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Once upon a time, a milkmaid named Fiora lived with her three older brothers and mother on a farm in Neldonia. She loved picking flowers and wandering the fields, but was often scolded by her mother for having her head in the clouds and not focusing enough attention on her chores.
Two days following her fourteenth birthday, after she had finished her milking, her mother sent her into the forest to collect medicinal herbs. While she was meandering, she came across a strange-looking flower—bright orange petals wrapped inward, creating a spiral-like pattern, supported by a blue stem with blue leaves.
“Beautiful,” she breathed, kneeling. She reached out a gentle finger to stroke the soft petals, but when she pulled her finger away, the flower shriveled up and died.
Shocked, she stepped away from the flower and watched as the vivid oranges and blues faded to black and crumbled to dust. The blackness then spread out from the plant into the forest, killing all the moss and plants growing around it.
The wave of black death stopped only when it reached the first tree.
“Oh my,” Fiora whispered, glancing around. No one else was in the forest, however, so she turned her back on the black spot and headed straight home with her basket full of herbs.
When her mother asked if she’d seen anything interesting in the forest that day, Fiora said no.
For the next few weeks, she lived in fear that something terrible would befall her due to the strange happening in the woods, but slowly, life went back to normal and she mostly forgot about the orange and blue flower. When it did cross her mind, she remembered it more like an odd dream than a memory.
The next few years of her life were uneventful. Her eldest brother began his apprenticeship as a shoemaker and then started his own shoe-making business. Her next eldest brother fell in love with the tailor’s son and left to be married. Her third brother turned twenty-one and left to seek his fortune. As each brother left, their farm grew smaller and smaller, until she and her mother had only one cow, a few chickens, and a small garden.
When Fiora’s twenty-first birthday rolled around, she and her mother were living in their small cottage alone together.
“Fiora,” her mother said over breakfast, “you know you cannot live with me forever.”
“Whyever not, mother?” Fiora asked. “If I do not stay with you, then who will take care of you when you cannot take care of yourself any longer?”
“We have the whole village for that, dear,” her mother replied. “And for now, I can manage our small farm on my own. You must marry, work, or seek your fortune.”
Fiora sighed. “If you say so, mother.”
The next day, she gathered her things, said goodbye to her mother, and set out to seek her fortune.
She walked along, and soon was overtaken by a farmer named Bertram with a load of hay, who offered to drive her to the next village. She agreed, thankful for the opportunity to rest her legs.
“Where are you going?” the farmer asked her.
“Off to seek my fortune,” Fiora replied.
“What kind of fortune do you seek?” Bertram was quite friendly, Fiora thought. And younger than most farmers she knew. He looked only to be a bit older than she was.
“My mother says I must marry, work, or seek my fortune,” Fiora replied.
“Perhaps you will get lucky and do all three,” he suggested.
“Perhaps,” Fiora said. “Alas, I am fond of wandering and picking flowers, so I fear I will be an unsatisfactory laborer. And marrying simply for the sake of it seems rather shallow and unkind to my would-be suitors. So here I am, off to seek my fortune.”
“Well, I am headed to the market if you would like to join me,” Bertram offered.
Fiora agreed and spent a pleasurable afternoon traveling along the busy roads with the farmer.
When they reached the market, Fiora thanked him and went to find lodgings. The market was held in a much larger town a little over a day’s wagon ride from her home. In the distance, she could see the royal palace rising from where it sat perched atop a distant hill.
A local innkeeper gave her a room to stay in and then advised her to ask around the market to see if anyone was hiring.
“But I want to seek my fortune,” she said.
“Yes,” the innkeeper replied. “Fortunes come to those who work.”
Fiora took his advice seriously and began to wander around the market.
The first booth she stopped at was an herbalist.
“Hello,” Fiora said. “I am seeking my fortune. By chance, is there anything I can do for you?” She picked up a basket of fragrant feverfew leaves, plucking out a single stem and breathing in its scent.
“Oh, my!” the herbalist said, reaching out to grab the basket away from her.
When Fiora looked down, she was shocked to see that the leaves had all rotted away. “Oh, my!” she echoed the herbalist.
“Please,” the herbalist pressed, “you must leave. Immediately.”
Fiora gave the herbalist a coin for her trouble and went on her way, unsettled by what had just happened. Perhaps the herbalist was selling bad plants. Fiora certainly didn’t want to be involved in that.
