The Little River Crone

For those in my life who’ve handed me beautiful seeds.

The Little River Crone

Once upon a time in the middle of the Maine woods, many years ago, there came to be a witch flying over the treetops in her clunky spaceship, and seeing a little river, she made to land the craft near it. Being a young witch, and this being her first trip through space, she was not used to operating a flying contraption, and therefore, she landed quite hard and quite close to the little river, the craft bumping along as it came to a halting stop. The witch had a few bumps and bruises but hurriedly checked on her parcel, a precious glass box, with dirt and mineral inside.

The witch opened the case to check on the lovely sprout, only two petals large, growing from a most precious seed - it was a garud, an honest-to-goodness wild garud sprout! The glassy leaves reflected the colors around her – dark magentas and oranges from the spaceship’s interior lighting, bright blues and greens from the control panel bounced at her irises. The garud used to grow wildly and abundantly on her home planet. Hunted down by her people, and harvested to near extinction, there are now only tales of its magic, which have been passed down from generation to generation. Some are tame, such as the legends that gazing upon the flower makes you warm inside for weeks, or that the witch’s people were descended from the garud long ago. Others say its miraculous and incredible beauty heals with just a glance. There were also menacing tales told of its power to start land wars just for its beauty, and tales of the garud’s bewitching power to entrance all who gaze upon it, so that they will do nothing but gaze at the flower until they die of either thirst or hunger. The garud for its many stories was to most people on her home planet, just a myth.

But in the witch’s family, a garud seed had been passed down for generations. The witch’s mother had received the seed from her mother, who had received the seed from her mother, and she had received it from her mother, who had been the one to find the garud residing beside a small, muddy puddle in the middle of a misty wood. The witch’s great-great-grandmother had gazed upon the flower until it wilted and died, and then she got up and harvested the seed from the garud, and she saved the seed for her daughter, who being so in awe of her mother’s tale of the flower, feared what would happen to the seed if she could not grow it. In turn, none who held the seed ever grew the seed, and treasured it as a family heirloom instead, passing the precious potential on to each child born. When the witch received it, she would have an important decision to make. Would she try to grow the seed?

Of course she would. The witch had no way of ensuring she could take care of it, but she knew that when she received the seed, she would only look at it and wonder about what it truly could become - the witch could never be satisfied without knowing the truth of its beauty. So the witch clung to the stories she had heard through the years, and one day, the lovely and mesmerizing seed was placed into her hands. The witch felt the immense weight of the question that came with the precious seed. Could she grow it? The witch did not have an answer, but she knew she could not care for it on her home planet; she must fly away and grow the seed somewhere it could be safe, and not hunted. Somewhere it could grow in peace, and not be watched by neighbors or sought by curious eyes. So the witch set out to find somewhere the seed could be given the space it needed to grow, free from any expectations for what it should grow into.

And so, the little witch ended up beside this little river in a large, dense wood on a faraway star’s third planet. Seeing her precious seedling was safe, she climbed out of the spacecraft to assess the damage that’d been caused, and noted many branches and twigs broken all around her. The trees were un-angered, none seemed to be missing more than a few sticks here and there. She asked their forgiveness and greeted them; tall, dark pines stuck out from the pointed treetops, and ash trees dusted the ground in powder, shaking from the wind. White snow drifts were broken around her craft, and the dark icy river ran steadily by mere feet away. The witch, feeling altogether tired and glad for a safe landing, climbed back into her craft and slept a long while after her journey, wrapped around the container for her growing garud.

As days passed, the trees outside felt the sun stay longer in the sky, warming them to their sap and encouraging furry animals to blink open their eyes and start to search for food. Those trees who had kept their greenery witnessed their friends, who had become lovely and cold in the fall, grow fresh perfect buds of pale and bright spring green in the warming air. Even the little river started to stretch and yawn after the drowsy winter flow. The massive white drifts of frozen crystal crusts melted into the dirt and decaying leaves, and rolled down the banks into the growing river. There were even soft, lovely goats who travelled to the little river, and the witch watched them from her spaceship for many afternoons as they ate twigs and leaves, sun rays shining on their perfect fur.

In the longer days of the year, many folks from the towns nearby came to the little river to enjoy its gentle sway in bright boats. Sweating in the sun and sheltering their ears from the wind with hunched shoulders and gathered hoods. Others came at dusk to play music and sing loudly while having no consideration for the trees, or the birds, or the woodland animals, or the fish. Some would walk to the little river and stay for a time, just admiring the rising sun and crisp morning air, dissolving much too quickly into the humid day, and by then the morning visitors were long made on their way.

