John's eyelids fluttered like faulty shutters, the world a smear of ochre light and muffled voices. Blue-tinged murmurs wove through the haze—Laura's sharp edge, Taya's urgent lilt—fading in and out like radio static from underwater.
"...steady... yeah, that's it..."
He pried one eye open, then the other. Blurry shapes sharpened: a broad chest, a wild grey beard framing a weathered face, and—gleaming at the throat—a silver cross that caught the lamplight like a holy beacon. The man leaned in close, breath smelling faintly of herbs and pipe smoke, murmuring something low and rhythmic.
John's brain short-circuited. *Beard. Cross. Glowy light. Oh God—*
"AAAAAHHH!" He bolted upright, flailing like a marionette with cut strings, knocking over a tin cup that clattered across the floor.
The man reared back, hands up, cross swinging like a pendulum. His bushy brows shot skyward, but a chuckle rumbled out despite the shock.
"John—John, easy!" Laura lunged from the side, pinning his shoulders down with a mix of force and fondness. "Don't be scared—he's treating you! You're not dead, you drama llama."
John froze, eyes darting wildly between the bearded giant and his friends. Sweat beaded his forehead, the bandage on his neck itching like fire ants. "Treating? That guy's got a beard down to his knees and a cross like he's about to exorcise my Netflix queue! Am I dead? Is he *Jesus*? Did I finally croak from bad takeout, and this is the 'welcome to heaven' committee? Tell me I at least get wings!"
Taya, perched on a stool nearby, doubled over, wheezing with laughter that shook her whole frame. "No, John—you're okay! Ish. The spider venom's mostly out, but if Jesus shows up, *I'll* ask for upgrades. Maybe a halo that doubles as a beer opener."
The man—still chuckling, deep and gravelly—stepped back fully, wiping his hands on a rag. "He's fine now. Thankfully, the venom didn't spread far." He leaned in again, gentler this time, dabbing a cool leaf poultice onto the bite mark with practiced swipes. The scent bloomed—minty, earthy, cutting the room's stuffy air. "May he wouldn't have died from the bite... but scared? Aye, that'd do him in quick."
John's face scrunched into peak offense—a full-on pout with narrowed eyes and quivering lip, like a kicked puppy plotting revenge. "Oi! I'm a survivor! I once outran a seagull for chips—*chips*, mate! That's elite!"
Taya snorted so hard she nearly toppled off the stool, clapping a hand over her mouth. "Oh God, John—your face! It's like you swallowed a lemon and chased it with regret. Breathe, big guy. You're alive, venom's toast, and Jesus here's just the local fix-it wizard."
John crossed his arms, sulking dramatically, but a grin cracked through. "Fine. But if he starts turning water into wine, I'm converting."
The room was a cramped nook off a larger hall—low-beamed ceiling scarred by years of soot, walls of rough stone draped in faded tapestries of knotted vines and watchful eyes. A fire crackled in a tiny grate, casting jittery shadows. Around the edges, a cluster of locals hovered like curious crows: three women in woolen shawls, whispering furiously behind cupped hands ("Outsiders... with the blue widow? Bold or daft?"); a gaggle of children peeking from behind skirts, wide-eyed and giggling; an old man whittling a stick in the corner, his gaze sharp as his knife. The air hummed with their scrutiny—gossip laced with wary fascination, like the hollow itself was breathing them in.
The bearded man patted John's shoulder one last time, then straightened, brushing leaf bits from his sleeves. "Rest easy, lad. You'll whine like a pup tomorrow, but you'll live." He turned and strode out, boots thudding on the packed-earth floor, leaving the door ajar to the chill beyond.
Laura shot up, weaving through the locals' stares, and followed him out. "Wait—"
The hollow unfolded like a forgotten corner of Middle-earth, but colder, more shadowed—gothic crofts huddled in a shallow basin, their steep slate roofs peaked like wary sentinels, walls of weathered black stone crawling with ivy that looked more like veins than vines. Chimneys puffed thin smoke into a sky bruised purple by dusk, and narrow lanes of packed mud snaked between them, lined with low stone walls crumbling under moss. It wasn't lively bustle, but a quiet industry: women bent over looms in open doorways, threading wool with rhythmic clacks; men shouldering scythes toward distant fields, where golden stubble caught the fading light; children darting between carts laden with turnips and dried herbs, their laughter sharp but fleeting, swallowed by the wind. Far off, the pine woods loomed—a dark wall fringing the horizon, silent and immense, like the land's unspoken judge. Beauty clung here, old and British—wild heather spilling over walls, a lone rowan tree heavy with red berries—but it felt poor, etched with endurance, the air crisp with peat smoke and the faint, briny tang of hidden streams.
"You sure he's okay?" Laura asked, catching Dominic at the threshold of a larger croft, its door carved with faint crosses and thorns.
He nodded, wiping his hands on his trousers. "Yeah. But fever'll hit by morning—sweats, chills, the works. Keep him hydrated. No wandering."
"Okay," she said, exhaling. "Who are you, exactly?"
Dominic's eyes crinkled, a wry smile tugging his beard. "I'm Dominic. Sometimes a doctor... sometimes a plumber, technician. And some other times, a father."
"A father?" Laura echoed, tilting her head.
Then—from the lane, a boy's voice rang out, breathless and urgent: "Father!"
Laura whipped around. Cedric sprinted up, wild curls bouncing, clutching a clay bottle stoppered with wax. He skidded to a halt, thrusting it forward. "The elderflower's ready—steeped it strong, like you said."
Dominic took it, uncorking for a sniff—sharp, fermented, like overripe berries laced with something deeper. Laura's eyes widened; the bottle gleamed amber in the light, and the pieces clicked.
' it's a Wine? And he is a Priest?..'
