Mind the stones there. A centaur took out part of my stone wall in a hissy fit. Centaurs, what can you do, hmm? Come through the garden gate, and let me bid you welcome.

Confused by how you got here? Don’t fret, my dear. You found my cottage because you needed to. It looks like you’ve found me just in time. The light of your eyes has gone dull and your heart’s been worn threadbare. That’s why I’m here, you know? An old woman of the forest whose only purpose is to provide rest.

What’s that? Oh, pish! Can’t spare the time?!? Ridiculous! You can’t NOT spare the time. I see through your strained smile and brave face. Put your cares aside, my dear. When you return from whence you came, it will be as if no time has passed, but you’ll be changed for the better if I have anything to say about it.

You may call me Cecily, though that is not my name. A special name comes to me in accordance with the visitor at my door. She must be someone precious to you—Cecily. Perhaps, someone who cared for you in the past. My real name? Oh, bless you dear. My name hasn’t been uttered aloud since before these mighty trees were saplings. I lived out my mortal life years ago. These days, I’m more of a whispered wish than anything… substantial.

So, welcome to my humble little cottage. It’s perfectly situated for rest here in the heart of the forest. You picked a good time to find me. The nymphs usually make their way through the glade this time of year. They’re always good for a late night dance among the trees. You look like you could use a dance, if you don’t mind me saying so. Not that there’s a lot of excitement. Life runs slower here on purpose. Slow enough to breathe deeply and still enough to feel and count your heartbeats as you exhale.

Oh! That brings me to the first of my three rules for staying at my cottage: rest. You will not lift a finger for the first week you’re here. There is no need to ‘earn your keep’ here. Such nonsense! The wood stack never diminishes, the beds make themselves, our bowls and spoons will be clean by morning, and even though I am old, I can still pull carrots and potatoes from the ground for our supper.

Admiring my garden, are you? I used to have an agreement with the unicorns for fertilizer, but well… let’s just say we had a misunderstanding and leave it at that. Magnificent animals, but featherheads, the lot of ‘em. I grow mostly herbs and vegetables. The flowers you see hugging the cottage walls perfume the air in the afternoon heat. You are welcome to get your hands dirty. Some folks think better with their hands buried in soil, or dough. But that will come later.

Come in, come in and rest your tired self. Get comfortable with the notion of doing nothing. Here, you don’t have to keep busy all your waking hours. I like to snooze the afternoons away in the garden, listening to the hum of the bees. It’s perfectly safe here, as long as you stay within the stone boundary. Incidentally, the spell is in the ground, not the stone wall. Bratty little horse boys, destroyed the wall for nothing! I guess you can’t pick your neighbors now, can you?

The evenings still hold their chill, we are not quite out of winter yet, so we will have a cheery fire every night. We will eat rich stews and honey biscuits. Oh, and simple but sweet cakes. The recipe passed down from my great grandmother. There is so much joy to be had in simple foods, don’t you think? I promise you will never go to bed hungry.

Look here, two chairs by the fire. The red chair is mine and the blue yours. I have the red one shaped to my liking to support this old bag of bones comfortably. The blue chair is so soft and holds the warmth of the fire nicely. You won’t want to leave it until bedtime.

I do not mean to brag… all right, I suppose I do. I have a fine collection of books now numbering eight! I used to be acquainted with a handsome peddler who traded me books for potions. I quite fancied him, but he did not respect the mysteries of the forest and ended his days in the land of Fairy. Such a shame. You may have your pick of them to read in the evenings.

Now, in the back is a curtained area where you will sleep. Go ahead and try the bed. Soft like a cloud, isn’t it? Pull the curtain. Like a cozy blanket fort, hmm? Like sleeping in a hug from your grandma. At night, no light will penetrate the curtain. Oh, if you feel bear paws press down on the bed in the night, don’t fret. He’s just here to eat your nightmares… should they arise.