There were many folks curious about the spacecraft which had appeared by the little river. On three separate occasions, uniformed officers came to check on the witch. They spoke to her briefly, and then the rangers went on their way, having ascertained the being’s safety. Others, not in uniform, would also approach the craft; some passed by with invasive stares, others with open curiosity, and some didn’t slow down even for a glance to the side. But, some did insist on speaking to the witch, and there were so many questions. Why had she come out here to the little river? Was she from very far away? Was her spaceship beyond repair? Or was she sick with plague? Perhaps she was only without work? Did she have no one to look out for her? And on and on, curious strangers posed every query.

But no, the witch kindly explained, to every one. She politely declined to share her story on all occasions, and the trees were bated now on the witch’s every breath, as they too were curious about her purpose here. Some strangers kindly left the witch’s secrets to herself, and others came back at other times and instead of questions brought her generous gifts of green smoke which vanished into the night air with long conversations. To these folk, she lent her ear, her charm, her smile, and she was happy to oblige their imaginative minds. The witch could glow with the light of five thousand suns in the dead of a new moon’s first night. This was her gratitude.

The nights of deep quiet were fewer now, as many were out and about and up to some mischief or other in the woods around the little river. But on one quiet night, the witch chose to leave her holdings, long past the sun’s final bow. She crept out of her spacecraft and over to the bank of the little river, and the night folded around her like a thick blanket, the stars all visible over the trees. The trees were much more interested in the witch than the clear night sky above them, and they stood curiously as she spread a rug out beside the little river and sat comfortably and quietly in the middle.

The witch’s mouth was open in awe of the large bright moon on the little river, and hearing the sway of the waves and the rhythm of their beat upon the shore bank, the witch got up to dance with the little river. Indeed, the trees were so delighted to be a part of it all, the moonlight parting over their many branches and glazing shadow patterns on the scene, and saw the light reflected off of the twirling figure. The large boulders nearby even threw up a chorus of approvals in deep steadiness among the spinning and twirling and stomping.

After this communion with the little river and the witch’s fast boulder friends, the weather started to become gloomy. Visitors to the little river warned her that the storm season was upon them, and the witch should take care that her spaceship not become lost in the rising waters. The witch worried at her fingernails, and came out to visit more in the night, escaping the hatch in her spaceship to hold joy before the storms came and kept her in her spaceship. Seven nights after her first dance with the sky, the witch was dragging a dusted carrier out of the craft and pulling a shiny ukulele from its clutches. She warbled sweetly to its goddess prayers, singing old folk songs from her home planet, tales of the garud, tales of her people, tales of the stars. After a time, the witch laid down her instrument in its carrier and settled back into the shadows. She let the silence marinate in the wake of her abandoned music, and after many long moments had passed in the poorly lit night, the witch reached into her dress and pulled the glass container which held the garud sprout from her pocket. Seemingly to no one, but actually, to the little river, the witch spoke. “I’ll tell you my secret.” The trees leaned in close to hear her better, listening to the witch’s secretive voice in the deep night.

“I am growing a very rare flower. My mother gave me a seed that was given to her, an actual garud seed! They are very much endangered, perhaps nearing extinction quite soon now, and I’m not quite sure how to grow it, which is why I came here - so that I could figure it out without the whole planet watching.” The trees grew fascinated - which was lovely for their leaves - and the little river too was hushed in rapture. The witch held the glass container on her palm, a strangely shaped thing with a latch, which she opened to reveal a dark clump of soil and a small seedling, with only six tiny, soft leaves growing from its stem. The little river quivered with excitement to behold the precious flora. The trees were quite ruffled themselves to find such a magnificent purpose inside the visitor. “I came here to protect this garud. I only worry now about the waters rising over my spaceship and getting lost in storm.”

The shore felt the little river’s gentle waves of understanding and the witch heard the little river speak. “When my waters rise, come to me with your seedling and water it extra with my ample flowings. Drink some yourself, and take some to your lovely goat friends. I will honor your spaceship, and you will remain safe here at my water’s edge.”

The witch felt very warm in the cold air of the forest night. She nodded with determination. “I will do this.” For many days, the little river and the witch were at peace with each other and lived happily and joyfully under the swiveling sky. Visitors came and went, the witch hid and danced by night, the little river kept her rhythm and the trees cheered her on encouragingly. The witch’s boulder friends (who had come to have innocent crushes on the witch) blushed as she stomped her feet and twisted her shoulders with fear abandoned. The little river was happy, and the birds who swam in her knew this was a lovely place to stop and rest after a long journey.

