Mereamar
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Another story of mine dealing in cute boys and the ticklishness of their feet. But this time, a dark fairy tale with an eldritch monster ler.
.......
The night is dark. The Black Wood is darker.
He knows this, as leaves crunch beneath his sandaled feet. He has known this since he was a little boy, listening to cautionary tales around the hearth. He looks to the sky but sees so little of it. Only glimpses of the stars and the moon can be seen, beneath the towering trees of grim forest. The Black Wood will swallow you up, the voice of his mother echoes in his mind. He shivers, and not just from the cold of the night.
But the boy pushes through anyway. Determined, even through his fear. He may not be strong. He may not be brave. Hey may be softer than a summer breeze. But he is dutiful. He is a dutiful son, a dutiful son of his mother and father and his village. And this is a task he must complete. He is the only one that can complete it. Because he is soft. Because he is young and pretty. The prime of youth, but eighteen summers.
The crop withers. The river dries. The rain has not come this spring. No help will come in time, and no message seems to send. The village is cursed. And if something is not done, his people will die. It will be left as nothing but a ghost town, wind whispering through overgrown cottages like it now does through these trees. He sees this doom approaching his family and his friends, and he cannot abide it.
No one dares admit it, but all know the cause of this affliction. He knows how they all look fearfully to the Black Wood. All the stories told to frighten him to bed, now repeated in hushed tones. A curse that echoes through the annals of their history, all centered in the forest they fear. The perpetrator who blights their crops and taints their water supply. An ancient evil, one they have no chance of defeating, no chance of driving out. A primordial thing. Her.
The Witch of the Black Wood.
She has been the monster in his stories for as long as he can remember. For as long as his parents remember, and his parents’ parents remember, for as long as the village as stood on this ground. And likely before. Likely long before man stood upright and tamed fire. A woodland spirit that has embodied the forest’s darkness since time immemorial. This is not the first time she has threatened the village, or so the tales say. She has never been defeated, only appeased. She will return, and she has, and now fear grips them all.
It grips him. But bravery is not absence of fear, but the will to push on despite it. And he knows enough of the stories to know what he must do. He has not told mother and father, because he knows they will weep and beg him to stay. But to stay is only to die slowly, and he can’t bear to watch anyone else perish when he can save them all.
He is pulled from his thoughts when a bit of forest debris slips through into his sandal and crunches against his bare sole. He flinches-the sting is fleeting, but a crackling leaf sends a shiver down his spine. It brings him back to wear he is now. Traveling toward the center of the wood, to meet the mistress of the wood. To make his offering. To save everyone he has ever known and loved.
He is close. He knows this. Somehow, he knows this. He should not, no one knows where the Witch truly resides. But somehow, he knows it in his very bones. He shakes the fragments of the leaf from his shoe and pushes onward. The Black Wood gets only darker. More and more the branches block the light of moon and stars. Perhaps that is why he knows he is close, but that is an excuse. He knows he is getting close because she wants him to find her.
And he does. He sees the grove, the grove within the trees. Light swallowed entirely around the treeline, but for one spot. In the center of the grove, a perfect circle open to the light of the moon. Shining down a pale white. As if to present whoever stands before it.
This light is not for her, he senses. It is for him.
He stares at the circle of moonlight for a time. Apprehensive. All his second thoughts taking now to surface. He closes his eyes and sighs. And presses onward.
He enters the light, one tentative step at a time. The light illuminates his fluffy auburn hair, his soft, beautiful features. His simple green tunic and his well-worn sandals. A country rose, beloved by all, all his age smitten. Presented here, he is a painting. An epitome of straightforward farmyard allure, the kind to which musicians write songs, perfection in the pale moonlight.
That painting could be admired for a few moments more, as he stayed silent. His heart pounding in his chest. His toes flick together, chilled by the night air. Fear still grips him. But still, the bravery is there too. And it will prevail, the valiant flower prevails over the wilting one. He clears his throat and speaks out into the forest.
“W…Witch!”
The farmboy’s body tenses, waiting for a response. In truth, waiting for his life to end in an instant, to die for daring to think of challenging such a spirit in any capacity. But the seconds pass, and all he hears is the rustle of leaves.
A shred of embarrassment manifests as red against his cheeks. He puffs up his chest to an (unimpressive) fullness in an attempt to appear heroic. “Witch!” His attempted bellow sounds more like a squeak, but he is proud of it anyway. “I have come to parlay with you! I plead your attentions!”
At first, there is no answer. Once again, he fears there is nothing there. That he is mistaken, that his journey has been for naught. But then he hears it. Starting low, barely noticeable. But gradually picking up in volume, until it is undeniable. A rasping, sinister laugher, that shakes through the branches and rattles him to his core. The laughter continues for longer than it should, long enough for the boy’s bravado to temporarily falter. Then, her voice.
“Speak, pretty bird.”
The power in that voice gave him pause. It was more than a request; it was a command. And it carried with it the unassailable power of ancient magic, of a spirit world beyond the means of man. He was here to speak, yes. But now he felt he could no longer be quiet even if he wanted to. This was her domain, and he would have to abide by it.
“Madam Witch.” He started, taking a step forward, sucking in a breath. “You have cursed my village and my people. This curse dooms us all.”
“I know this.”
