Down in the valley that bloomed alongside the dense forest, there have long been whispers of a mysterious woman in the woods. Folks say she tried to speak to the townspeople once, walking straight out of the trees, wearing her black cloak and pointy hat. The men hurried the women and little ones inside, then grabbed their pitchforks. She retreated to the woods, never to enter the village again. 

Each retelling of the story twisted more of Vesna until she simply became known as “the witch”. Mothers called her evil to their children. Told tales of her talking to the ravens and petting the tree trunks as if they were alive. One old woman swore her grandfather once heard the trees answer back. Truth be told, no one ever witnessed her causing harm. As for the men, as long as the maize grew tall and the apples stayed tart, they no longer wasted a thought on her. 

But, despite all that, she never stopped watching over them. Through a raven’s eyes, she blushed at young lovers seeking privacy in the fields, giggled at boys and girls chasing butterflies, and offered cheers to the men clanking steins of beer to celebrate their bountiful harvests. She watched it all until watching hurt too badly, and loneliness came about. You see, it doesn’t drift in and out like the wind, but loneliness takes root in your heart.

And on the night of a harvest moon, she could bear it no more. Her very first tear pooled in her lids, trickled down her cheek, and seeped into the soil. The trees shook from her grief. Leaves fell all at once. Roots sprang from the ground in gnarled, twisted pain. All colour drained from the forest until it became a hue of despair. And as a final protest to her suffering, black rot crawled along the earth toward the village. And well, as you can imagine, people remembered her name again then.  

“Vesna, that witch, has cursed us!” they accused upon seeing the spreading blight across their fields. Gathering in panic and anger, they plotted an attack.

There was one man among them who was overflowing with kindness. His name was Erik. He didn’t believe in curses and knew torches and pitchforks weren’t the answer to any problem, so by the cover of night, he slipped away. 

It wasn’t hard to follow the dying path into the withered woods, but the wiry branches tested his resolve. One snatched his hat off his head, and another feisty limb swatted his backside when he dawdled. He might have laughed had his heart not been thumping so hard. 

When the branches finally parted deep within the forest, he saw her—the witch. Only she didn’t look like he’d been told. She was slight in stature, sitting on the steps of a quaint cottage. The wide brim of her hat shadowed her face, but upon his approach, she lifted her chin, and he saw the tears trailing down the loveliest face he’d ever seen. 

Why she didn’t look wicked at all, but fragile. He crouched before her, holding out his hand. Her irises of grey sadness saw hope in his blue eyes. She found him handsome with visible strength in his body and a kind face framed by dark hair and a beard. 

“I didn’t mean to.” Her lips trembled. “They hate me. I became lonely, and the earth responded.”

“But, I don’t hate you, and I’m here now,” he offered. “I’m Erik.”

“I’m Vesna.” She managed a weak smile. 

Another tear dropped from her lashes, and Erik captured it with his thumb before it could touch the soil. Her lips parted in awe as she watched him taste the salt of her sorrow. Their eyes met, and the beginning of something neither had known before passed between them. The forest felt it too and stirred. The ground trembled beneath their feet. 

Her body softened as he gathered her closer. She felt the warmth of his heart, and her sobs subsided as he whispered she wasn’t alone anymore. They spoke further in the language of touch, and the trees leaned closer. 

In his arms, she finally felt seen and wanted, and as her heart began to heal, trust formed between them. 

Her quiet incantations began, and nature responded. A breeze blew on their heated, entangled bodies. Infused with the magic of love, the surrounding leaves began to lift and separate, becoming a swirl of red and gold. With an audible sigh, the roots sank back into the soil. The rot receded, and the forest found its colour once more. 

At dawn, the villagers woke to a gentle rain. The blight was gone, and green veins were returning to their land. They boasted that they must have scared the witch into lifting her curse. 

As for Erik, well, he never returned to the village and soon became part of the legend of the witch in the woods. His hat was found hanging on a branch at the forest’s edge. Some said she ate him. Others said the rains washed him away with the rot. Only one innocent child noticed that two ravens, not one, now circled overhead, watching over them.