Next, she visited a farmer selling milk and cheese. She had been a milkmaid for her family farm for years; perhaps she could find some gainful employment here.
“Hello!” she greeted them. “I am seeking my fortune. Pray tell, do you have any work?”
“Come, young woman,” an older woman called out. “Show us how you churn!”
Fiora took the handle of the churn-staff and began to work. She felt the butter thickening and called the old woman over to see.
“Oh, my!” the old woman exclaimed. “No, you must leave immediately!” When she opened the barrel, the butter was covered in a thick, green mold.
Fiora gasped and fled from the farmer’s stand.
After taking a few minutes to calm herself, she shook her head. Surely this could not be happening to her! All she wanted to do was to find her fortune, and instead she had encountered an herbalist selling bad herbs and a farmer making moldy butter. She would try one more time, and if this failed, she would set out to seek her fortune elsewhere.
The next stall she tried was a shoemaker. Her eldest brother now made shoes in her home village, so she was familiar with the trade. Perhaps if she apprenticed here, she could return to her brother and help him in his business.
“Hello,” she greeted the shoemaker. “I am seeking my fortune. Are you looking for aid?”
“How are you at stitching?” he asked her.
“I am a fair hand,” she replied confidently.
The shoemaker handed her a small piece of leather on which to demonstrate, but as she took it from him, it crumbled to ash.
“Oh no!” she exclaimed, even as the shoemaker shoed her out of his shop.
She ran from him into the crowded marketplace, only to bounce off of none other than Bertrand, the farmer.
“Fiora!” he exclaimed, steadying her. “Whatever is the problem?”
“I fear I am cursed!” she sobbed. “Everything I touch turns to death.”
“I am not dead,” he replied, but as Fiora stepped back, she noticed a black spot on his hand where he had touched her.
“I fear you are not long for life,” she replied, pointing out the black spot. “So far, I have rotted a basket of feverfew leaves, caused a barrel of butter to mold, and turned leather into ash. Perhaps my fortune is to wander our kingdom, spreading death and destruction wherever I go.”
“Well, this is concerning,” Bertram replied with a frown. “We should seek aid.”
“But who can help us?” Fiora cried.
“I think I know just the wizard.”
Bertram led her through the streets of the marketplace to a small tent in a far corner, empty of passersby. There was no name on the tent.
“Hello!” Bertram called out.
“Enter!” a deep voice hissed from within.
Fiora followed Bertram into the tent.
“Bertram the Farmer,” the deep voice hissed, “what have you brought me?”
A man sat wrapped in blankets in the back of the tent, with a long white beard and glittering eyes.
“A gift and a question,” Bertram replied. He held out a hand-carved pipe. Wrinkly old fingers emerged from the pile of blankets and snatched the pipe, then vanished back into the pile once more.
“What is the question?”
“My friend here is cursed,” Bertram said. “Could you tell us how to fix it?”
“Come here,” the wizard hissed at Fiora, “and let me see your hands.”
Fiora stepped forward, holding her hands out toward him, but he growled as soon as he saw them, “The deathweed! The deathweed! She has touched the deathweed!”
“What is the deathweed?” Fiora asked, for she had long forgotten the strange incident in the forest when she was only fourteen years old.
The pile of blankets shuddered, and then the old man produced a book and shoved it into Bertram’s hands. “You touch nothing, girl!” he ordered.
Bertram opened it to a page with an illustration of a beautiful orange flower with a blue stem.
“I saw one of those as a child!” Fiora exclaimed.
“Did you touch it?” the old man asked. “You should never touch a deathweed!”
“I don’t know what a deathweed is,” Fiora replied. “How was I supposed to know? I just enjoyed picking pretty flowers.”
“A deathweed blooms only once every ten years,” the old man replied. “The bloom lasts for three days. During those three days, if anyone touches it, a blight is released upon the land. You, girl, are the blight.”
“You mean everything I touch will die?” she exclaimed.
“Did you recently come of age?” he asked. “It is then the magic takes effect.”
“How do we stop it?” Bertram asked with a frown.
Fiora gasped. “Oh no, my mother!” She’d hugged her mother goodbye that morning. Surely, she was now dying. “I touched her!”
“And me!” Bertram added.
“There is only one way to counteract the curse,” the old wizard hissed.
“True love’s kiss?” Bertram asked.
“No!” the old man shouted. “Don’t be ridiculous. What has love got to do with it? She must go back to the place she touched the weed once seven years have passed, and carefully pull the deathweed up by the roots. Then she must brew a tea of its leaves with a drop of her blood and drink it under a full moon.”