The spirit’s tone is matter of fact, dismissive. She knows her misdeed, it is clear, and feels not a shred of remorse or sympathy. Anger, for the first time, fires in the boy’s heart. An anger he knows is foolish, but one he cannot quelch. What a cruel creature this Witch is, that she would condemn him and all others without a care! He tempers this fury, knowing he is nothing to her, but it cannot help but seep through his words.
“Why? What have we done to offend you so?” His hands ball into indignant fists and his voice raises. “Have we not lived in the forest’s wake for so long? Are we its people as much as you? Why forsake us?” He expects the cold hand of death, as before, but now he is not nearly as afraid of it. At least for now, drunk on his disdain.
The Witch laughs that scratchy laugh, before her reply. “These woods are mine. Your village is mine. Your people are mine.” The voice is one of amusement, not rage. How silly, this boy, to think he can make demands of The Witch of the Black Wood. How cute. “If you are to live among my lands, you accept my rule. And your people have not lived up to your end of vassalage. You have not given me my needed tribute. I have waited a hundred years, and still I have not had it, pretty bird.”
The village son’s brief fury fizzles in the Witch’s tone. Desperation and despair replace it. He takes one step forward, his foot raised partially from the ground. “But how are we to know what tribute you require?” He begs, holding back tears. Unaware of how she sees him, how these tears entice. “How are we, who live not centuries, to remember demands made of our parents’ parents?”
“Ah!” The Witch interrupts, like a scolding teacher. He shrinks. “But you know what I require, don’t you, pretty bird? You have heard the stories. Or else, why would you, of all the little villagers, come to me, my sweet?” The scolding becomes instead a low purr. The words of affection set fire to the boy’s cheeks, and he brushes through his hair. Looking down to the forest floor. Because he knows.
“They say the Witch of the Black Wood has always had affection for pretty youths.” He murmurs, glancing in the direction of the spirit’s voice. “I’m the fairest in the village. Everyone says so…so I thought…that if I came, you’d listen to me. You’d…tell me what we need to bring you to stop this. To save us.” Another laugh from the shadows. And now more. For he sees something stirring in the dark.
The shape is strange, spindly, not quite right, and very very tall. It never seems to look exactly the same in each moment, apart from one detail. The glowing, yellow cat’s eyes. They gaze upon him with something he begins to realize is hunger. “Oh no, my pretty bird. You misunderstand.” Her tone drips with condescension and barely contained eagerness. “My love of mortal beauties does not open your way to payment. It is the payment.” A cold chill runs through his spine. “You are the payment, pretty bird.”
The boy balks. He knows not what the Witch means, only that it is more than he had believed it to be. Her eyes seer into every part of him. He shifts uncomfortably, straightening his tunic and searching for the right words. The malevolent spirit wants…him as payment. To what could that mean to him? He sees those searing eyes flicker around his form. Perhaps he does not notice how they linger upon his sandals. But something he does realize, in a dawning thought, is what her eyes tell him.
It is an infatuated leer. He is quite used to infatuated leers. As the village flower, there are few his age who do not give him that infatuated leer. And were he to confess, he is vainly fond of infatuated leers. In the pleasant summers he will pose and giggle and blow kisses. He knows how to entice a woman who has become enamored of him. And is this not the same? Cannot he not do what he has already done, with hard village girls, with the Witch of the Black Wood? To save them all, it is hardly a choice.
“Witch.” He declares with confidence, even a hint of flirtation. A purposeful flip of his hair, and then a curtsy. “Whatever you ask of me, you will have, if you lift your dreadful curse.” The confidence is half-feigned; he still fears the Witch with so much of his heart. But does it matter, if it achieves his noble goal? He supposes not.
There is a rumbling from the shape. The Witch’s pleasure in his words is evident and shakes through the branches and against the grassy ground. “Good, good. Now, sweet bird. You will do as I say, and all will be well. With your people, and for my pleasures.” He nods, standing at attention. “Sit. Sit! Relax yourself, little birdie.”
He is quick to follow her command, now. Has accepted what he is to do…or at least, he thinks he has. What sort of plans could such a being have for him? It matters not, for he acts as a savior and not for himself. He scoots down into the dirt and grass, legs pushed in front of him and hands within his lap. “As you wish, spirit.”
The wood shakes with her approval. “Good, good. Now, for the matter of those things you wear upon your feet, silly bird.”
The son lifted one foot off the ground, tilting his head quizzically. “My sandals?” he asks, stretching his toes taut. They are simple, handcrafted things. Made of leftover leather by his mother. A strap lies between his big toe and the one besides, with more spreading from that line over the tops of his feet. A thicker strap at his heel keeps them held firm and lets the pink flesh peek out from within. They are thin, so as not to waste what they had, but functional. “Do you not like them?”
“They look enchanting on you, my sweet.” Already, he realizes the Witch no longer speaks to him as an intruder. But as…as a possession. “But they are a prelude to what I want. To what connects you to the earth. Remove them.” He nods, and with shaky hands, he reaches over to grip upon his sandals. First the left, slipping the strap from out between his toes. Revealing slowly the tender surface beneath, heel first. Is it his imagination, that the Witch begins to subtly growl, as if the sight teases her wild? When that first foot is freed, long plump toes wiggle in the cool night air, the curve of the arch stretching taut. There is no imagination there-the Witch hisses with delight.
The boy is terrified. But in other ways he is not. He is…oddly thrilled, that she would be so enamored. That even a being like this sees him as such a fair flower. “Now, the other.” She crows in anticipation. Emboldened, and perhaps even cheeky, the son teases on intention. The right foot is freed from sandal slowly, purposefully, so each inch of soft skin is a presentation. It works; the rustling and growling is louder, faster.
