VISUAL PROMPT
Photo by Nick Scott @ instagram.com/freetheseagulls

Write a story set on this misty path.
Where The Fog Settles
Rowan walked along the path carrying the bounty of her morning forage in her satchel. Her mind flashed back to images of her childhood, her long white-blonde hair braided tightly as she studied each of the herbs she held close to her side today, the same one’s her mother had once placed delicately in her small palm: yarrow, for healing, mugwort, for dreams, and a sprig of elderflower she had stashed after thanking the tree.
She rubbed her thumb over the Rowan berries, the same that her mother had pressed into her newborn palm, whispering gently that “no harm would ever come to the child who was named for the trees that guarded the old paths.” the moment she was born.
Her skirt brushed the damp stones as dawns light began to peek through the fog, Rowan climbed the creaking steps of the front porch. She pushed the front door open and called out to the girls inside.
Mara was the first to appear, dirt smudged across her cheeks and skirts wet to the knees. Her fierce blue eyes met Rowan’s, her shoulders squared and chin lifted- a silent “dare” for Rowan to comment on her disheveled state. Mara had appointed herself the protector of the others the day their father had vanished, and even now, carried herself like a stubborn, rowdy reckoning.
Ivy slipped in next, silent as the morning fog. Her hair falling in loose dark curls across her face, an old habit Rowan had come to inderstand was an attempt to conceal her solemn expression. She held something in her palms, gripped tight to her chest, that Rowan couldn’t quite make out. The opposite of Mara, Ivy never met a gaze if she didn’t have to. She was the quiet one, the delicate one, more often observing than speaking, and sometimes so unobtrusive she seemed to almost disappear. Rowan had learned not to press her; when Ivy was ready, she would share. Over the years, she had come to depend on this quality, trusting that Ivy, the most watchful of them all, would always keep her informed of the happenings both inside and beyond the town walls.
Fenna tumbled in behind her, bright with reckless energy and skinned elbows and knees, her blonde hair a tangled mess of twigs and leaves. She dragged what appeared to be a weathered, dirty silver spoon on a twine string along behind her- no doubt, today’s treasure, found on the far side of the yard down by the creek. While Ivy floated through the world unnoticed, Fenna hurled headfirst into it. She was forever climbing, challenging, and questioning her way along- by far the wildest, most inquisitive of the bunch. Rowan had often thought she had never met a creature quite like Fenna.
Junia appeared slowly, her curls a lighter version of Ivys, she rubbed at her sleepy eyes as she held her bear “Duffy” close to her chest. Duffy was a ragged thing, missing an eye with several patches of fur worn thin from all of the anxious rubbing during the worst moments with their father. Junia stared down at her toes, studying something that wasn’t quite “there” to anyone else. When Rowan softly called her name, she lifted her gaze- eyes so dark they appeared older than any child’s should- and slowly walked across the room to press herself silent and watchful against Rowan’s side.
Wren, the last to appear wobbled in on unsteady legs, tight blonde curls caressing her full pink cheeks, she paused in the doorway and let out a breathless giggle as she made eye contact with Rowan, before shuffling into the room. She carried a chipped wooden cup -her prized possession- tucked under her arm as she toddled over to Rowan where she extended her arms, a silent request to be held. Rowan bent to lift her, pressing a kiss to the crown of Wrens curls and inhaling her sticky, sweet scent that she had come to think of simply as her baby.
Rowan’s eyes drifted from the group of her restless sisters and fixed upon her mother, kept warm by the hearth. Her once healthy and broad shoulders now appeared to crumble beneath the weight of her shawl. Slumped forward, she sipped a warm cup of herbal tea, her long, stringy blonde-white hair spilled in her lap as her knowing gray eyes drifted to somewhere beyond the room.
Rowan’s heart ached for her mother- once strong and unyielding, now so severely diminished since the night of Wrens birth and their fathers disappearance.
Rowan removed her satchel of foraged finds and sank into the wooden rocking chair, she shifted her gaze to Wren, now wrapped securely in her arms, those big blue eyes blinking up at her with solemn curiosity as she brushed through her curls with her fingers and pressed a trail of warm kisses along her forehead. Rowan marveled at how such a small and delicate life could cause such a huge change in _their_ lives and at the same time, carry so much hope. The baby’s soft coos and wide eyes felt like a quiet promise amid the shadows that hung over their family.
Rowan’s gaze lingered to Wrens tiny fingers wrapped around her own. So innocent, so unaware of the cost of her existence. A dull ache tightened in the pit of her stomach as she remembered the last night that she’d heard her fathers boots creak across the floorboards and her bedroom door crack open, the familiar smell of whiskey on his breath and rain in his hair.
