Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Beatrice shifted her uncomfortable position—meant to give the appearance of being trapped in vines—and peered up through the leaves at the sun. Still there. Still getting higher. Just like it was an hour ago. And still, nobody else was there to see it.

“Ugh,” she moaned.

The little bluebird had been waiting in that bush since dawn. She’d already had to turn away some blond guy with a mustache who tried to ‘free’ her (after subjecting her to his long-winded blather about joining the circus to buy a ring). Her boredom was getting irritated. Those boys should’ve been there by now.

Frowning (as well as a beak would allow), she muttered, “Honestly, if they got themselves killed on the way out, I’m gonna be mad for wasting a morning.”

Well, there was nothing else to do. So Beatrice let her mind wander a little. Not back, of course, where it both longed and dreaded to go, but around in the recent. She met the boys in the afternoon yesterday, wasn’t it? Maybe evening. It was dark in that part of the woods, it was hard to tell. But even if they followed the path, and didn’t get eaten or killed or something, they probably stopped somewhere for the night eventually. They might’ve slept in. And if they were anything like her brothers…

Oh, cripes, I’m gonna be here all day.

It seemed like an hour at least before anything happened. In actuality, it was about another fifteen minutes. The sun had barely inched further up the sky before, at last, she heard something coming up the road toward her hiding spot.

About time. She shifted back properly into place, rehearsed her plan once over in her mind, then locked her eyes on the bit of road she could see, watching for the boys. Hopefully, I can get the attention of just one. She only needs one, right?

Beatrice heard the sound of raspberries approaching. She rolled her eyes.

Probably THAT one. Lucky me.

She waited as the noises came closer. It was definitely the little boy making them. Soon enough, she heard the annoying older kid too, muttering to himself. “We’ve been walking a long time. Shouldn’t we have reached that town by now?”

Then came a sound that made her little bird heart jolt: a third voice.

“Patience, boy. It’s not far off now.”

Beatrice’s beak dropped. Seriously?! That creepy old forester came WITH them? I thought for sure he scared them off yesterday! Jeepers, how could a bluebird get such rotten luck?

Her incredulous thoughts shushed themselves. Shadows passed before her bush, and Beatrice froze, though she wanted to shrink back.

“Once we arrive,” continued the unwelcome voice, somewhere in the shadow beyond, “it won’t be long before you boys are on your way home. Of that, I have no doubt.”

Oh great, she groaned in thought, now they have plans too.

The shadows moved. A flash of grey passed before the opening in the leaves, then one of blue. The teenaged voice went with it.

“So—so who is this person you’re taking us to? A-and how do you know they’ll actually be able to get us out of here?”

Okay, not complete trust in the guy. That helps.

“Wirt!” reprimanded the younger voice, as green flickered past the opening. “Haven’t you been listening to anything I’ve been saying? For the last couple of hours, I’ve been saying—”

And the raspberries took up again.

“Well, that settles it. I’m gonna walk up ten feet ahead of you.” One pair of footsteps hurried on ahead. A heavier pair followed, briefly and sharply. Soon, both stopped.

“You most certainly will not!” said the old voice, a little further off now. “In these lands, you’d be a fool to let a little child like your brother out of sight.”

“But according to you, we’re almost there anyway! Why can’t he just—”

Beatrice stopped listening to the words. She didn’t need those. All she needed was the knowledge that they were both distracted, arguing up ahead, and that the smallest of the three shadows was standing still, just within her line of sight.

Perfect.

“Help!” she chirped out, not too loudly.

The little silhouette shifted. “Huh?”

“I’m stuck!”

The shadow swiveled once or twice. Then, “Did you hear that, Wirt Jr.? Let’s go this way!” There was a croak (reminding her that he was talking to his frog, not another person), and then the sound of pattering footsteps on the dirt. “Hello?” he called, not yet spotting her.

Beatrice arrayed herself like a perfect damsel in distress in the vines, then whispered loud. “Hey, you!”