The farmboy places both his naked feet upon the ground in front of him, aflame with embarrassment and intrigue both. The cool of the forest makes his toes twitch, and he presses the warm soles against one another to keep them steady. “Is…” He stammers, hand against his cheek. “This is to your liking, Witch?”
“Utterly perfect.” The shape is closer, closer, until he can almost make it out. But not quite. Not quite. “Now let us begin the harvest, sweetling.” He bristles nervously, eyes staring into the yellow of the spirit’s. He does not know what harvest she intends. But he will learn. He…he wants to learn.
“Harvest?” He pipes up, big toe pressed into the arch of his other sole. Her answer is at first, another laugh. Perhaps a prelude to what is to come.
“Sing for me, songbird.” It echoes from the darkness, that rasping, scratchy voice. It is low and whispered, yet seems to shake the gnarled, dead branches of the grove. It sends shivers down his spine. But not nearly as shivering as what happens next.
The shape in the shadow moves, and a long, crooked claw stretches out towards him. He braces himself, trying to keep his fear at bay, to cease from trembling. The arm looks more like the broken trees than it does that of a person, uncannily long and thin, reaching out to him. He closes his eyes, stops breathing. And then he shivers-truly shivers, all throughout his body-when the claw presses gently into the plush skin of his sole.
“Pfttt…” A puff of air escapes his lips, and he peaks open his eye with a curious surprise. Before he can react further, the claw begins to slide itself down across the surface. His foot jerks at the sensation, and single precious giggle is harvested. “Hehe!” Melodic and sweet, that could melt the hearts of the most hardy of daughters. And Witches too.
“Sssssensitive, boy?” The rhetorical question is asked with glee, with a roll of whatever passed for the Witch’s tongue. Her claw begins to trace circles around the bottoms of his feet, crossing from sole to sole. The farmyard son burbles up more barely contained titters, pedals darting from side to side. The fingers follow them, a dance of darts and twitches.
“Miss Witch!” The boy stutters, clutching the side of his head. Forced mirth that may not have been quite so forced. More confused and surprised than scared, now. “My feet are…hehe…awfully ticklish!” Instinctually, he tries to pull his feet away, to avoid the strange feelings forcing laughter to his lips. But his escape is a doomed one. Another clawed hand appears from the darkness to grip firm both his ankles, locking him in place.
“Of course they are, songbird. Of course they are.” The Witch coos, as she adds a second finger to her exploration of soles. Both claws speed across his skin, each little nerve convulsing upon the increasingly aggressive tickles. Across the instep and circling the arches before darting down to heels. That prompts squeals from the precious boy, clutching his cheeks and shaking side to side, heels lightly kicking against the Witch’s grip. “You’ve such a lovely song, my dear. I could listen to it for eternity.”
“Hehe….hehehe…hahaha…M…mmiihihis…Witch!” The ticklish farmboy gasps through his youthful laughing fit. He shakes his hand desperately in front of him, sucking in big gulps of breath whenever he can. “Ihihiihis thihihis reahelly what youhuh…heek…HEEK really what you…WahahahaNT!?”
“There is no sweeter harvest than a pretty son’s laughter, and no greater crop than his feet.” She insists, more claws added to his wavering soles, additional instruments to direct her symphony of laughter. His was the song and the harvest, and she would reap her nourishment and her entertainment both. “This is what I was promised. And this is what shall be given to me, if you wish your village saved.” Briefly, he tries to be stoic. Reminded of his quest to save all he knows. His lips wobble, and he shakes his head back and forth to hold it in. She finds this only encouraging, a challenge to find more fruitful laughter harvests.
She succeeds. “EEEEEEEEEK!” The boy begins to buckle like a spooked horse, when her exploration goes upward. “NOHOHOHOOT MY TOOHOHOHOESSS! WIIHIHIHITCH!” He howls, fingers splaying and twitching in tune with his lower extremities and their terrible sensitivity.
“Poor, poor birdy. Can he not handle a simple tickle upon his toesies?” She cackles, overjoyed to find a weakness among a weakness. She plays a game with those treasured toes, now. Poking just underneath each toe in turn, then between, then sliding up to tease the pad. It drives him wild, and tears begin to form in the corners of his eyes. “One toe, two toe, three toe, more, four toe, five toe, his toes I so adore…” She is so gentle with him. So reverent. Claws that could so easily rend flesh instead only lightly dance underneath his twitchy toes. They splay and scrunch and wriggle, but there is no escape. The Witch will have her promised harvest, her promised song.
His hands hug at his torso while he shakes rapidly side to side. Tears flow down cheeks turned a heavy pink from all his coerced glee. Claws poke in between the wrinkled folds he creates with tensed skin and force them smooth again, ripe for ever more tickling fury.
The Witch is the forest, and the forest is the Witch. Her body may be shadowed in front of her laughing prey, but her spirit is everywhere. With a sound like bones cracking, branches from the trees that surround him slither through the air. What little of the village son’s eyes can see through his tears tell him to fear more light pressures on ravaged feet. But the tree limbs do not descend to assist their queen. Instead, they gently push themselves between the straps of his discarded footwear. They cannot be used to hide his weakness from her. Gingerly, the trees pull two leather protectors into the air.
