. The Sturgeon Moon blessed her steps as she moved thrice into the circle.

I watched, hidden, pulse quickening. The wind rose. Leaves tore from branches, encircling her in a protective orb. Lightning of energy rippled through the mushroom circle. I could not see her, only feel the force.

And then—the air stilled. She knelt, fist clenched, shoulders trembling. Tears fell unseen beneath her hair. I hesitated, giving her space.

“Marie,” I whispered finally. She turned, not to me, but toward a voice—her aunt, bursting through brambles, breath ragged, skirts torn. Protective, accusing, she dragged Marie away from the circle.

Her eyes caught mine for a moment. No fear. Not yet. A silent promise of understanding passed between us.

The circle remained unclosed. I closed it myself, whispering gratitude to whatever listened. Rituals are not keys. Results do not always manifest. But the energy endures. Transformations begin, often invisible, unfolding in their own time.

And sometimes, the thing we most desire may not be what we need.