19. || o' death.

Silver blades of grass swished around River's knees, dampening their trousers with dew as they waded through the moonlit meadow. Nearing the apple tree, they stumbled over one of the hiking boots they'd lent to the woman. A couple feet ahead, the mason jar laid on its side, opened, and no longer holding the talisman.

"Boots, what...?"

Bathed in moonlight, she laid curved in a crescent atop a bed of lavender cosmos and aster. Had she not been moving, River would've thought her to be dead, but she was fussing with the top of her bare foot. Dark blood stained her fingers as she plunged them into a raw wound, digging between bone and sinew.

"Woah," River fell to her side and clasped her hand, "Boots, stop, what are ya doin'?"

"I can't get the worms out."

"Worms? What—"

"Maggots."

They glanced around, but no trees moved, the ground was calm beneath them. Their eyes fell back down on the woman who looked neither frightened nor panicked, just fixated on her foot, all too determined.

"May I?" River asked, gently lifting both their hands away. Blood had already started to coagulate around the edge of the wound, but as they examined the inner layers of tissue they could find no evidence of any worms—maggots or otherwise. "I uh, I think ya got 'em all."

She shook her head against the grass. "I still feel 'em."

"Maybe so." Pulling a clean handkerchief from their pocket, River raised her foot to their lap and pressed firm. "But they only feed on dead tissue, Boots. Then they leave. Hungry for their next host."

This seemed to resonate something in her as she turned to look up at them for the first time, all glassy-eyed beneath wrinkled brows. "Your shirt's all torn."

"Yeah?" They laughed a little and glanced down at themself. "I uh, got into a wrestlin' match with a jaggerbush on my way through the woods. Guess who won?"

"You looked nice tonight, River. I wanted to tell you that, though I know I shouldn't." Her eyes lowered to her hands as she spread her fingers out wide. "Fuck," she groaned into her palms. "It's getting worse. I don't even know what's real anymore."

River looked down at her foot and lifted the hankie to check the bleeding. It had clotted off some and they bandaged her up enough to at least get her back to her cabin. Colder than earlier, her skin was like the northside of a gravestone, leeching heat from their hands. Unfastening the coyote cowl from their neck, they draped its hide over her. "Ya know, you're gonna freeze to death all soaked in this dew."

"Wouldn't that be somethin'," the woman mumbled. "I knew it was a possibility when I grabbed the wheel. I just didn't expect it to actually happen. Not like this. After everything the Demon put me through..." She cursed a little more into her hands, muttering stuff that didn't much make sense, then pushed up to sit. "We need to find the other talismans."

As she tried to stand, River grabbed her frozen hands and tugged her back down. "What? Now? No, ya need sleep. You're exhausted."

"I'm good now."

"Ya just dug a hole in your foot, lookin' for worms. You're not good, Boots." River rubbed her hands between theirs, trying to warm them. "But that's okay 'cause you're not alone either. Trust me, I want nothin' more than to find these talismans so I can—" Biting their lip, they glanced up the mountain towards the old hemlock. So I can be free of the curse, they wanted to say. "So the dead can finally move on. But ya need rest."

She nodded, worrying her lip as she looked up from their hands with her eyes a little more teary, but clear and focused to theirs. "Are you dead, River?"

Dead.

Vera was dead. Béla was dead. Them degenerate jagoffs beneath the rotten hemlock were both dead, along with the thousand others before them. All at the hands of River themself one way or another. Death lurked within the rotted heartwood of this mountain, beneath every whole moon, even in their reflection in the reservoir. By no choice of their own, Death had become them, but never once had it claimed them.

"There's a fine line between the dead and the livin' on this mountain," they answered, not meaning to evade the question, they just didn't understand why it mattered. "I'm here, just as you are."

"Just as I am..." the woman echoed with consideration, eyes flitting between theirs. "Buckmouse said the same thing." She pulled her hands free and glimpsed over towards the apple tree. "I opened the witch's jar. Gave him back his antler."

"His—wait, a witch's jar?"

"That's what he called it."

River stretched over her, reaching for the mason jar and the lid that laid off to the side.

"Be careful, it—"

Her warning came too late and a needled barb sunk into the soft pad of their finger. Dropping the thorn-covered lid, River cursed under their breath and held their throbbing fingertip. Blood dripped down their hand and fell between the blades of grass. As it seeped into the soil, a tree groaned somewhere in the distance.

"It uh, also smells like piss," the woman mentioned. "In case ya didn't notice."

Picking up the jar, River made sure to aim it's mouth away from them as they carefully placed the lid down and screwed its ring back on. They tipped the jar a little to inspect what was left inside, but just a couple handfuls of ash and some dark stones slipped around.

A witch's jar found in the bituminous bowels of this black mountain. They should've recognized it as such, but even as it sat on the dinner table between the two of them, River's attention had been elsewhere to say the least. Vera had meddled with bottled spells before, but this jar with its thorned lid and piss and antlered talisman, this was something to counter evils, to ensnare them. Not just to trap the dead. The dead were merely gruel for the darkness within, seeds to spread its roots. And unfortunately, River fell somewhere betwixt, forever subservient to that darkness.