The branches hold his sandals just above him, tauntingly. Letting them swing back and forth while they are slowly dragged away into the wood. He can see every second of their departure and can on some level recognize the gesture, even through his ticklish agony. They are being taken as trophies. He can just about make out the Witch triumphantly taking the pair in hand…and yet both her hands remain tormenting his feet, now reddening from her unrelenting assault.
“Nohoohoho…! Thohose are…my mhahama maahahade…” The boy extends his arm to futility rescue the shoes far outside his reach. At least, until the Witch punishes his defiance with a furious scribbling at the center of both soles. There is no sympathy from the spirit for a sweet boy’s sentiment to his mother. That village woman, worrying in her hovel, has lost all claim to him. Her heartfelt creation to protect tender feet are the Witch’s prize, made all the more precious by her conquest. “WIHIHIIHITCCH…PLEEASSEEEE…”
“Ah, ah, ah, songbird.” She chides him, catching his attention by skating the claws between his toes. “Call me Mistress.” It would be wise for the Witch to ease upon her silky sole canvas, to allow him to process this request. But she cannot help herself, not when his toes wiggle so deliciously. She does not let up when she has the sensitive webbing in her grasp, calling to her.
“W…hahahahat?” He chirps, taken aback by this new demand. So frazzled is he by the constant barrage of tickly fingers, he wonders if he has misheard her. “I doohohohon’t…MMMPPHHH!”
Punishment is again meted out for confusion interpreted as defiance, a terrible claw striking at the pad of his big toe, intense and consistent. “I need your surrender, pretty son. I need you to accept these soles are mine. So call me Mistress, sweet bird.” His lips quivered; cheeks pouty as he attempted to keep his laughter to himself. What a greedy creature was he, depriving the Witch of her harvest. He had to be reminded of the stakes…and the terms.
“I cannot bear to parted with your silken soles, my sweet.” She punctuates this mixture of possessive and loving by caressing at his foot bottoms like a lover, a ticklish experience for one so sensitive even had they not been touched with claws. “If you wish to lift the curse, then my concubine you shall be.” Even this gesture proves too irresistible to the insatiable Witch, and the caress grows faster and faster and more and more aggressive.
So many things swirl around in the son’s pretty head. Even with his mind clouded by the betrayal of his own feet, he recognizes this is a permanent fate. And that more, more, more tickles await him. He thinks upon his mother and father. Wonders if he will ever see them again. But then, the dutiful son reminds him it is better to know they live than it is to see them waste away to the curse. So he lets the dam break, and stops holding it in.
“Mihisihiiihistress! I…hehehe….heheheheoohoho….EEEEEK!” The release of air into a torrent of laughter kills whatever more he could say. But the Witch-his Mistress-hears the desired title, and that satisfies her.
“There’s a good boy. Laugh for Mistress.” The twisted talons make ticklish war upon feet already red as a beat and struggling like mad. More, more, more, stronger, faster, until the only thing in his mind is touch and laughter. “You will sing only for me, pretty bird. You will be mine, sole and soul, forever and always.” There is not a single drop of resistance remaining in the boy. The closest thing he has left in his mind besides tickles is the contentment he has been the savior of his village, this night.
“Yehehehess! Mistress! Yeeeehehehss!” He yelps and hollers, what little remains of the valiant boy a mess. Hair messy and frazzled, eyes tear-stained and almost drunk, tongue lolling from his mouth like a dog. The Witch’s concubine is all but complete, almost all that remains. In mind, and soon in spirit.
“Submit. Say it aloud. Say you submit. SAY YOU SUBMIT.” All the fury of the forest, of a ruthless and uncaring wild, rumbles from the Witch’s voice. There is no denying her. There is no denying her hunger, her harvest, her symphony. And he hasn’t the willpower to even try. He surrenders.
“I submit! I submit!” He cries through sweet laughter, pounding his palm into the forest floor in a quick, desperate motion. “My soul and soles are yours!”
“Forever?” The Witch croons, delight and eagerness creeping through her voice, as her fingers creep across the tender bottoms of his feet.
“Forever! Forever! I am yours! I submit, I submit I SUBMIT!”
Her cry of triumph is like a roar, bestial and full of elation. An agreement to a forest spirit is eternally binding. For the sake of his people, the songbird’s fate is sealed. Dozens of branches and roots burst from all corners of the wood, converging upon his body that quivers still with laughter. They proceed to cocoon him, every inch of him concealed within wooded desires. Only gasping lips of giggles and spasming sensitive feet remain visible, as he is dragged away.
That small bastion of starlight is deprived of his sweetness, which belongs to the darkness now. Deeper, deeper he goes, howling and wriggling the whole time. He can feel little else but the Witch’s tickles upon his soles. She casts magic with her touches, drawing ancient symbols on her prize. More and more, the boy finds his energy constantly replenishes. Feels his youth frozen in time. His Mistress would never allow her favored to wither. Forever is not a metaphor, it is truth. And he will be forever lost to the world of mortals, the last of him the faint echoes of mirthful melody that fade out of hearing. Until there is nothing but the chirping of crickets and the rustling of leaves.
From that point onward, the village never experienced a bad harvest again. Even in the dead of winter, the people had full bellies and fuller hearts, their lives happy and carefree. And if one goes deep into the woods, especially in the dead of night. You can hear it.
The sweet sound of boyish laughter, the harvest of a sweet, selfless son.
