Haunt Me

It was snowing again, and feathers were only so much insulation. Big pasty white flakes made an iced gingerbread model of the little cottage below the barren copse. Kaja tucked her hands further into her wings and studied the trickle of smoke coming out of the hooded chimney.

It was an easy job, really. Nothing much to dissuade away besides the odd bear or two, though she’d needed to intervene when the woodcutter hadn’t noticed the tree he was felling would have flung him more skyward than he’d ever been. The witchwife had probably noticed the influence, though, but that was in her own right. But neither of the adults was the real reason she was there.

Moll, or Molly-Anne when she was in trouble, was spritely and vivid, as to be expected, but the most recent time she had gone into town on her mother’s cart, she had received a grim fortune. The Seer had reluctantly translated the laid-out cards to the girl, read her a grievous fortune that she wouldn’t see the next spring. Moll, as frightened children are wont to do, informed her mother, who stayed up til the moon was at its apex and burned her herbs and crooned a plea for life and for protection.

Kaja had already been in the area, exploring the landscape when she heard the call. Upon concentration, a tiny purple down feather puffed into existence above the witchwife’s fire, and the mother sighed in relief and went to bed.

Autumn had been nice, with vibrant colored trees, and the very last of the year’s harvest in the small field. Moll would run around, climbing trees, getting tangled in shrubbery, kicking around in the streams that wove like veins around the cottage. She noticed Kaja early on, not that it was particularly hard to, as she was a giant purple bird-object always within sight, but neither of her parents would believe her when she told them. She started leaving things out for her, a hand-baked little loaf, a bowl of milk and some fresh-picked berries Kaja had watched her gather that day, a little rough-hewn figurine.

But now it was winter, and Moll couldn’t run around outside anymore, but it wasn’t exactly like Kaja could nest in their attic, and it wasn’t yet spring. So she sat vigil, and watched. She coasted down to the cottage and would glide around it, peering into the windows to make sure everyone was okay. The woodsman was often asleep in his chair in front of the fire, the witchwife was sat in front of her alchemy table, and Moll was reading, or drawing, or playing with the small wood carvings her father had made.

And one night, Kaja started when she saw the attic side window being shoved out. About to fly over to see better what was happening, she caught herself as she saw Moll lean out the window, her small breaths puffing into the air in clouds. Her Guardian watched as she looked around, probably for her, and shivered, reaching back inside and draping something vividly green on the peak of the roof she could just reach. The window quickly snapped shut, and the light dimmed and faded from the room.

Kaja waited a few more moments before gliding over, investigating what turned out to be a knobbly woolen scarf, made out of a bright green yarn Moll had probably spun herself. There was love radiating from it, and warmth, and care and effort, and so when Kaja wrapped it around her neck, she felt perfectly and comfortably warm. She tucked her nose and mouth into the wrappings and smiled.

The next morning, when Moll snuck up to the attic to see what had happened to her gift, she found a preened dark violet feather as long as her forearm, and a small scroll of a thank you note.

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Years later, Miss Molly-Anne would wear it in her hair, tied with a faded scrap of green wool, and her running-mates would call her blessed, as they slowly subtly believed her tale that one year, she had met an angel.