“That’s tomorrow!” Fiora exclaimed. “It will be seven years tomorrow!”
“Go!” the old man exclaimed. “You must go now!”
“Come,” Bertrand said, leading her from the tent. “We must hurry!”
“It will take us hours and hours to get back to my village!” Fiora exclaimed. “And I cannot ride a horse! The curse grows stronger by the minute. I can feel it!”
“We will ride in my cart until it too rots beneath us.” He led her to his cart, having already sold all his hay, and hitched up his horse. Fiora climbed up onto the seat beside him, and he guided the horse from the marketplace. In no time, they were trotting along the back roads of the countryside, headed back for her hometown.
Night fell, and in the distance, Fiora could hear the eerie howling of wolves. Bats flitted through the dark sky overhead, and clouds slowly rolled in to cover the moon and stars.
“We must stop,” Bertrand finally said. “The horse needs to rest, and I cannot see anything in this darkness. Plus, I fear it may soon rain.”
“I understand,” Fiora replied.
They stopped at an old cottage with the roof half caved in. It appeared no one lived there.
“I believe this used to be the boar witch’s house,” Bertrand murmured as he guided Fiora inside. He lit a fire in the fireplace, and they huddled there until morning.
But when they exited the cottage at morning’s first light, Fiora was shocked to see that Bertrand’s wagon was now nothing more than a rotted heap of wood.
“I’m so sorry!” Fiora wailed.
Overhead, a bird screeched—it was a vulture. It soared in great circles in the sky, and then slowly drew nearer and nearer until it alighted on the ground in front of her.
“Mistress,” it cawed. “We worship you!” Around it, more vultures descended, each much larger than the chickens she and her mother had tended at home.
“Vultures that speak!” she shuddered. “How terrible!”
“Distressed, distressed!” the bird cawed. “Our mistress is distressed!”
“Why, of course I’m distressed!” Fiora replied. “I must get back to my hometown, but our cart has rotted away.”
The birds chattered with each other for a moment, but then the leader flapped his wings and rose into flight. “Follow us.” The rest of them launched into the air, creating a dark cloud overhead.
“Shall we?” Fiora asked Bertrand.
“They seem like they want to help,” Bertrand replied, “and we don’t have any other options.” He fed and watered the horse, and then the milkmaid and the farmer followed the birds through a winding forest path until they stumbled out into a wide field. An old cart sat along the edge.
“It’s missing a wheel,” Fiora exclaimed.
“I can fix it!” Bertrand pointed to where the wheel had become stuck in mud. He pulled it out and set to repairing the wagon. Fiora stayed far back, as to not harm the wagon before it was done. She did notice, however, that wherever she stood, she left a patch of darkness and death behind. It seemed the magic was growing more and more powerful.
When he completed it, Bertrand harnessed the horse and hooked it to the wagon, then carefully guided it through the field and to the main road. Fiora followed behind the wagon and hopped up on it once Bertrand was ready to trot.
Off they went, vultures circling the sky overhead.
It was late afternoon when they arrived at Fiora’s small village. As soon as Fiora reached her mother’s cottage, the wagon crumbled into a heap of rotting wood. She rushed inside to find her mother ill on the bed.
“Mother!” Fiora cried. “I’m so sorry! It’s my fault—I touched the deathweed, but I didn’t know what it was.”
“I am old,” her mother whispered. “Do not worry about me. Do what you have to do to save our village.”
Bertrand was fatiguing as well. He had a fever.
“I am coming with you,” he insisted.
“You must rest,” Fiora protested. “Please!”
But Bertrand refused and followed her into the forest. There were only a few hours left until the day turned. She must pluck the deathweed if she was going to break the curse.
The only problem, she realized quickly, was that she didn’t remember where she had found it. And Bertrand’s labored breathing behind her made her feel desperate and sad. But she knew there was only one way to save him, so she pressed on.
Each bush she brushed against shriveled up and died, and where she stepped, she left footprints of ash. Finally, after wandering in the woods for nearly two hours, she paused and took a breath.
“I don’t remember!” she cried out to the woods. “Please, guide me!”
To her surprise, the fireflies that flickered around her moved as if one, creating a path through the forest.
“Thank you,” she whispered as she traversed the darkness. Behind her, Bertrand stumbled and fell, but before she could help him, he had pulled himself to his feet again, coughing.