His soles forever claimed by the Witch of the Black Wood.
.......
The night is dark. The Black Wood is darker.
He knows this, as leaves crunch beneath his sandaled feet. He has known this since he was a little boy, listening to cautionary tales around the hearth. He looks to the sky but sees so little of it. Only glimpses of the stars and the moon can be seen, beneath the towering trees of grim forest. The Black Wood will swallow you up, the voice of his mother echoes in his mind. He shivers, and not just from the cold of the night.
But the boy pushes through anyway. Determined, even through his fear. He may not be strong. He may not be brave. Hey may be softer than a summer breeze. But he is dutiful. He is a dutiful son, a dutiful son of his mother and father and his village. And this is a task he must complete. He is the only one that can complete it. Because he is soft. Because he is young and pretty. The prime of youth, but eighteen summers.
The crop withers. The river dries. The rain has not come this spring. No help will come in time, and no message seems to send. The village is cursed. And if something is not done, his people will die. It will be left as nothing but a ghost town, wind whispering through overgrown cottages like it now does through these trees. He sees this doom approaching his family and his friends, and he cannot abide it.
No one dares admit it, but all know the cause of this affliction. He knows how they all look fearfully to the Black Wood. All the stories told to frighten him to bed, now repeated in hushed tones. A curse that echoes through the annals of their history, all centered in the forest they fear. The perpetrator who blights their crops and taints their water supply. An ancient evil, one they have no chance of defeating, no chance of driving out. A primordial thing. Her.
The Witch of the Black Wood.
She has been the monster in his stories for as long as he can remember. For as long as his parents remember, and his parents’ parents remember, for as long as the village as stood on this ground. And likely before. Likely long before man stood upright and tamed fire. A woodland spirit that has embodied the forest’s darkness since time immemorial. This is not the first time she has threatened the village, or so the tales say. She has never been defeated, only appeased. She will return, and she has, and now fear grips them all.
It grips him. But bravery is not absence of fear, but the will to push on despite it. And he knows enough of the stories to know what he must do. He has not told mother and father, because he knows they will weep and beg him to stay. But to stay is only to die slowly, and he can’t bear to watch anyone else perish when he can save them all.
He is pulled from his thoughts when a bit of forest debris slips through into his sandal and crunches against his bare sole. He flinches-the sting is fleeting, but a crackling leaf sends a shiver down his spine. It brings him back to wear he is now. Traveling toward the center of the wood, to meet the mistress of the wood. To make his offering. To save everyone he has ever known and loved.
He is close. He knows this. Somehow, he knows this. He should not, no one knows where the Witch truly resides. But somehow, he knows it in his very bones. He shakes the fragments of the leaf from his shoe and pushes onward. The Black Wood gets only darker. More and more the branches block the light of moon and stars. Perhaps that is why he knows he is close, but that is an excuse. He knows he is getting close because she wants him to find her.
And he does. He sees the grove, the grove within the trees. Light swallowed entirely around the treeline, but for one spot. In the center of the grove, a perfect circle open to the light of the moon. Shining down a pale white. As if to present whoever stands before it.
This light is not for her, he senses. It is for him.
He stares at the circle of moonlight for a time. Apprehensive. All his second thoughts taking now to surface. He closes his eyes and sighs. And presses onward.
He enters the light, one tentative step at a time. The light illuminates his fluffy auburn hair, his soft, beautiful features. His simple green tunic and his well-worn sandals. A country rose, beloved by all, all his age smitten. Presented here, he is a painting. An epitome of straightforward farmyard allure, the kind to which musicians write songs, perfection in the pale moonlight.
That painting could be admired for a few moments more, as he stayed silent. His heart pounding in his chest. His toes flick together, chilled by the night air. Fear still grips him. But still, the bravery is there too. And it will prevail, the valiant flower prevails over the wilting one. He clears his throat and speaks out into the forest.
“W…Witch!”
The farmboy’s body tenses, waiting for a response. In truth, waiting for his life to end in an instant, to die for daring to think of challenging such a spirit in any capacity. But the seconds pass, and all he hears is the rustle of leaves.
A shred of embarrassment manifests as red against his cheeks. He puffs up his chest to an (unimpressive) fullness in an attempt to appear heroic. “Witch!” His attempted bellow sounds more like a squeak, but he is proud of it anyway. “I have come to parlay with you! I plead your attentions!”
At first, there is no answer. Once again, he fears there is nothing there. That he is mistaken, that his journey has been for naught. But then he hears it. Starting low, barely noticeable. But gradually picking up in volume, until it is undeniable. A rasping, sinister laugher, that shakes through the branches and rattles him to his core. The laughter continues for longer than it should, long enough for the boy’s bravado to temporarily falter. Then, her voice.
“Speak, pretty bird.”
The power in that voice gave him pause. It was more than a request; it was a command. And it carried with it the unassailable power of ancient magic, of a spirit world beyond the means of man. He was here to speak, yes. But now he felt he could no longer be quiet even if he wanted to. This was her domain, and he would have to abide by it.
“Madam Witch.” He started, taking a step forward, sucking in a breath. “You have cursed my village and my people. This curse dooms us all.”
“I know this.”
The spirit’s tone is matter of fact, dismissive. She knows her misdeed, it is clear, and feels not a shred of remorse or sympathy. Anger, for the first time, fires in the boy’s heart. An anger he knows is foolish, but one he cannot quelch. What a cruel creature this Witch is, that she would condemn him and all others without a care! He tempers this fury, knowing he is nothing to her, but it cannot help but seep through his words.