“Who, me?” He turned toward the bush, at least.

She raised her voice just a little, hoping it wouldn’t attract the attention of either of the other two. “Yeah, you!”

The silhouette became a face. It brightened cheerily. “Oh! Hello!”

“It’s you again!” gasped Beatrice, feigning surprise, and then struggle. “I’m stuck. Help me out of here, and I’ll owe you a favour!”

Excitement widened his eyes. “Whoa, I get a wish?”

“No-no-no,” she corrected as quickly as possible—if he thought she could do that, he’d never follow her if she didn’t deliver. “Not a wish. I’m not magical.” Cheese and crackers, how do enchanted creature guides talk in stories? “I’ll just do you a good turn.”

“Can you turn me into a tiger?”

Wrong ‘turn’. “Uh, no, I just said, I’m not magical.”

“It doesn’t have to be a magical tiger.”

Beatrice resisted the urge to growl. Six-year-olds were every bit as bad as she remembered.

Just as she was about to speak again, another voice rumbled overhead. She couldn’t help a gasp bolting out. “You mustn’t wander off, little one. Whatever your brother may seem to think, the two of you must stick together.”

Thanks for the tip, she muttered in sarcastic thought. Really helping my chances here. At least now I know they’re related.

“Unless, apparently, you wanna talk to a bush,” murmured… what did the kid call him? Walt? Something weird. It didn’t matter.

“I’m not talking to a bush, I’m gettin’ a wish!” And, with one hand, the kid reached in to pull Beatrice free.

She avoided his grabby fingers and slipped out of the vines. Then, she flew up in the air above their heads. All of their heads—even if he was more bark than bite (as he appeared to be, from what she’d seen of him in the past), she preferred to be out of reach of the old woodsman. Walt stared up in bewilderment.

“Thanks!” she declared chipperly, fixing her eyes on his brother (who evidently was wearing a teapot on his head). “I owe you boys a favour!”

The old man did the same, tilting his head as he looked down on the boy. “That was good of you, little fellow. Setting the poor creature free.”

“Seriously?” Walt again, deadpan. “That’s what stands out about all this? Not the magical talking bird?”

“She’s not magic,” corrected his brother, “she just gives you wishes.”

Ugh, at least he got the ‘not magic’ part. “Not wishes.” Beatrice then cleared her throat, hoping to get back to the subject at hand. “So, you two are lost kids with no purpose in life, right?”

“Uh-huh!”

Walt frowned in silence.

However, before she could say another word, the Woodsman spoke up. “Getting home is their purpose. I offered to help them accomplish it, and I’ve guided them from the mill stream,” (she covered up a startled shiver with a flap of her wings), “to here.”

“And he saved us from a bad dog!” declared the kid. “And him and Wirt made a door!”

“Uh-huh, uh-huh,” urged Beatrice, a little impatient, then added, “So how does that help you guys get home?”

“There’s a town,” the woodsman explained, “not far off. I know someone there, someone who—”

“But are you so sure this friend of yours can help? From what I’ve heard, it’s pretty tricky business leaving this place.” She braced herself, half-expecting the old woodsman to get all aggravated at her interruption. He was gruff enough.

But he did no such thing. As he looked at her, his eyes were certain as stone. “Little bluebird, if I trust any in this land, it is him. He will know.”

Beatrice opened her beak. Then she shut it again. Darn it, he’s too sure to argue with. There’s no way I could talk him into letting them come with me.

He thumbed his hat brim politely, then turned back to the boys. “Well, come along. We must get you safely home.” The forester plodded on down the path.

Walt shuffled after him, tugging at his brother’s arm with an eye roll. “Let’s go, Greg.”

The boy, whose name was apparently Greg, tugged right back. “But what about my wish?” he protested, whining slightly.

Wait, that’s perfect! “Yes, exactly!” Beatrice fluttered down closer to the brothers. “I still owe you guys a favour!”

“Uh, thanks, bird,” answered Walt, who was getting more annoying by the syllable, “but you can leave. We’re good.”