“Go!” His hissed word broke through the silence. “Go on without me. You must find the flower!”
Fiora did not want to leave him in the dark forest, but she had no choice. “I’ll be back for you!” she promised, and then she stumbled forward, following the fireflies winking out a line through the trees before her.
Finally, she stumbled into a clearing. The ground was darkened and bare; nothing had grown there in all these years. In the center, the deathweed glowed as beautifully orange and blue and she remembered from all those years ago. She kneeled on the ruined soil beside it, and carefully, gently, dug away the soil surrounding the flower. She tugged softly, and its deep taproot slid into her hands. She breathed a sigh of relief. Now all she had to do was brew a tea from the plant with a drop of her blood and drink it. Which meant she had to get back to her mother’s house.
A full moon glowed overhead. She needed to get home to drink the tea before the moon set. She didn’t know if the root would last another month, until the next full moon. What she did know, was that her mother and Bertrand could not survive until then.
She stepped out of the circle of ruined blackened soil, aiming back toward where she’d left Bertrand. But as soon as she was no longer inside the circle, something swooped at her head. She ducked, shrieking—it appeared to be nothing more than a shadow, but it had startled her.
She kept going, but another shadow rushed toward her from the darkness.
“The old man said nothing about this!” she exclaimed fearfully.
Another dark shadow soared past her head; she knew, deep inside her, the shadows of the damned were trying to prevent her from breaking the curse. So she ran.
Around her, the shadows darted and swirled; in the distance, wolves howled. When she finally stumbled into the clearing where she had left Bertram, he was barely breathing.
“Bertram!” she cried out into the fearsome wind. She looked down at the flower in her hand. If she didn’t do something, he would die. “Bertram!” she called again, but he didn’t stir.
Tears rolled down her cheeks, and as they fell onto the flower, they steamed.
“What is tea but hot water and time?” she whispered, and with one glance up at the glowing moon casting its soft light on the clouds below it, she bit her finger and tasted her blood, and then stuffed the flower, leaves, stem, and root into her mouth.
And oh, how it burned. And burned and burned.
But she didn’t stop. She chewed the flower, one determined crush of her jaw at a time. Her tongue felt as though it were on fire; tears streamed down her face. The vicious heat spread down her esophagus and into her stomach. She screamed and collapsed beside Bertram as her mind gave way to the blissful release of unconsciousness.
When she awoke, birds chattered in the trees and the sky overhead was awash with the soft blues of daybreak. She was alone, save for a single vulture standing before her.
“Mistress,” it cawed.
Oh no! she thought. The vultures were still talking to her. That was not a good sign. Her throat hurt and her eyes stung, but most of the pain from eating the deathweed had receded.
“Where is Bertram?” she asked. Perhaps he had died, and the vultures had eaten him.
“This way,” the vulture cawed.
Slowly, she dragged herself to her feet and followed the vulture through the forest. It flapped awkwardly, trying to avoid tree trunks and bushes.
Then she stumbled out into a clearing—the clearing. Where she had originally found the deathweed. Bertram sat in the middle of the death circle, his eyes pitch black.
“Bertram!” she exclaimed, rushing up to him.
“Don’t,” he whispered, his voice hoarse. “Don’t touch me.”
“What happened?” she cried.
“My soul,” he whispered, “was taken by the wind shadows.”
“What can I do?” she begged, falling to her knees. She sent a silent plea into the air, hoping the wizard could hear. Perhaps he could tell her what to do.
The vulture cawed once, drawing Fiora’s attention to a tree stump, where a hazy figure of a man sat wrapped in blankets.
“Now this is where you can use true love’s kiss,” the old man cackled, and then vanished.
“I don’t know if he’s my true love!” Fiora exclaimed, but the old man had disappeared, providing no additional information.
She faced Bertram. “What do you want to do?” she asked. Once again, tears flooded down her cheeks.
“Well,” he said, “I never really believed in true love anyway. I always thought it was simply a choice you made every day. And I like you. If I survive this, I would make that choice.”
Fiora rose and stepped into the circle. “Bertram,” she whispered, “I will choose to love you. Will you choose me?”
“Yes,” he whispered.
She leaned forward and kissed him. His eyes shifted from black pits of emptiness to deep green, and he leaned in to kiss her more deeply.
Then, together, they stood smiling, and went to tell Fiora’s mother the good news. They had saved the world and found each other.
They lived happily ever after.