Dominic clapped Cedric's shoulder, voice dropping to easy rhythm. "Good lad—how's the east fence holding? Your ma mentioned a gap by the briars."
Cedric shrugged, grinning faintly. "Patched it this morn. But the goats are schemers—two slipped through at noon, ate half the kale."
Dominic barked a laugh. "Tell her I'll reinforce it come Sabbath. And the well pump? Still groaning?"
"Aye—needs oil. I'll handle it after evensong."
As Dominic turned to go, he paused, glancing back at Laura with that same wry glint. "So—all of you journalists, eh?"
Laura nodded, stepping forward. "Yeah...making a documentary on the missing cases here. Exposing the cover-ups, getting real stories out. We want to help, shine a light."
Dominic studied her, the bottle tucked under his arm like a sermon prop. "Noble. But listen: truth's a double blade here. Ask gentle—folk guard their scars. And whatever you stir, seal it back proper. The land doesn't forget loose ends." He nodded toward the door. "Let your friend rest an hour. Then head out before full dark. Whispers get bold at twilight."
"Okay," Laura said, pulse quickening at the weight of it. Dominic melted into the lane, bottle in hand, calling greetings to a passing woman with a basket of loaves.
Laura slipped back inside. John was propped on a low pallet now, sipping water from a tin mug, looking equal parts sheepish and smug. Taya hovered, fluffing a threadbare blanket over his legs.
"Look at you—big tough survivor," Laura teased, dropping beside him. "Though, fair warning: your dead weight nearly cracked our spines hauling you down that embankment. Next time a spider tags you, we're using you as a sled."
John mock-gasped, clutching his chest. "Rude! I was poisoned—*heroically*. Besides, if my weight's the issue, blame the lasagna portions Ma sneaks in my bag. Emotional support carbs, she calls 'em."
Taya snorted, nearly spilling his water. "Emotional support? More like 'backup blubber for emergencies.' But seriously—you scared us, dummy. No more solo bug hunts."
The room had warmed a touch, the locals drifting back to their corners—women murmuring over mending, children scattering like leaves. But the family holding court stayed: a sturdy woman in her forties, apron dusted with flour.
a girl of maybe ten, braids flying as she toddled up with a clay cup of water; and her older sister, fifteen or so, arms crossed but smiling shyly, freckles dusting her nose like cinnamon.
The little one thrust the cup at Taya first, eyes round as saucers. "For the sleepy man. It's from the spring—cools fevers."
Taya took it, beaming. "Aw, thanks, kiddo. What's your name? I'm Taya—the one who doesn't scream at spiders."
The girl giggled, twisting her skirt. "I'm Elowen. That's my sister, Briar. And Ma's... well, Ma. We make the bread here."
Laura knelt to Elowen's level, grinning. "Elowen? Like the flower? I'm Laura. This is John—the sleepy drama king—and Taya, our spider expert. You live here with Cedric?"
Elowen nodded vigorously, braids whipping. "He's my big brother—the oldest. He finds the herbs and tells ghost stories, but Ma says they're just wind. What's a... jour-nal-ist? Like a spy?"
Briar rolled her eyes fondly, stepping forward. "Elowen, spies don't ask about bread. Journalists tell stories, right? Like the ones on the radio—about far places?"
Laura chuckled. "Exactly. We're here to tell *your* stories—the important ones. You two got any good ones? Missing folks? Whispers in the woods?"
Ma cleared her throat from the hearth, voice warm but firm. "Stories for another fire, dears. They've had a fright—let 'em breathe." But her eyes twinkled, appraising.
Elowen wasn't done, bouncing on her toes. "Cedric says the Maw eats secrets! But I saw a fox once—red as fire. Does that count?"
"Counts double," Taya said, ruffling her hair. "Foxes are basically mini-mysteries."
Cedric poked his head in then, coat dusted with evening chill. "Work's calling—fence won't mend itself." He nodded to Briar. "Keep an eye?"
Briar straightened, linking arms with Laura like they'd been mates forever. "Always. Hey—if you need someone for your... story work, Marina's perfect. She's got the gift—sees patterns in the old tales, weaves 'em like thread...if you want I'll take you to her.."
Taya glanced at John, who was already dozing upright, mug tipping precariously. "I'll stay—guard the lasagna king. Go get the scoop. Camera's charged."
Laura grabbed the bag, slinging it over her shoulder. "Deal.... Lead on, Briar."
As they stepped out into the lane, Ma's voice called from the doorway, warm and laced with that knowing glint: "Come back for lunch when you're done, dears—stew's simmering, and we've a few questions of our own over the bowl."
Briar chuckled softly, linking arms tighter. "She means it. Ma's stew could loosen tongues from stones."
They stepped out into the deepening dusk, the hollow stirring like a pot coming to simmer—lanterns flickering to life in windows, the low murmur of voices blending with the wind's hush. Briar set a brisk pace down a rutted path that wound from the crofts, skirting a communal well where old women drew buckets, their laughter gravelly and shared. Young folk bent in the fields beyond—scythes flashing as they gathered the last hay, sweat-glistened backs turning soil under a sky streaked crimson. Natural beauty wove through it all: brambles heavy with blackberries, their thorns glinting like warnings; a small river gurgling alongside, its banks lined with forget-me-nots that glowed faint blue in the twilight, water skipping over mossy stones like whispered secrets. The air cooled sharp, carrying peat and wild mint, the woods a distant fringe—pines standing sentinel, their shadows lengthening like fingers reaching for the hollow.
Briar chattered as they walked, voice light but laced with the land's rhythm.
"Marina's our weaver—lives by the riverbend.
Says the Maw's not hungry for everyone... just the ones who listen too close."
Laura's grip tightened on the camera bag, "Sounds like someone we need to meet."
To be continued -