She sighed irritably. “I can’t leave, I’m honor-bound to help you. It’s the…” What’s a good excuse? “…bluebird rules.” That was dumb. But, hopefully, so are they.

“Oh, you gotta be kidding. Now we have to hang out with a talking bird in Magic Land too? What’s next, are we gonna get stuck with a creepy doll or something?”

“Yeah!” declared Greg, with a lot more excitement than he probably should’ve.

Before Beatrice could roll her eyes, she was startled by motion: the old woodsman, stepping up to face her. For a moment, that was all he did, just study her. She didn’t like it in the least—it felt too much like he might recognize her. But she stared right back.

“No,” he sighed. Then, to her relief, he went on with, “No, a bluebird has her honour.” He nodded to her. “If you are bound to help them, you may come with us.”

“Uh, thanks,” she replied, without much gratitude behind it.

The man continued on his way. Though Walt glanced at her with a grunt of distaste, he soon followed. Greg marched after them, waving Beatrice over.

“Don’t worry, pretty bird,” he encouraged cheerfully, “I’ll think of my wish later.”

“Great.” And Beatrice flapped on after the trio, grimacing.

At least he let me tag along, she grudgingly reminded herself, though the implications of ‘tagalong’ only irritated her more. And he doesn’t suspect anything yet. That’s something.

Ahead of her, Greg took the frog down from its spot atop his teapot hat. He laughed and held up his pet. “Now you try it, Wirt Jr.!” And he poked the frog’s face with its own fingers, instructing it on the making of raspberries. Walt… or maybe it was Wirt… rolled his eyes again.

The woodsman glanced over his shoulder, and said nothing.

But, if I wanna get either one of these kids to Adelaide’s, it looks like I’m gonna have to get them away from HIM first. Her beak tried to frown again. And with his attitude, that doesn’t seem like it’ll be easy.

She flew past a sign, declaring “Pottsfield: 1 Mile”.

This is just not my day.

Chapter Text

According to the bits of conversation the Woodsman heard over his shoulder as they walked, it seemed their new companion’s name was ‘Beatrice’.

They were coming now to the end of the trees. Though the damp of the morning still hung in the air, the path led out of the woods entirely, out from beneath the roof of leaves under which he lived out so many of his days.

The Woodsman glanced back at them over his shoulder. The half-early day was bright, and all was cast into a golden haze by the lingering mist. No shadows lurked behind. Or at least, none seemed to.

“Do you… think something’s following us?”

“Hm?” He turned his gaze. Wirt was walking at his right hand, and staring with a puzzled frown. “Why should I think that?”

“I mean, you keep looking back, so I just assumed you…” He tried to gesture an explanation, then gave up. “I-I don’t know. Dumb question.”

“No, questions are only natural in such a strange land.” A sigh. “And… I think nothing has followed us thus far. The wereling is long gone, certainly, and I’ve seen little that could be of any danger since we left the mill.”

“Really? So… why…?”

The Woodsman eyed him, then turned his gaze away. At his left side, out of Wirt’s sight, he set his hand on the lantern, hung on his belt hours ago. “The Unknown has taught me to keep vigil. Though perhaps you would profit from it, I am glad it will not have the chance to teach you.”

“Oh.”

Wirt fell silent, letting the sound of Greg’s chatter and the morning’s hush fill the space. And the Woodsman tried to turn his mind from dark possibilities. Their road had rounded a bend, and was fenced now on both sides. Fields of pumpkins stretched out beyond, their further borders out of sight. They walked in farmland now. Their road was plain. He knew the very dirt beneath his shoes. No need for concern, surely.

His eyes drifted over his shoulder once more.

“AHHHH!”

The Woodsman jumped. His hand sprang to his right side, where he had hung his axe. He spun to face Greg—the source of the scream. The child stared at Beatrice aghast.

“How can you not eat waffles?!”

Suddenly, he screamed even louder.