But, as they inevitably do, storms came and made the river rise. The witch watched the expansion of the murky, turbulent waters and felt sick with the fear toiling in her gut. She held her glass-enclosed seedling open in her shaking hands, the stinging fear at the edges of her eyes causing tears to flow for hours. The river was much more vicious and frothing than the witch was used to, water droplets splashing over the trees and covering her boulder friends in dark dampness. The spaceship creaked and groaned with the waters rising to the spaceship’s farthest edge. Tears fell from the witch’s eyes and onto the soft, damp soil in the open glass case in her palms. The witch stayed inside the spaceship, shivering in blankets and watering her precious seedling with salty tears, until she finally fell asleep, clutching at the heirloom sitting in her lap.

When the witch awoke the next day, the storm still raged. Looking down upon her plant, she saw it was tired and dry, resting low on its chunk of dusty soil. With brave feet, the witch readied herself for launch into the atmosphere outside. She gathered her eyebrows, stuck her determination out on her bottom lip, and with her seedling in one hand and fortitude clutched tightly in the other, she opened the hatch on the stormy gray morning and raced to the bank, her feet sinking in the deep mud. The witch bent to her own soaking and watered the wilting little plant.

“You came to me in the high waters! I waited for you!” The little river gasped at her. The witch paused on the stormy bank of the river to listen. “Water your seedling! And gather some for your goat friends! Keep some to stay hydrated in the coming months. You can gather now, while it’s plentiful! Save it for later in the year, when you are overwhelmed with heat and I become smaller.”

The shaken witch felt suddenly overcome with gratitude for the little river. Her eyelids turned to butterflies, and fluttered above the pursed, quivering lips she tried to dam her tears upon. The river consoled her calves with gentle, caressing hushes until the witch let out a ‘hip!’ and the tears flip-flapped away into the wind and rain. The little river pushed her back from the waters and splashed at her knees. “Go, rest yourself and I will still be full tomorrow.” The witch climbed, shaking, into her riverside home and shook herself to sleep on wet pillows, between drenched blankets, allowing herself to rest and feel rooted to her spot beside the little river.

The next morning, the storm was gone. The witch felt stronger for her battle the previous day in the quarreling winds and biting rain. But there was even more to be joyful for! Her seedling looked recovered, much stronger and greener already, its bright leaves gathering back a shine which was capable of reflecting the sunlight in sparkling refracted rainbows. The witch happily got to work gathering containers in which to store water. She found some barrels and rolled them out of the hatch, down to the water’s edge, and slowly submerged one side of the first barrel down into the water and waited for it to become heavy. She did this twice more, until she had three full barrels of water, and went to work fastening the barrel covers. The witch rolled two of the barrels over to her spacecraft and stored them in its extra compartment.

The witch went over to the last barrel of water and held it on her hip, adjusting until it was comfortably balanced on her shoulder. She then started the trek to her animal friends nearby, down the long, winding dirt road the goats came by every time they visited the little river. She walked up the way with the full barrel of water, and made sure the goats were freshly watered up before storing the extra in their shelter for later. She petted the fiendish beings and kissed their noses, was even tossed around a bit, and laughed for the company of delighted friends. They kicked and ran about, danced with the witch awhile, and when she was close to being too exhausted to walk back, she left her loving, delightfully naughty goat friends wailing to her back as she retreated from their green yard.

When the witch came upon her spacecraft once again, she opened the hatch and sunk into its clutches, making peace with the turbulent waters nearby before closing the hatch and allowing the dark to fill up the space. The witch lit her candles and found her glass plant pod to assure herself of its continued safety and wellbeing. The beautiful once-six-leaved plant had grown an inch and two new leaves, fast outgrowing its container. She set it in the window, hoping to allow it some sunlight, and turned to open her books.

Every cell of the witch’s skin was aware of the intensity she’d experienced the last few weeks. She lit her incense on a candle’s flame and wet her pen on her tongue. The witch attempted to spill herself out onto the pages in front of her, overflowing and needing to drain her contents with an urgency which let the heart-blood flow smoothly from her finger bones. Many days passed with the witch hunched over this way, scribbling and muttering, the darkness she was enveloped in hid the world around her from her view, and she had only attention for the pages she puttered on - not even the growing, sprouting plant at her back.

