The Blood of Mary

I’ve always like this time of the day. The quiet stillness of the early morning was something I cherished. The world, still heavy with night, felt sacred in those hours—untouched, waiting. The air was crisp, carrying the scent of earth and dew as I walked across the familiar path that led me to the meadow. My basket, woven carefully by my grandmother’s hands, swayed gently against my hip. It was now filled with wild herbs and flowers. It was always peaceful out here, just me and the earth, taking in the quiet of the world before it fully awakened. The sunlight was still soft, painting the sky in shades of lavender and pink as I moved through the field, my fingers brushing against the delicate petals of the plants I knew so well. Lavender, thyme, rosemary, and a few others I had to be careful with, for they were rare and sought after by travelers and healers alike. I paused to examine the last batch of sage I had picked, making sure I had enough before turning toward the forest's edge, where the trees stood tall and silent. And behind those trees, was where my home is. This was my everday routine. Waking up early in the morning and heading out to the nearby meadow and some parts of the forest to gather some herbs needed by my grandmother. The path was narrow but well-trodden, and I had walked it countless times in my life. My heart felt light today, despite the constant wariness in my chest. I entered the forest with a small sigh, my boots crunching softly on the fallen leaves. A soft rustle to my right caught my attention, and I paused, listening. Probably just a squirrel, or a deer. The air smelled different here—rich with the scent of damp earth and fresh growth. The shadows seemed deeper in this part of the forest, the trees older, their gnarled roots twisting beneath the moss-covered ground. I kept my eyes on the path ahead, careful not to trip over the tangled roots or brush against the low-hanging branches. The forest wasn’t dangerous, at least not when you knew it well enough. But there was a certain weight to the air that morning, a heaviness that wasn’t normal. My grandmother’s warnings echoed in my mind—Stay close. Be careful. I quickened my pace slightly, eager to finish the last stretch of my journey. I could see the outline of my little home now, just beyond the clearing now, its stone walls catching the light in a way that made it look even more homey than usual. Grandmom would be waiting for me, no doubt ready to brew the morning tea we always shared. The last few steps felt like a relief, as though the forest itself was finally letting me go. I smiled softly to myself, breathing in the cool morning air and shaking the last of the forest's quiet off my shoulders. But as I walked through the clearing, something caught my eye—a flicker in the woods just beyond the edge of the meadow. A shadow, quick and dark, moving with unsettling silence. I froze. A cold sensation washed over me, creeping along my spine. I tried to dismiss it, to chalk it up to my nerves from being alone in the woods for too long, but that feeling—that feeling of something not quite right—lingered in the air. I glanced behind me, but the path was empty. The meadow stretched out, golden and peaceful, as it always had. My breath hitched in my chest, but I pushed the feeling aside and forced my feet to move forward, eager to return to the safety of my home, where the warmth of tea and my grandmother’s steady presence would soothe whatever unease had taken root. It was nothing. Just the woods playing tricks on me. Or so I hoped.