Here’s a short story I wrote for my writers’ group. It was inspired by photos from a book a friend gave me, called Wild Folk by Jackie Morris and Tamsin Abbott. It’s a bit of a folk tale. I have no title for it yet. Any ideas?

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That night I couldn’t sleep, because I was torn with love for a man. So I hid mugwort under my pillow to dream of the sweetness of his face, the steel of his arms. I slept soundly, then I woke suddenly with the first song of the blackbird.

I crept out into the cold grey light, wrapped in a shawl, my feet bare on the dew-damp grass, following the trail of sweet yarrow down to the river. I sat on the bank to stare at the tug of the current, the water’s swirling depth.

Of course I thought of him, that man I love, who had found a home inside my head.

The river pulled over jagged rocks and sucked at an overhanging willow branch, trailing a string of wet leaves.

Then a voice behind me said, ‘He cannot live.’

I turned around to see a small woman, the size of my palm, sitting in the grass, like it was a throne or a cocoon that kept the wind from her face. Her features were large and her skin was creased like a walnut.

I asked who she was and she told me.

‘You know who I am. You called me to you.’

‘Did I?’ I remembered nothing about calling someone.

‘I am Devleski Day, queen of the forest, mother of the Biti Folk.’

I caught my breath. I’d heard of the Biti folk, the little people of the forest who can swim beneath the river’s surface and change their shape into anything they wish. My grandmother told me once that they were not to be trusted. But this tiny woman had the sharp green eyes of wet grass and I couldn’t look away.

‘What shall I do?’ I asked her.

‘You know what you must do. This man has taken your heart. He holds it in his hand.’

It was true. ‘I know it.’

‘And he can bring your heart to his lips to kiss, or he can watch it beat and do nothing. Or he can throw it into the river and it will sink like a stone.’

‘He can.’ Her words made sense. The wisdom of the Biti folk was widely known.

‘So you must take a knife and pierce his heart once as he lies asleep. You must watch the blood blossom over your fingers like the petals of a rose. Then you’ll walk away and forget him forever.’

‘I cannot,’ I told her honestly.

Devleski Day didn’t move, but a cloud passed across her brow. I knew she was irritated with me. Her voice was suddenly soft as the wind in a wheatfield. ‘It’s your heart or his. That’s the only way.’

‘And what happens if I do nothing? He fills my thoughts like the scent of the earth after rain.’

‘Then your heart will wither like a dry leaf. You’ll watch him love another and you will fade away.’

‘But what if I’m discovered, Devleski Day? What if he wakes and wraps a sturdy arm around my waist and tells me his love for me is stronger than the storms of winter? What will I do then?’

‘You know what you must do,’ the old woman said. ‘You’re a prisoner in your own heart. There’s only one way to be free.’

‘But I have no knife.’

The little woman lifted her arms wide. ‘Then find a thorn, a shard, a pointed stone, or the tooth of a predator. Find something that fits into the soft roundness of your palm. Use it well.’

‘When shall I kill him?’

‘Tonight. Wear the velvet cloak of dusk. Let your breath be soft as starlight. Watch his blood burst and blossom, then steal away quickly.’

I looked at my feet and saw a white stone shaped like a sabre. I picked it up. ‘I will.’

‘But there’s one more thing,’ the tiny woman whispered. ‘When he’s dead, you must come back here and wash his blood from your fingers in the flowing river. Then no-one will know what you did.’

‘I’ll do as you say.’ I stood up, holding the pointed white stone. In my hand it was shining with light and cold as snow. ‘Thank you. Devleski Day.’

I turned to her, but she had gone.

My senses swirled with the strong scent of the mugwort I’d placed beneath my pillow. I turned to go back, as if in a trance.