“What’s happened?” the Woodsman demanded, urgently bewildered as he bent toward the child’s level.

“I stepped on a pumpkin!!”

The Woodsman stopped. His eyes dropped to the ground. Greg’s foot was stuck inside of a small pumpkin. He looked back up, at a loss. But it only took him a moment before he let out a small “Ah.”

That’s right. Children do such things.

“Ha! Look!” Wirt’s triumphant cry caught his ear. He took a last look at Greg, who seemed now perfectly untroubled, and who began clomping along with his pumpkin pegleg. He glanced at Beatrice (who looked just as disoriented as he had been). She seemed to shrug.

The Woodsman, very slightly, did the same. Then he stood straight again, still a little baffled but no longer alarmed. Such a strange boy. He shook his head. I shall have to warn him of crying out without cause. The sound could well draw real dangers, or—

They came to the crest of the hill. And all his wary thoughts hushed at the sight.

Golden fields lay out before them. Autumn freely and wholeheartedly rested on the rolling hills. In the midst of these, the path wove down into a little farming village, its homely houses all together, safely gathered in. Pottsfield.

For a moment, there was nothing behind him at all.

“Civilization!” declared Wirt, throwing his fists in the air (and, he did not realize, shaking his guide from his reverie). “Yes! At long last, our ill-begotten wanderings through this realm of shadows are ended!”

The Woodsman cocked his head, intrigued at the strangely poetic words. The lad had never spoken that way before. And yet, it seemed as easy on his tongue as his everyday speech.

But the young wordsmith wasn’t used to attention for his work. He caught the look and shrank away a little. “Uh… yeah, we-we’re here, so— what the…?”

This last was said because his shrinking produced a squelch. Wirt looked down. Then he scowled. He too had stepped into a pumpkin.

“Ah, great.”

Once they’d removed the involuntary shoe, the four of them (five with Greg’s frog) made their way down the hill toward Pottsfield. Greg kept chatting with Beatrice, who seemed to respond only grudgingly. Wirt eyed their surroundings with curiosity (and kept watch for stray pumpkins).

The Woodsman didn’t look over his shoulder once.

Chapter Text

Now, it wasn’t that Wirt exactly liked the town. In fact, its utterly empty and silent streets—almost as if its inhabitants had been “raptured away,” as Greg's friend Mrs. Daniels liked to say—seemed a little eerie. It made him uneasy. What’s more, it made him… uncertain. He wasn’t supposed to be there, if only because it was a place meant for other people than him.

So it wasn’t that he liked the town. It was just that he disliked the idea of being led around by a talking bird (whether she claimed to be magic or not) more.

Thus, when Beatrice made the snide comment—

“Hey, not to be obnoxious, but an abandoned ghost town doesn’t seem like it’s gonna be that helpful in getting you guys home!”

—Wirt scowled, despite having had similarly nagging doubts (for a moment or two, anyway). And when the Woodsman replied simply with the words—

“It is not abandoned.”

—Wirt nodded decisively and folded his arms, as if he himself had been proved right in something or other. “There! See, Beatrice?”

“No, I don’t see. There’s nobody here!”

“What? But there’s lots of people here!” interjected Greg. “There’s you, and Wirt, and me, and Alford, and Mister Woodsman!”

“Sh-she means other people, Greg.” He took a couple steps, then stopped. “And isn’t that supposed to be Alfred?”

“It sounds better my way. Do you guys hear that?”

The last out-of-nowhere comment took Wirt a second to process. But when he did, he began to listen. The others followed, falling silent. And in their silence, they found another sound: song. Faint, distant, but most certainly real music. The sound of it drifted through the streets, like the timeless voices of spirits. Suddenly, the idea of a ghost town didn’t seem so unlikely.

“What… what is it?” Wirt asked, hardly expecting an answer.

“That, children,” declared the Woodsman, lifting his head, “is the people of Pottsfield. Come along, now. You must meet them.”