“Why? What have we done to offend you so?” His hands ball into indignant fists and his voice raises. “Have we not lived in the forest’s wake for so long? Are we its people as much as you? Why forsake us?” He expects the cold hand of death, as before, but now he is not nearly as afraid of it. At least for now, drunk on his disdain.
The Witch laughs that scratchy laugh, before her reply. “These woods are mine. Your village is mine. Your people are mine.” The voice is one of amusement, not rage. How silly, this boy, to think he can make demands of The Witch of the Black Wood. How cute. “If you are to live among my lands, you accept my rule. And your people have not lived up to your end of vassalage. You have not given me my needed tribute. I have waited a hundred years, and still I have not had it, pretty bird.”
The village son’s brief fury fizzles in the Witch’s tone. Desperation and despair replace it. He takes one step forward, his foot raised partially from the ground. “But how are we to know what tribute you require?” He begs, holding back tears. Unaware of how she sees him, how these tears entice. “How are we, who live not centuries, to remember demands made of our parents’ parents?”
“Ah!” The Witch interrupts, like a scolding teacher. He shrinks. “But you know what I require, don’t you, pretty bird? You have heard the stories. Or else, why would you, of all the little villagers, come to me, my sweet?” The scolding becomes instead a low purr. The words of affection set fire to the boy’s cheeks, and he brushes through his hair. Looking down to the forest floor. Because he knows.
“They say the Witch of the Black Wood has always had affection for pretty youths.” He murmurs, glancing in the direction of the spirit’s voice. “I’m the fairest in the village. Everyone says so…so I thought…that if I came, you’d listen to me. You’d…tell me what we need to bring you to stop this. To save us.” Another laugh from the shadows. And now more. For he sees something stirring in the dark.
The shape is strange, spindly, not quite right, and very very tall. It never seems to look exactly the same in each moment, apart from one detail. The glowing, yellow cat’s eyes. They gaze upon him with something he begins to realize is hunger. “Oh no, my pretty bird. You misunderstand.” Her tone drips with condescension and barely contained eagerness. “My love of mortal beauties does not open your way to payment. It is the payment.” A cold chill runs through his spine. “You are the payment, pretty bird.”
The boy balks. He knows not what the Witch means, only that it is more than he had believed it to be. Her eyes seer into every part of him. He shifts uncomfortably, straightening his tunic and searching for the right words. The malevolent spirit wants…him as payment. To what could that mean to him? He sees those searing eyes flicker around his form. Perhaps he does not notice how they linger upon his sandals. But something he does realize, in a dawning thought, is what her eyes tell him.
It is an infatuated leer. He is quite used to infatuated leers. As the village flower, there are few his age who do not give him that infatuated leer. And were he to confess, he is vainly fond of infatuated leers. In the pleasant summers he will pose and giggle and blow kisses. He knows how to entice a woman who has become enamored of him. And is this not the same? Cannot he not do what he has already done, with hard village girls, with the Witch of the Black Wood? To save them all, it is hardly a choice.
“Witch.” He declares with confidence, even a hint of flirtation. A purposeful flip of his hair, and then a curtsy. “Whatever you ask of me, you will have, if you lift your dreadful curse.” The confidence is half-feigned; he still fears the Witch with so much of his heart. But does it matter, if it achieves his noble goal? He supposes not.
There is a rumbling from the shape. The Witch’s pleasure in his words is evident and shakes through the branches and against the grassy ground. “Good, good. Now, sweet bird. You will do as I say, and all will be well. With your people, and for my pleasures.” He nods, standing at attention. “Sit. Sit! Relax yourself, little birdie.”
He is quick to follow her command, now. Has accepted what he is to do…or at least, he thinks he has. What sort of plans could such a being have for him? It matters not, for he acts as a savior and not for himself. He scoots down into the dirt and grass, legs pushed in front of him and hands within his lap. “As you wish, spirit.”
The wood shakes with her approval. “Good, good. Now, for the matter of those things you wear upon your feet, silly bird.”
The son lifted one foot off the ground, tilting his head quizzically. “My sandals?” he asks, stretching his toes taut. They are simple, handcrafted things. Made of leftover leather by his mother. A strap lies between his big toe and the one besides, with more spreading from that line over the tops of his feet. A thicker strap at his heel keeps them held firm and lets the pink flesh peek out from within. They are thin, so as not to waste what they had, but functional. “Do you not like them?”
“They look enchanting on you, my sweet.” Already, he realizes the Witch no longer speaks to him as an intruder. But as…as a possession. “But they are a prelude to what I want. To what connects you to the earth. Remove them.” He nods, and with shaky hands, he reaches over to grip upon his sandals. First the left, slipping the strap from out between his toes. Revealing slowly the tender surface beneath, heel first. Is it his imagination, that the Witch begins to subtly growl, as if the sight teases her wild? When that first foot is freed, long plump toes wiggle in the cool night air, the curve of the arch stretching taut. There is no imagination there-the Witch hisses with delight.
The boy is terrified. But in other ways he is not. He is…oddly thrilled, that she would be so enamored. That even a being like this sees him as such a fair flower. “Now, the other.” She crows in anticipation. Emboldened, and perhaps even cheeky, the son teases on intention. The right foot is freed from sandal slowly, purposefully, so each inch of soft skin is a presentation. It works; the rustling and growling is louder, faster.