Oh yes, that is lavender you smell, and cedar. My great grandfather fell a giant cedar in the forest and dragged it all the way back here to make things like my blanket chest. You remind me of him; eventually worked himself into his grave. Same with all the men in my life. It was after my love Carlos passed that I pledged myself to help others change their path before it was too late.

Oh, that reminds me of my second rule: you are the culmination of all who came before you. You’re made up of the good and the not so good of them—and yet, you are uniquely you. You must decide what attributes of your ancestors you will honor, and which you will cast off. It is time to free yourself of that which doesn’t serve you.

There are more blankets in the chest, if you need them during the night. My grandmother, quite a woman she was, made that top quilt from scraps of fabric gifted to her from queens and elves and fairies. I don’t recommend sleeping with it until you’ve rested some. The visions it gives the sleeper of what their future is, what potential they have…it’s usually too overwhelming for folks in the first week.

Don’t fuss about your clothing or the state of your hair. Do you think I care about a little coffee stain? Or a torn steam? It’s hard to take care of yourself when you’re busy taking care of everyone else. Tomorrow, after you’ve had a good long sleep, and you wake up when your body tells you to and not before, I’ll draw you a nice warm bath. There are salts and scrubs and soaps that will clean your mind as well as your person. They smell wonderful, too. Lemon and berries and roses and lavender. Oh, it’s just lovely to be clean, don’t you think? Once you’ve washed the weariness away, you will find suitable clothes in the chest by the tub that will fit perfectly.

Over there by the window is where I dabble in potion making. Teas, tinctures, potions, salves… well, anything that heals. Anything that helps bring folks back to themselves. This purple sand will create a little box in your mind in which you can put your worries for the night so you can sleep. I have developed a tea to encourage joy in simple things and whimsy.

Don’t worry, all my magics have been tested and found safe. It takes decades to find the right combination of ingredients for one spell. I used to try things out on the magical creatures of the forest for centuries with no problems. But you turn one centaur upside down and suddenly, no one volunteers. That’s right love, horse on top with a human bottom. I do feel bad about it; I spent three decades devising an antidote but he refuses to take it. Equine idiots still hold a grudge.

Mind you don’t use the outside privy under a full moon, just to be safe. Oh, the wolves will leave you be in the beginning. They enjoy shrieks of terror, not cries of exhaustion. They will eventually come round to play, and taunt, and flirt. They’re harmless as long as you stay inside the stone wall boundary, but stray and the little shits will carry you off. And I can’t go after you, I’m afraid I only exist inside the cottage boundary.

That reminds me: here is a set of handkerchiefs. They were embroidered by my mother with soothing charms. You might need them, you might not. Some folks as soon as they are able to rest, release great amounts of salt water and snot. I don’t judge; it all has to come out.

Once it does come out and you’ve rested, you’re going to start seeing things more clearly. Seeing the parts of your life—and folks—that drag you down, that make the journey harder at every turn. You’re going to see all the changes you need to make. It’s hard, I know, so much easier to stay stuck in something that doesn’t work than to force a change. Even if it’s for the better, like cutting ties with those scatterbrained unicorns, some folks won’t like it. But you deserve consideration. You deserve a kinder life.

And that brings me to my final rule: when the time comes, you must leave. You cannot fall in love with this place, though many have done so before you. I do not need an apprentice, this is my purpose and mine alone. If you do not go on your own when you are restored to your full self, you will go to sleep one night and wake up in your own bed. There are many who need my help, especially these days—you mustn’t be selfish.

Now if you’d like, you may rest in the garden until supper. Listen to the birds and the trees rustling in the breezes. Relax and know you are welcome here. Oh, but if you do hear hoofbeats, you might want to come inside. Just to be safe.

END

J. Nathan

J. Nathan is a speculative fiction writer living in the Pacific Northwest.  She is greatly influenced by Ursula K. Le Guin and Shirley Jackson. You can usually find her out on a run through the woods or rambling about reading and writing on Bluesky https://bsky.app/profile/jamielnathan.bsky.social