He gestured them on, then began plodding up the road, making for (as far as Wirt could tell) a tall wooden barn in the midst of the houses. His steps didn’t seem as heavy as usual.

“Well, Beatrice,” Wirt sighed, giving Beatrice what he believed to be a subtly smug look, “I don’t know about you, but I’m ready to rejoin civilization.”

“And so is Alford!” declared Greg, lifting the frog above his head. It ribbited.

Beatrice only frowned. At least, it looked like a frown. Could birds even do that? Then again, if they could talk, why not beak contortions?

The boys (and bird) followed their guide to the barn, from which the music came. The sounds of voices and fiddles and instruments even Wirt didn’t recognize wafted like a homely scent through the door, slightly ajar.

The Woodsman lifted his hand to push it open. He paused. Then turned.

“Let me speak to them. The Pottsfielders are kindly folk, but they are wary of trespassers.”

“Oh, ‘wary of trespassers,’ great!” muttered Beatrice, flapping over their heads.

“Yes, as in this land they should,” the Woodsman replied, frowning at the bird’s suspicions. “But I will explain your troubles, and I have no doubt that they will do all within their power to help.” He fixed his eye on Wirt. “Only trust me a little. It will be well.”

The look only confused Wirt, and the words only put him off. ‘Trust’? He was already following the guy. Why would he need to trust him? But he shrugged anyway. “Uhh… okay?”

Beatrice rolled her eyes. “Fine.”

“Yes sir, Mister Woodsman!” And Greg saluted with his frog’s leg.

With a seemingly-satisfied nod, the Woodsman turned again and gently pushed open the door. With daylight at their backs, they stepped inside. And the sight that lay before them made Wirt’s eyes go wide.

The barn was filled with people. Shucking corn, peeling apples, playing instruments. Dancing, both together round a huge maypole and in their own smaller circles. But the mere presence of people wasn’t what was startling. No, indeed.

What was startling was the fact that every single person in that barn had a pumpkin for a head, and bodies and limbs made of straw, or of other vegetables.

“What the…?”

“Don’t be alarmed,” the Woodsman cut off, with a handwave toward Wirt. “It’s only the way they dress for their harvest festival. I had to learn that myself, many years ago.”

Wirt blinked. “Wait, you mean it’s just costumes?”

“Good thing I didn’t take this off then!” And Greg stuck out his pumpkined foot.

Before Wirt could breath a sigh of relief at this bit of information, however, something happened. One of the pumpkin people—seemingly a girl, with a hat over her straw braids—lifted her hollow eyes. She looked at him. She looked at Greg. Then she looked at their guide. And the corn in her straw hands dropped.

“It’s the Goodman!”

The music stilled. A rustle went through the crowd, and each orange head turned toward them. Wirt almost had the chance to feel extremely unnerved by the collective gaze. But the stare did not last. Almost immediately, every one of them cheered.

“The Goodman!”

“The Goodman’s back!”

“Hurrah!”

The music struck up again, even more joyfully. All those without instruments left their revelry at once. Then, the crowd of Pottsfielders bustled around the Woodsman, greeting him with excitement.

“Welcome back to Pottsfield, Goodman!”

“Goodman, glad to see you!”

“Who are your friends, Goodman?”

The Woodsman took a step or two further in, towering up over all of them. He returned their greetings, though his words were lost in the noise. And though he wasn’t quite smiling even then, there was a light in his eyes that could not be missed.

“Whoa,” cooed Greg with wide eyes. “Now he’s the Woodsman Guidesman Goodman!”

“Okay, what? HOW.” Beatrice, now seated on Greg’s teapot, flapped out her wings fiercely, gesturing toward the strange scene. “How does a crusty old man who rails about beasts and scares people get to win over a whole town?”

“Yeah!” Wirt breathed out incredulously, throwing up his own hands in agreement. He stared after the Woodsman, slightly astounded. Heck, if he was this popular around here, they’d get directions in no time!