The farmboy places both his naked feet upon the ground in front of him, aflame with embarrassment and intrigue both. The cool of the forest makes his toes twitch, and he presses the warm soles against one another to keep them steady. “Is…” He stammers, hand against his cheek. “This is to your liking, Witch?”
“Utterly perfect.” The shape is closer, closer, until he can almost make it out. But not quite. Not quite. “Now let us begin the harvest, sweetling.” He bristles nervously, eyes staring into the yellow of the spirit’s. He does not know what harvest she intends. But he will learn. He…he wants to learn.
“Harvest?” He pipes up, big toe pressed into the arch of his other sole. Her answer is at first, another laugh. Perhaps a prelude to what is to come.
“Sing for me, songbird.” It echoes from the darkness, that rasping, scratchy voice. It is low and whispered, yet seems to shake the gnarled, dead branches of the grove. It sends shivers down his spine. But not nearly as shivering as what happens next.
The shape in the shadow moves, and a long, crooked claw stretches out towards him. He braces himself, trying to keep his fear at bay, to cease from trembling. The arm looks more like the broken trees than it does that of a person, uncannily long and thin, reaching out to him. He closes his eyes, stops breathing. And then he shivers-truly shivers, all throughout his body-when the claw presses gently into the plush skin of his sole.
“Pfttt…” A puff of air escapes his lips, and he peaks open his eye with a curious surprise. Before he can react further, the claw begins to slide itself down across the surface. His foot jerks at the sensation, and single precious giggle is harvested. “Hehe!” Melodic and sweet, that could melt the hearts of the most hardy of daughters. And Witches too.
“Sssssensitive, boy?” The rhetorical question is asked with glee, with a roll of whatever passed for the Witch’s tongue. Her claw begins to trace circles around the bottoms of his feet, crossing from sole to sole. The farmyard son burbles up more barely contained titters, pedals darting from side to side. The fingers follow them, a dance of darts and twitches.
“Miss Witch!” The boy stutters, clutching the side of his head. Forced mirth that may not have been quite so forced. More confused and surprised than scared, now. “My feet are…hehe…awfully ticklish!” Instinctually, he tries to pull his feet away, to avoid the strange feelings forcing laughter to his lips. But his escape is a doomed one. Another clawed hand appears from the darkness to grip firm both his ankles, locking him in place.
“Of course they are, songbird. Of course they are.” The Witch coos, as she adds a second finger to her exploration of soles. Both claws speed across his skin, each little nerve convulsing upon the increasingly aggressive tickles. Across the instep and circling the arches before darting down to heels. That prompts squeals from the precious boy, clutching his cheeks and shaking side to side, heels lightly kicking against the Witch’s grip. “You’ve such a lovely song, my dear. I could listen to it for eternity.”
“Hehe….hehehe…hahaha…M…mmiihihis…Witch!” The ticklish farmboy gasps through his youthful laughing fit. He shakes his hand desperately in front of him, sucking in big gulps of breath whenever he can. “Ihihiihis thihihis reahelly what youhuh…heek…HEEK really what you…WahahahaNT!?”
“There is no sweeter harvest than a pretty son’s laughter, and no greater crop than his feet.” She insists, more claws added to his wavering soles, additional instruments to direct her symphony of laughter. His was the song and the harvest, and she would reap her nourishment and her entertainment both. “This is what I was promised. And this is what shall be given to me, if you wish your village saved.” Briefly, he tries to be stoic. Reminded of his quest to save all he knows. His lips wobble, and he shakes his head back and forth to hold it in. She finds this only encouraging, a challenge to find more fruitful laughter harvests.
She succeeds. “EEEEEEEEEK!” The boy begins to buckle like a spooked horse, when her exploration goes upward. “NOHOHOHOOT MY TOOHOHOHOESSS! WIIHIHIHITCH!” He howls, fingers splaying and twitching in tune with his lower extremities and their terrible sensitivity.
“Poor, poor birdy. Can he not handle a simple tickle upon his toesies?” She cackles, overjoyed to find a weakness among a weakness. She plays a game with those treasured toes, now. Poking just underneath each toe in turn, then between, then sliding up to tease the pad. It drives him wild, and tears begin to form in the corners of his eyes. “One toe, two toe, three toe, more, four toe, five toe, his toes I so adore…” She is so gentle with him. So reverent. Claws that could so easily rend flesh instead only lightly dance underneath his twitchy toes. They splay and scrunch and wriggle, but there is no escape. The Witch will have her promised harvest, her promised song.
His hands hug at his torso while he shakes rapidly side to side. Tears flow down cheeks turned a heavy pink from all his coerced glee. Claws poke in between the wrinkled folds he creates with tensed skin and force them smooth again, ripe for ever more tickling fury.
The Witch is the forest, and the forest is the Witch. Her body may be shadowed in front of her laughing prey, but her spirit is everywhere. With a sound like bones cracking, branches from the trees that surround him slither through the air. What little of the village son’s eyes can see through his tears tell him to fear more light pressures on ravaged feet. But the tree limbs do not descend to assist their queen. Instead, they gently push themselves between the straps of his discarded footwear. They cannot be used to hide his weakness from her. Gingerly, the trees pull two leather protectors into the air.