But they weren't the only one, it seemed.

"Ya know, in the old country, the white stag used to help lost souls find their way to the Underworld." River handed the jar to the woman and grabbed her rogue boot by its laces. Standing up, they held their hand out to help her up. "You'll have to introduce me to this Buckmouse."

"He always seems to appear once you've left." She wobbled a little as she glanced back towards the apple trees. "River, I'm not even sure if he's real or not."

"Oh, I got an inklin' he is."

River offered their arm and she took it, careful not to put too much weight on her foot as they waded through the deep grass. The waning gibbous moon lit up the meadow in blues and grays, vignetted by the surrounding woods. Beyond the ridge, the lone coyote sang for her mate whose very hide warmed the strange, no-named, cursed woman at their side. The roots of these woods had entangled all of their fates in such a way that River was only beginning to understand after a hundred and twelve years.

Near the road, there was movement in the shadows, but its fleeting shape seemed far too big to be Vera. Beyond the row of hemlocks, the ruts from her roots still marred the ground in empty grooves.

"What's wrong, River?"

She must've felt them tense. "You uh, ya don't have any firewood, do ya? I can't let ya sleep alone in a cold cabin." River kept their eyes on the edge of the woods, but the trees were still, only the silver ferns danced slow around their trunks. "Are ya okay stayin' at mine tonight?"

"Are we still supposed to be worried about what our non-existant neighbors might think?"

River's laugh didn't quite leave their throat as they shook their head and turned towards the woods, avoiding the openness of the road. Vera had mentioned her roots only go so far up their way. They'd be safer at their own cabin til she cooled off some. Reaching the crick, River hopped to a middle rock. "Ya might as well wade through and let that foot soak a minute."

The woman nodded and slowly dipped her toe in, maybe still a little cautious from falling into the beyond in the last puddle. As her wrapped foot sunk to the bottom, she indeed let out a breath of relief and once again, River was paying her too much attention to notice a dark trickle of her blood winding down the bend in the brook. They helped her to the middle of the crick then slid their arms beneath her, scooping her up without much effort, though it caught her off-guard and she tried to resist a little.

"River, I can walk."

"And have you reopen that wound while it's tryin' to heal? Not sure if I've mentioned them trees, a gnarly one in particular, seem to have taken a likin' to ya. So I'd rather not waste time on your pride and just indulge my own. Lemme show off a little, Boots."

"You been doing nothing but showin' off since I met you," she laughed softly against their neck. As her body relaxed into their chest, River's heart began to thump and she could probably feel it pounding against her cheek, but she didn't say nothing more and just clutched the mason jar to herself.

Stepping across the brook, River passed through a pair of pines and found a subterranean current to carry them through the back of the woods. It seemed more sluggish than normal so they hurried along with it, not chancing a run-in with any curious conifers tonight.

Back inside the cabin, they helped the woman to their bedroom where the clothes they'd picked out earlier for her still laid on the bed. Already, she had started putting weight on her foot as she maneuvered around the room towards the mirror. River gave her time to change out the dress and stepped into the den to add another log to the fire. The kettle on the stove was still hot so they poured her out a cup of tea, brewing the posy blossoms she'd picked from the thornberry earlier.

They rapped their knuckles against the doorjamb, looking up only when they heard her voice permitting their entry. As she finished fastening the last of the flannel's buttons, River handed her the mug, then started stripping the bed. She sipped the tea in silence, setting it down only to help with the fresh fitted sheet when its stubborn corners refused to be tucked by River alone. Together, they spread out the coyote blanket and the woman smoothed out its fur before taking a seat on the edge of the bed.

Crossing her ankle over her lap, she began unwrapping the handkerchief from her foot. A circle of lavender scar tissue stippled her skin where the raw wound had been.

"Doesn't look too bad now, huh?" River asked, squatting down to look. "Though, didn't expect a scar. I've got a balm—"

"The scar's been there," the woman replied. "I was shot."

River lifted their head to meet her eyes, but she kept them fixed to the damp handkerchief in her lap.

"I don't know if I'm imagining it or not, but it actually looks better now than it did before." She ran her thumb over its edges and wiggled her toes a couple times. "I know I kinda lost it back in the meadow and this will probably sound pretty fucked up, but I'm not sure that scar woulda ever healed right if I didn't reopen it."

And that made enough sense to them.

"That why them worms were still gnawin' at ya?"

The woman nodded. "I don't feel them now."

"Well, fucked up or not, the healin' process is different for everyone, ain't it? And not everyone even gets there. Sometimes we're forced to just keep on surviving." Her eyes finally met theirs as they took the damp handkerchief from her. "Maybe somethin' you're familiar with."

As River stood up to leave, she grabbed their hand. "Will you stay with me tonight?"

"I'll be right out on the loveseat."

But she didn't let go. "Please?"

It didn't seem so long ago that River had picked her up from the forest floor after she fell from the hemlock. She'd pleaded then for the same as they placed her in the cold reservoir to heal.

"All right. Til ya fall asleep, I suppose."