But then his eyes dropped from the man to the throng. And that was when his newfound positivity failed. What were they supposed to do now? More specifically, what was he supposed to do? That would’ve been too many normal people to wade through (for him at least), much less weird, old-timey pumpkin people.

“I thought we were just meeting one guy here,” he muttered, frowning uncomfortably.

However, before he could fret too much, he saw the Woodsman look over his shoulder. The man paused. Then, he excused himself back through the crowds. As soon as he reached them, he settled a hand on Wirt’s shoulder.

“With me, lads,” he nodded sturdily. Then, with his other hand on Greg’s back, he urged them onward without another word. Thus, the two… or three… or four of them (with the frog) followed their guide through the heart of Pottsfield-town.

Greg seemed utterly unperturbed by the strange townsfolk. “Woodsman Guidesman Goodman, Woodsman Guidesman Goodman,” he murmured at Wirt’s side, over and over with each stumpy step.

Wirt rolled his eyes and turned his gaze away. Almost immediately, he recoiled. One jack-o-lantern grin had come a little too close, and a muffled voice a little too near his ear. It sounded almost hollow—

Okay, no. They were people, he had to remind himself, taking a breath. Just some nice… kinda weird people. And, what’s more, he didn’t have to deal with them. That’s what the Woodsman was doing. All he had to do was stick close behind him.

Wirt eyed the surrounding masses.

Very close behind him.

“So,” he asked, trying to keep within the man’s shadow, “so you’re getting directions to get us home, right? Somebody here is that friend of yours who knows the way?”

“Goodsman Widesman Hoodsman, Couldsman Tidesman Shouldsman!”

“Greg!”

“Yes, boy, he’s here,” muttered the Woodsman, hardly audible over the chatter. Then, louder, as he came to a stop about twenty feet from the foot of the maypole, “Good folk of Pottsfield! People!”

The hubbub quieted to a murmur.

“I thank you for this hospitable welcome, but—”

“Of course!” said one voice.

“The harvest wouldn’t be the same without you, Goodman!” chimed another.

A hovering pause that confused Wirt. Was he surprised? Or was he just annoyed?

“You are kindly folk,” he said, a little quieter. And the tone seemed to rule out Wirt’s second option. It didn’t linger long, though. “But now that I’ve come, I have a matter of importance to speak of, and I must see—”

“Well!”

The voice boomed in Wirt’s chest, as close as his own heartbeat. Greg’s self-echoing chatter fell silent. Even the murmur hushed.

“—Enoch,” finished their guide.

Wirt’s eyes drew upward, toward the source of the booming word. And his breath snagged in his throat.

The speaker seemed to be none other than the maypole itself, an enormous pumpkin head at its top. It appeared to be made of cloth. Its face was sewn, with huge eyes and toothy grin. But it lowered itself toward them of its own volition, and the greenish ribbons attached to it moved like arms. Or tentacles.

“Look, Wirt!” squeaked an inexplicably excited voice. “Linus was right all along! It’s the Great Pumpkin!”

“Greg!” he rebuked, though the word hardly hissed out. But as he stared at that gigantic jack-o-lantern, he could not bring himself to think Greg was wrong.

Quickly, he shrank back behind the Woodsman. But to his alarm, the Woodsman did not stand still. Instead, he took off his hat, and he stepped forward. The Pottsfielders wordlessly cleared from his path.

“I… I’m done.” Wirt hardly had time to process the sentence before the flapping of wings signalled desertion. Beatrice had flown.

A part of him begged to follow her. Another, which was stronger, did not want by any means to leave the Woodsman’s shadow. But the strongest still dared not come a step closer to… to that. So he hung back, lingering beside Greg and his frog, biting his lip as he watched the Goodman and the Great Pumpkin meet.

“So,” chuckled Enoch, a sort of delight in his deep, drawling voice, “the Goodman has returned to Pottsfield.”

“Yes, great one,” was the Woodsman’s simple reply. He sounded solemn to Wirt, far more solemn even than usual. And yet, somehow, not gloomy.

