Sweetness

Ms. Rosemary

Gretta waited until the sun was almost at its peak before she dared to take the winding road into the swamps. By that hour, heat had scoured away the morning’s clinging mists, and the warmth coaxed sweetness from the frangipani trees.

It always took an extra little tug to pull the cottage door closed right. She thumped it into place, spun on her heel, and drew a fortifying breath. Her fingers gripped the satchel tight.

The little dog she’d never named took prancing steps towards the town. A quick whistle called him back. He flopped back down on loamy soil with his head cocked to one side and watched her turn towards the swamps.

She never went towards the swamps. The dog knew that. But now, today, that was where she turned.

Taking just a moment to adjust, the pup sprang forward once again, sunshine gleaming on the mottle of his merle. He blithely dashed ahead to where the path twisted into reaching trees.

Gretta followed with steps less sure and eyes still wide.

This time of day, green-gold light suffused the swamps, and a smell of growth and decay floated over murky waters. She placed each boot carefully as she went, mindful of puddles in the sucking muck. For all that she started at each sound and jerked her head to catch the motion of egrets stalking in the marsh, Gretta found nothing more alarming than a horsefly dogging at her heels. She was deep into the swamps, moss draped thick on every side, when she finally spun and smashed the cursed thing. It burst with all the blood that it had drunk. The dog jumped and snapped at dragonflies while she knelt to scrub her hand against some leaves.

She turned left at a half-sunk oak, then right when she reached an old canoe. The path was thinner here: a barest bridge of stones and sticks to hold her up above the mud.

And then, when her skirts were wet and clinging and the sun was high up overhead, she found the man’s old cabin. Just where he said he’d be.

An ancient hen creaked in dismay at her approach and shambled to its weathered coop. Gretta took uncertain steps up to the cabin door. Though solid, it bloomed with stone-gray lichen, and mushrooms meandered up the grain of its old wood.

She’d barely let her knuckles rap when she heard him call from behind her.

“Ho!” sung out a voice, and she whirled so fast her fingers knocked some mushrooms to the ground.

He strode up, sweaty-faced and grinning, and she caught her breath and backed against the door. For a long moment the only sounds were of the swamp: a lone cicada keening, the restless song of water, a distant plop as something jumped and sank into the muck. Gretta tipped her head back to keep her eyes on his.

The little dog let out a yap, bristling between them, and it broke the captive moment while Gretta fumbled in her bag.

“You came,” he said, and she flushed at feeling him watch her as she scrambled out a bottle.

“Yes, I— it’s what you asked for, in the market—” She held out the stoneware flask, eyes resolutely fixed upon the ground. “Brewed just last night, which— it’s better when it’s fresher and— just stir it into any drink, like I told you—”

When he reached to take the bottle, his calluses caught her fingertips. “You came,” he said again.

At that, she looked up, quizzical, head cocking like the little dog’s. “You paid me in advance,” she blurted. “And I’m no cheat.”

He grinned at that, but he also took the bottle, freeing Gretta to spin and take quick steps, retreating back the way she came.

“Thank you, Gretta,” she heard behind her, but she did not turn or answer back. The dog chased tawny butterflies all the long walk home.

It was next week, on a Tuesday, that Gretta went to the market once again.

The market was all sing-song calls and bright-dyed pennants and smells of bread and fire and manure. She dodged carts and goats and shrieking children to find the tiny stall tucked in by the old fishmonger. He nodded, worn face kind but always grim, and shuffled seashells to one side to give her space.

The things Gretta sold at market were all simple.

There were the good-dream callers, woven out of twine and twigs, which mothers bought to hang on beds and cribs. There was the soothing ointment, a favorite for the farmers, which she scented with dried blossoms and packed in hollowed tagua nuts. She also had enchanted baubles, little stones and bones and trinkets, bespelled to twinkle in the sunlight, and shards of sea glass that would whisper tales when held up to your ear.

Those wanting something less simple had to deal with her directly.

Market day was almost over, sun shifting redly towards setting, and Gretta’d sold most of her stock and taken extra orders, too. Clyde Auger asked for a cloak of warmth, with sunshine knitted in the seams. Bones Owens wanted wagon wheels that knew their way along the road. Sweet Chancy Jane had asked, abashed, for a tonic that would cure bad breath, and Gretta murmured reassurances that she had just the thing.

Beside her, the fishmonger muttered outlandish stories of survival, and Gretta smiled and half-listened while she packed away her things. She was nestling glass vials in a bed of straw and feathers when her eyes flicked out before her and she saw him standing there.