When finally the witch’s spine cricked and cracked its way back to its proper form, and her hand stopped twitching back and forth with the motion of word-flow, her lungs expanded fully to hold true breath for what felt like the first time in ages. The witch’s gums felt dry and her teeth brittle. She held her wrists in her winding bones like chains and closed her butterfly eyes. Her hair had fallen off around her, and her itchy, irritated skin flaked off at the scrape of her paper-thin nails.

The witch crawled out of the hatch and toward the little river’s edge, but it seemed miles further this time than when she last sought it out. In her state of waste, the witch had no strength to bring herself closer. She gazed up at the sky and, looking at the clouds, begged them to open up with her entire witch’s nose. But they just moved on, and the sunlight lit them in gold while the trees cast their shadows onto the shriveled husk of a witch. She remembered then the water kept up in her craft’s storage compartment. While the sun set and the moon rose, the witch mustered up every scrap of courage she could and spent the night braiding it into a rope strong enough to pull her closer to the compartment and the barrels of water which would quench her thirst. She came upon them finally and cupped her hands together to carry water to her parched mouth, the barrels humming encouragingly as she soothed her aching throat.

After the witch felt satisfied that her flesh had soaked up the water into itself, she stood on shaking legs and cupped her hands once more around some water, then stepped around her spacecraft and toward the hatch. She looked up before entering, staring at the thin crimson line of the horizon, growing as slowly as nails cut fresh on the new moon. The witch felt the trees watch her duck into the home she’d made by the little river, and she sought out the strange glass container she’d put up by the window. Upon seeing some yellowed leaves, she opened her cupped palms over the new growth which had sprung up in the heat of its position under the sky’s view. The plant looked happy for the witch’s offering, and she collapsed once again into her spacecraft, sleeping the day away with the hatch open to sunny skies and singing birds.

The witch started to water herself and her green leafy ward more diligently, and kept the both of them looking and feeling well and stable. When the rain came again, it was a tame thing, it did not throw a fit outside but softly whimpered at the cracks in the spaceship to be let in. The storm cleared swiftly, and it seemed all the birds for miles came to the little river to gossip about the audacity of the late storm. Those clouds should know better! The squirrels were quick to agree, and scampered off down their trees to search for the assured safety of friends and acorns, startling frogs who’d come out to enjoy the fine dampness and toads who couldn’t jump out of the way as fast as their friends.

The witch crept over to the little river with her quaint rug and settled in next to her boulder friends. The witch was still, listening, watching the steady river lick the earth at the edge of the bank, dead orange leaves floating noncommittally towards and away from the waterlogged grasses. The brief rains had returned the little river to a state of prosperous flow once again. It did not rock and wave, it did not lie stagnant. It was moving along, expanding and contracting, but pushing forward all the same. The witch held her lovely large, leafy plant in her lap and took in the little river before her.

“I am here,” the little river carried on, softly, to itself and to the witch. “I am here.”

The witch acknowledged the river’s peace offering. With a great sigh, the witch let go of any criticism she had for the river. She felt thankful that it was here, even if since her arrival, she had felt many different ways towards the little river. On some days, she was afraid of the rapid rise of the waters, and on others, the little river was altogether missable for the heat of the air and the thirst in her esophagus. Always, the witch knew the little river allowed her, and her plant, life and refuge on this faraway planet, but now she sat and simply witnessed all of it. The turmoil inside her, once roiling and twisting, now slowly dissipated as she watched the little river smoothly float a twig here and a branch of leaves there. In the distance, the river accepted a loon into its mirrored surface, and watered every one of the living beings, meeting their every need. It was a peaceful thing, if for now, and it was good to behold its beauty.

The witch pulled herself in closer and shrugged away the wind on her back. She clutched at the glass container for her precious growing shrub and appreciated the quiet of the darkening air around her. She stared for hours at the little river, studying the temporary forms and relearning its every new angle and curve with every shifting movement. Although she was never truly able to piece the images she held together cohesively, she allowed herself to be appreciative of it all just the same. The witch relaxed slowly into the solid ground below her, and held her plant, now overgrowing its container, firmly to her person, fingers clutching to its grasp as tightly as a daydreamer to their whims.

Before the witch’s eyes, the plant suddenly started to grow larger. New leaves blossomed so fast the witch had no time to jump up before she’d been encased in thick, rich vinery, surprisingly good at offering protection from the wind. The witch felt her limbs grow heavy where branches had sprouted around her and grown from her like weeds. The witch’s neck ached with stiffness, and not being able to right herself, she stilled, surprise covering her face like the shadows of the leaves. The skin at her ankles and knees and hips broke with woody stalks and tiny green thorns, until up at the top they grew lovely green buds, sprouting and growing a forming flower wrapped tight in protective shelling. The witch could do nothing except gaze as the shelling fell away, and lovely, soft petals unfurled and opened to the long rays of the radiant sun.

