CHAPTER 1 It is a clear night and a full moon and starry sky light up the sparse woods as much as the dying campfire does A couple of hours ago the fire had been roaring in front of the squat wood cottage set among dozens of cottages just like it in these woods Now it’s late and most of the residents who live in this tiny forest village have gone to bed Only some of the young villagers are still awake They’re mostly teenagers old enough to stay up even when the wolves begin to howl and young enough to stay up without feeling tired the next day But there’s one person awake who is one of the oldest villagers She’s been living in the village as long as any of the other villagers can remember Longer even No one knows how old she is at least eighty some of the adults say
A hundred whispers one of the teenagers huddled around the campfire tonight She must be a hundred He can’t be blamed for thinking it She’s tired looking and bent Her skin clings to her face like a dried-out potato sack Her eyes are hollow and dark Her fingers are long and crooked Her teeth when she flashes them are yellow and worn down The villagers call her many names The adults call her Mum The littlest kids call her Grandmum The teens call her the Old Witch in the Little Cottage or just the Owl for short when she’s not listening She knows all those names and she doesn’t mind them Mum says a girl of about fourteen who is sitting on a tree stump by the campfire She leans toward the flames a bit trying to soak up some of their heat Aren’t you going to bed The old woman gives a slow smile I suppose I should she says It’s just so warm here and so comfortable She stares across the circle into the dark woods around them And I admit she goes on after a brief silence I do like the energy of youth She
chuckles You kids give off life like a lightbulb gives off light A lightbulb the girl asks confused The old woman nods and hums amused She picks up a stick and pokes the embers They pop and crackle and then brighten for a moment How about I tell you a story before I turn in she says looking up The teens mumble and grumble The old lady laughs lightly again Such enthusiasm she says She tosses her poking stick into the embers and watches the weak orange glow gather around it It burns slowly at first then catches in a yellow and blue flame that crawls along its length like a butterfly flapping its wings Your parents have heard this story she says staring into the fire Your little brothers and sisters will hear it She looks away from the fire and stares across the circle at the girl I suppose your kids will hear it too the old woman says eventually