She squirmed in the rocking chair, recalling how she’d hid under her blankets as her mothers voice rose in desperate pleading. Then the sharp sound of slap, the sickening thud of her mother collapsing and the pleas dissolving into something Rowan still couldn’t bear to replay.
Wren had come into the world in the hush that followed- A hush heavy with a feeling that Rowan could never quite name. But, her baby was not to blame for the way that her life had begun, and Rowan had sworn on every herb, every stone, and every lesson that her mom had ever passed down, that Wren would never feel unwanted.
No matter the past, this child was hers. And she would always protect her from the memory.
Rowan was still smoothing Wrens curls, an attempt to quiet the dull ache in her chest when her moms delicate voice broke the hush.
“Ivy, bring me what you carry”.
Her mother, Maeve, had not moved from the chair. She pulled the shawl tightly around her shoulders, as if trying to banish the permanent chill from her fragile frame. When Rowan lifted her gaze, her mothers eyes were fixed on Ivy, in an expression of quiet curiosity.
Ivy stood in the doorway, cradling whatever she had found in her closed hands.
“Ivy” Maeve spoke again, softer this time. “Come here love, and let me see.”
Ivy shifted uncomfortably, her eyes met Rowan’s in a silent question. Rowan gave her a brief, reassuring nod. Slowly, Ivy stepped forward gripping the item tightly to her chest.
She walked deliberately, her body trembling, and without a word, she opened her fingers and let the bundle fall to her mothers lap.
It was wrapped in a yellowed scrap of linen, tied with faded green thread. The edges were dirty, as though it had been hidden or buried months ago. A faint but distinct scent rose from it: wormwood, rosemary, and blackthorn, Rowan knew it before the cloth was even unwrapped.
Maeve’s eyes narrowed as she watched the bundle settle against her skirts.
Rowan leaned forward just as Ivy picked the bundle back up and begun to unwrap the cloth slow and careful. Inside, lay carefully arranged brittle stems and crumbled leaves. On the inner fold of the linen, barely legible beneath smudges of smeared ink, were the words: “let him be gone”.
Rowan’s breath caught. As she read the words, an image flickered in her mind- her father the night that Wren was born, the night of his disappearance: stumbling, rambling, as he walked out the door and never returned.
Ivy looked up to her mother with wide eyes as if to ask, _did I do something wrong_?
Maeve didn’t speak. Her lips tightened as her gaze grew distantly. Slowly, she picked up the bundle and tossed it into the hearth.
The smell of herbs filled the air as the sisters looked among themselves in confusion and dread. For the first time, Rowan wondered if her mother hadn’t simply let their father leave- but made certain he would never return.
Rowan’s heart thudded heavily in her ears as the smell of the herbs finally dissipated, everyone in the room except Maeve, stared at the hearth in heavy silence, as is bidding it to spit out more secrets.
Rowan finally stood, shifting Wren to allow her to rest her curly head on her shoulder. The baby stirred, but didn’t wake, her small hand gripping Rowan’s collar. With gentle steps, she crossed the room and drew aside the thin curtain of the big window.
The morning fog had lifted, but the world itself felt unsteady, as though it wasn’t sure whether to hold its breath or exhale. In the distance, the dark wood line pressed close- dense, waiting. She could almost make out a figure just beyond the trees, watchung, biding its time.
A shiver chased itself up her spine.
Behind her, Ivys soft voice broke the hush. “Was it… was it, bad? What I found?”
Maeve didn’t answer, or perhaps the words escaped her and the hush returned, thick as the morning fog.
The weight in Rowan’s chest made her feel ill. What if he wasn’t gone? What if they had only been living under the illusion that the past had been buried, when all along it had been waiting for the right moment to return?
When Rowan’s looked again. She almost thought she saw something move- but when she focused closer all she could make out was the swaying of the leaves and branches stirring in the wind.
She let the curtain fall back into place and turned to face her family. The slight dampness of Wrens sleeping head against her collarbone was a physical reminder that there was still innocence in this home.
Rowan finally met Maeve’s gaze across the room, her voice low and certain. “Someday” she said, “You’ll tell me the truth.”
Maeve’s face softened though her gray eyes remained hard. She gave a small, silent nod before looking back to the fire. Rowan didn’t know whether to consider it a promise or a warning.
She shifted Wren in her arms and felt her fluttering heartbeat against her own. She vowed that whatever was happening- she would meet head on. For Wren. For all of them.
Even if the truth was not something she was ready to carry.