The man from the marshes waited patiently, those callused hands easy at his sides, late afternoon light picking out the gold tones in his beard. She knew him by his shoes, cracked leather thick with dark mud, and her fingers trembled as she slid the wood box closed.

“Weren’t but half the boat left then, those fearsome teeth’d done such damage, and the boatswain had to paddle with a dead man’s boot—” rambled on the fishmonger. But Gretta’s eyes darted up to meet the marsh man’s hazel gaze, and for a moment the only thing she heard was katydids and egret calls.

“Gretta,” he said by way of greeting.

She ducked her head and didn’t speak.

“—cut the damned thing open in the end, and all they found inside were seventeen toes and a bit of old leather, still got the scars all down my left shin—”

“The same, again?” he asked, taking a step closer to offer out three shining coins.

Where her tongue may have failed her, Gretta’s business sense stayed savvy, and she swiftly pocketed his offering and answered with a nod.

He grinned once more, and Gretta looked at the dirt, the clouds, the passerby — anywhere but at that gleaming smile.

From the corner of her eye she saw him give a polite word to the old fishmonger, whose prattle barely paused, and then the man was on his way.

When she’d packed up, slung her bag over one shoulder, and nudged the dappled puppy from his nap, Gretta headed back towards her cottage. Her steps were slow as she reviewed her orders for the week: a sun-warm cloak, road-wise wheels, a halitosis tonic — here she paused to breathe in deep and think of gray moss draped on trees — and a potion for the man out in the marsh.

The next morning she arose at dawn and set to work.

“Whatever could he need it for?” she asked the yawning puppy as she siphoned dew from leaves. He snuffled and then flopped down in the dirt.

“I made that first batch right, I know I did,” said Gretta, coaxing nectar out of honeysuckle. Each bead of sweetness mingled with the tiny dish of morning dew.

Her brows knit together first in concentration, and then in consternation while she tatted lace of spider silk with mouse bones as her tools. “What kind of man would need another — a second one, so soon!”

With each step of the process, Gretta’s mind continued whirling, and she muttered endless questions while the dog whined at her feet. However, when her work was finished, and she forged her way back through the swamp, and marched up to his doorstep and set to knocking on his door, when his voice called again behind her, she found herself once more stammering and blushing at his callused hands and easy grin. Gretta handed him the potion and left breathless, without a word.

And next Tuesday at the market, her heart danced when he returned.

“The same, again,” he told her, this time not a question, and once more gave her three gold coins and a gleaming, knowing grin.

She worked all night, stealing snatches of sleep between steps of the spell, and had the wax-sealed bottle ready by the time that dawn had broken. Now, when she left the cottage, the little dog leaped in practiced bounds towards the swamps.

It was still dim and mist shimmered on the dark waters, but she knew the path and practically stomped her way towards his house.

“I have some questions for you,” she said to the trees, imagining his tawny beard. “I don’t know who you think you are—”

In the branches overhead, a startled nightjar crooned its eerie song. She thought about the warmth of his voice, and the way her heart stuttered when their fingertips touched.

This time, in the cool gray light of early morning, she hammered on his door and he was, for once, within. The mushroomed wood swung open and he offered her a sleepy smile. “You came.”

Gretta thrust out the wax-sealed bottle, which he took with easy grace. She drew a deep breath in. He waited, hazel eyes still caught in hers, and she blushed and turned and left. A dozen paces down the path, she whirled back, nerve renewed, only to find him in the doorway giving her a lazy grin. Gretta huffed, cheeks red, and turned to stomp her way into the woods.

The light had gone from gray to gold and she was halfway home before she turned and started marching back towards his home once more. Confused, the little dog came behind, a rotted stick clenched in his teeth.

She let her curiosity and indignation drive her up towards his door, where she hammered so hard the lichen fell loose. When he answered, she hardened her nerves against those eyes and smile, and let loose all the questions that were bubbling inside.

“Three. Three. Three love spells in three weeks — I call that libertine!” Gretta stood with hands on hips. “What is it then, a different lady every night? Who are you even wooing, so deep into the swamps? And don’t you claim the magic failed — I gave you my best spell!” He met her tirade with the same knowing smile, and Gretta’s outrage faltered. In uncertain tones, she asked him, “Aren’t they working?”

He stood back then and let the door swing open, leaning on the frame as if to ask her in. One arm indicated the shelf inside — the shelf where three pristine bottles sat, wax still sealed, love spells intact.

Gretta looked at the undrunk potions in confusion, then felt his callused hand along her jaw, tipping up her chin so that her wide dark eyes met his.

“Aren’t they working?” he repeated with his easy grin. “You tell me.”

G6