The branches hold his sandals just above him, tauntingly. Letting them swing back and forth while they are slowly dragged away into the wood. He can see every second of their departure and can on some level recognize the gesture, even through his ticklish agony. They are being taken as trophies. He can just about make out the Witch triumphantly taking the pair in hand…and yet both her hands remain tormenting his feet, now reddening from her unrelenting assault.
“Nohoohoho…! Thohose are…my mhahama maahahade…” The boy extends his arm to futility rescue the shoes far outside his reach. At least, until the Witch punishes his defiance with a furious scribbling at the center of both soles. There is no sympathy from the spirit for a sweet boy’s sentiment to his mother. That village woman, worrying in her hovel, has lost all claim to him. Her heartfelt creation to protect tender feet are the Witch’s prize, made all the more precious by her conquest. “WIHIHIIHITCCH…PLEEASSEEEE…”
“Ah, ah, ah, songbird.” She chides him, catching his attention by skating the claws between his toes. “Call me Mistress.” It would be wise for the Witch to ease upon her silky sole canvas, to allow him to process this request. But she cannot help herself, not when his toes wiggle so deliciously. She does not let up when she has the sensitive webbing in her grasp, calling to her.
“W…hahahahat?” He chirps, taken aback by this new demand. So frazzled is he by the constant barrage of tickly fingers, he wonders if he has misheard her. “I doohohohon’t…MMMPPHHH!”
Punishment is again meted out for confusion interpreted as defiance, a terrible claw striking at the pad of his big toe, intense and consistent. “I need your surrender, pretty son. I need you to accept these soles are mine. So call me Mistress, sweet bird.” His lips quivered; cheeks pouty as he attempted to keep his laughter to himself. What a greedy creature was he, depriving the Witch of her harvest. He had to be reminded of the stakes…and the terms.
“I cannot bear to parted with your silken soles, my sweet.” She punctuates this mixture of possessive and loving by caressing at his foot bottoms like a lover, a ticklish experience for one so sensitive even had they not been touched with claws. “If you wish to lift the curse, then my concubine you shall be.” Even this gesture proves too irresistible to the insatiable Witch, and the caress grows faster and faster and more and more aggressive.
So many things swirl around in the son’s pretty head. Even with his mind clouded by the betrayal of his own feet, he recognizes this is a permanent fate. And that more, more, more tickles await him. He thinks upon his mother and father. Wonders if he will ever see them again. But then, the dutiful son reminds him it is better to know they live than it is to see them waste away to the curse. So he lets the dam break, and stops holding it in.
“Mihisihiiihistress! I…hehehe….heheheheoohoho….EEEEEK!” The release of air into a torrent of laughter kills whatever more he could say. But the Witch-his Mistress-hears the desired title, and that satisfies her.
“There’s a good boy. Laugh for Mistress.” The twisted talons make ticklish war upon feet already red as a beat and struggling like mad. More, more, more, stronger, faster, until the only thing in his mind is touch and laughter. “You will sing only for me, pretty bird. You will be mine, sole and soul, forever and always.” There is not a single drop of resistance remaining in the boy. The closest thing he has left in his mind besides tickles is the contentment he has been the savior of his village, this night.
“Yehehehess! Mistress! Yeeeehehehss!” He yelps and hollers, what little remains of the valiant boy a mess. Hair messy and frazzled, eyes tear-stained and almost drunk, tongue lolling from his mouth like a dog. The Witch’s concubine is all but complete, almost all that remains. In mind, and soon in spirit.
“Submit. Say it aloud. Say you submit. SAY YOU SUBMIT.” All the fury of the forest, of a ruthless and uncaring wild, rumbles from the Witch’s voice. There is no denying her. There is no denying her hunger, her harvest, her symphony. And he hasn’t the willpower to even try. He surrenders.
“I submit! I submit!” He cries through sweet laughter, pounding his palm into the forest floor in a quick, desperate motion. “My soul and soles are yours!”
“Forever?” The Witch croons, delight and eagerness creeping through her voice, as her fingers creep across the tender bottoms of his feet.
“Forever! Forever! I am yours! I submit, I submit I SUBMIT!”
Her cry of triumph is like a roar, bestial and full of elation. An agreement to a forest spirit is eternally binding. For the sake of his people, the songbird’s fate is sealed. Dozens of branches and roots burst from all corners of the wood, converging upon his body that quivers still with laughter. They proceed to cocoon him, every inch of him concealed within wooded desires. Only gasping lips of giggles and spasming sensitive feet remain visible, as he is dragged away.
That small bastion of starlight is deprived of his sweetness, which belongs to the darkness now. Deeper, deeper he goes, howling and wriggling the whole time. He can feel little else but the Witch’s tickles upon his soles. She casts magic with her touches, drawing ancient symbols on her prize. More and more, the boy finds his energy constantly replenishes. Feels his youth frozen in time. His Mistress would never allow her favored to wither. Forever is not a metaphor, it is truth. And he will be forever lost to the world of mortals, the last of him the faint echoes of mirthful melody that fade out of hearing. Until there is nothing but the chirping of crickets and the rustling of leaves.
From that point onward, the village never experienced a bad harvest again. Even in the dead of winter, the people had full bellies and fuller hearts, their lives happy and carefree. And if one goes deep into the woods, especially in the dead of night. You can hear it.
The sweet sound of boyish laughter, the harvest of a sweet, selfless son.
His soles forever claimed by the Witch of the Black Wood.
I certainly envy him. 