The witch was stunned, in awe of the beauty which had ruptured so immensely around her. The witch, for her crookedness, was content to stay in this position and adore the loveliness of her harbored bloom. Lovely blossoms of a flower from a faraway star blessed the little river with its beauty, and the river was struck too silent, moving always as if to say something and always back with the reflection of the blossoms in its speechlessness. The witch sat there, crouching for many days, and she sat there, crouching for many nights. She saw the sun rise and felt aflush at its hot gaze. She witnessed the moon spin and beheld its changing heart. And with every breath she held inside her lungs and then released back into the sky, the witch was the garud.

With the garud bloomed, round and through and over the witch, she was simply stuck there, a beautiful, magical, enchanted thing which brought happiness and joy to all who came to the river. Many picked flowers from the foliage, clippings to grow their own, none the wiser that the witch was there, beneath the all-twinkling leaves and in the magnificent flowers. The witch very much enjoyed being inside and a part of the garud. She felt one with its blossoms and adored the tickling breeze under the incandescently beautiful leaves. She stayed there, as the little river’s visitors came and went, looked for her, and then forgot to, even as her spaceship was taken away, dragged up the bank and off down the dirt road to whoever knew where. The witch barely noticed or cared to care.

But as plants always do, they live, and they die. And one morning, the shrub began to yellow and wither and drop its last precious blossoms to the earth around her. The witch felt somewhere her wooden bone was loosening, and then her elbow, too, grew loose, and her forearm, and then her entire left palm. The witch wiggled all ten toes and felt her spine click back into its proper placement. As the witch gazed upwards, she worked her jaw and raised her arms slowly and with great difficulty, pushing away the growth. She propped her knees up under her and set all her weight onto her legs, tired and unused for many days. Standing now, the witch brushed off the woody stems which had grown from her at odd places, and they fell off at her touch. The witch bent down to pick up a great bunch of the flowers.

The little river flowed nearby, elated to see the witch hatched from her shrub cocoon. The witch only looked up from her handful of glorious blossoms and grinned. She ran to the river and it received her openly. Her arms were so full of the glorious flowers that as the witch sank deeper and deeper into the drink, many of the flowers floated out and away from her, the bright petals mixing with the waterlogged fallen leaves around the witch’s beauty. The river was cool and smooth, and the witch felt bolstered by the riverbed, floating above the bottom through the will of the river. In the cold months, she is planting seeds of the garud along the river bank, and in the warming days she can be found visiting each shrub to check its health, her old frame in the water covered by long white hair trailing behind her in a cloak. When it's warm and hot, the witch can be seen splashing in the little river, with hundreds of bright garud blossoms adorning her and floating around her in the waters. When the leaves again turn to their colors of flame and fire, and crashland to the ground, the witch is harvesting seeds along the river banks and preparing for next year’s work.

Still to this day the witch toils in the little river, roaming in floating strides and keeping the garud alive for all of the little river’s visitors, the quiet walking folk who enjoy the garud in the morning’s crisp air, and those who come to the little river for the space to be reckless and delightful and sing badly at nightfall, for those sweet folks that brought sweet folks for sweet days on the water, and too, for those that think of that little witch fondly and of conversations by the trees between strangers.

And as time has gone on like the little river does, and these visitors changed and grew old, and stopped coming to the little river altogether and were replaced by new visitors and new admirers of the beauty of the garud, The witch keeps growing the garud for the trees, for the fish, for the squirrels, for the moose, for the perfect goat friends who like to find the garud and chomp on them, the rascals! The witch keeps the garud alive for the woodpeckers and the ants and the boulder friends who love to have such beauty around them. The trees say the witch still sings songs about her ancestors, thanking the heavens and those who lie beyond for their diligence in keeping the seed for such long years, allowing the witch to create this haven in perfect time.

The witch spends her nights resting in the water and whispering the story of the garud to the stars, the grass, the trees across the way, the ones close by. The wind carries the garud’s story all throughout the forest, and the mosses and the lichen hear the stories of its ability to heal with the inhalation of its pollen - the toads and their frog friends hear the stories of the garud’s invasion of the little river, tales of homes taken over by strong roots unable to be torn up. The fox swears the crone is just telling tall tales in the forest to make some fun for herself, but the Little River Crone hopes the tales delight the forest in growing beautiful things.

The End

© Annemarie Kate Morse