Tehanu by Ursula K. Le Guin

The one called Aspen, whose name was Erisen, and whom she saw as a forked and writhing darkness, had bound her mother and father, with a thong through her tongue and a thong through his heart, and was leading them up toward the place where he hid . The smell of the place was sickening to her, but she followed a little way to see what he did. He led them in and shut the door behind them. It was a stone door. She could not enter there.

She needed to fly, but she could not fly; she was not one of the winged ones.

She ran as fast as she could across the fields, past Aunty Moss’s house, past Ogion’s house and the goats’ house, onto the path along the cliff and to the edge of the cliff, where she was not to go because she could see it only with one eye. She was careful. She looked carefully with that eye. She stood on the edge. The water was far below, and the sun was setting far away. She looked into the west with the other eye, and called with the other voice the name she had heard in her mother’s dream.

She did not wait for an answer, but turned round again and went back-first past Ogion’s house to see if her peach tree had grown. The old tree stood bearing many small, green peaches, but there was no sign of the seedling. The goats had eaten it. Or it had died because she had not watered it. She stood a little while looking at the ground there, then drew a long breath and went on back across the fields to Aunty Moss’s house.

Chickens going to roost squawked and fluttered, protest­ing her entrance. The little hut was dark and very full of smells. “Aunty Moss?” she said, in the voice she had for these people.

“Who’s there?”

The old woman was in her bed, hiding. She was fright­ened, and tried to make stone around her to keep everyone away, but it didn’t work; she was not strong enough.

“Who is it? Who’s there? Oh dearie – oh dearie child, my little burned one, my pretty, what are you doing here? Where’s she, where’s she, your mother, oh, is she here? Did she come? Don’t come in, don’t come in, dearie, there’s a curse on me, he cursed the old woman, don’t come near me! Don’t come near!”

She wept. The child put out her hand and touched her. “You’re cold,” she said.

“You’re like fire, child, your hand burns me. Oh, don’t look at me! He made my flesh rot, and shrivel, and rot again, but he won’t let me die-he said I’d bring you here. I tried to die, I tried, but he held me, he held me living against my will, he won’t let me die, oh, let me die!”

“You shouldn’t die,” the child said, frowning.

“Child,” the old woman whispered, “dearie – call me by my name.

“Hatha,” the child said.

“Ah. I knew. . . . Set me free, dearie!”

“I have to wait,” the child said. “Till they come.

The witch lay easier, breathing without pain. “Till who come, dearie?” she whispered.

“My people.”

The witch’s big, cold hand lay like a bundle of sticks in hers. She held it firmly, It was as dark now outside the hut as inside it. Hatha, who was called Moss, slept; and pres­ently the child, sitting on the floor beside her cot, with a hen perched nearby, slept also.

Men came when the light came. He said, “Up, Bitch! Up!” She got to her hands and knees. He laughed, saying, “All the way up! You’re a clever bitch, you can walk on your hind legs, can’t you? That’s it. Pretend to be human! We have a way to go now. Come!” The strap was still around her neck, and he jerked it. She followed him.

“Here, you lead her,” he said, and now it was that one, the one she loved, but she did not know his name any more, who held the strap.

They all came out of the dark place. Stone yawned to let them pass and ground together behind them.

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