“Hmm-hmm, that’s fine! Now our little tradition, kept all these many years, can continue. Now that you’ve gathered in your harvest for the winter, you’ve come to help us reap our own.” The great head seemed to nod, ever grinning. “That’s very fine.”

Wirt saw a few more nods spread throughout the crowd. Questions began to form his thoughts as quickly as they were answered. This was how the Woodsman knew them, but how long had he been coming here? And what was the harvest he meant? There hadn’t been any garden near the mill, not that he’d seen.

“Only,” said the worn voice, scattering his speculations, “I have not gathered in.”

“Oh?”

The Woodsman took a breath. “Not yet.” As the people began to murmur again, he held out his hand behind him, towards Wirt and Greg. “I found these children before I could complete it.”

Wirt did not move. Greg started to, but Wirt held him back with one hand. Then, the Woodsman shot them a look over his shoulder. It wasn’t an angry one. But it was a command: they must come forth now.

Greg, of course, pottered up with his pumpkin foot and a perky smile as soon as he got the signal. “Hi, Mister Great Pumpkin! I’m Greg, and this is my frog, Charlie Brown!” He pointed back. “That’s my big brother, Wirt.”

Hesitantly, and with a tremble he tried to hide, Wirt tiptoed to join the others. “H-hi,” he stammered, lifting a hand in nervous greeting.

“Beatrice was here, too, but she got scared. She’s not a magic bluebird.”

“Well,” chuckled the Great Pumpkin, “welcome to Pottsfield, children.” He leaned down with a creak. “You must be very special that the Goodman has put off his harvest for you.”

“Oh… really?” was all Wirt’s dry mouth could come up with. The head was as big as Wirt himself, and terribly close.

But it wasn’t the size of the being before him that set dread in his bones. It wasn’t pressure, though if he had come alone with Greg, as uninvited outsiders, it might have been. It wasn’t even danger, not with the friendliness of manner. Not with the Woodsman standing between them.

No, this was something greater. Something the poet in him could only grasp and desperately define as presence. Not even that of a ghost; it would have been so much easier if it had been merely ghostly. He could have fled from a ghost.

In the face of this, he could only stand and try not to drop to his knees.

“They are lost, Enoch,” said the Woodsman’s voice, not sounding half so imposing now by comparison (and yet—he couldn’t figure out how—not the slightest bit weaker). “They are wandering as strangers here. The Unknown is not their home, and they must go back where they belong. I have promised to help them do so.”

“Hm.” A deep, slow nod. “Now, ain’t that a neighbourly deed?” A deep, slow breath. “But tell me somethin’, Goodman.”

The Woodsman lifted his head, but said nothing.

“If this is not their home, and they’re not ready to join us here, then why’ve you brought ‘em to me?”

Though Wirt did not look away, his eyelids flickered doubtfully over many possible meanings, good and bad, of ‘not ready to join us.’

But his guide seemed to have no doubts. He took another step forward, eyes fixed immovably. “Enoch, you are wise. If there is a way for them to leave these lands and return to their home, I ask you to tell us, or to show us.”

At these words, Enoch chuckled. And Wirt couldn’t quite place the emotion in it. It seemed amused and bemused at once. It seemed both surprised and perfectly knowing. It could almost have been pity. But it was too light for that, and too thoughtful.

“Well, now.” And he drew himself up straight, though the smile (a genuine one) never left his voice. “Goodman, there’s a lotta things I’m not. It wouldn’t be for me to say that wise is one. But wishin’ wells, spell-makers, guides, well… such things ain’t in my dominion.”

“But do you know where they might be found?”

“Those particularly? No.” His voice grew light and lazy, as if such matters were hardly to be troubled with. “But there are ways to leave the Unknown, I’m sure. Not all who have walked these lands’ll join us here.”

“Then—”

The Woodsman stopped.

After a moment, uncertainly, Wirt tapped his elbow. “Well, go on,” he whispered, hating how loud the sound of it seemed. “Ask him what ways.”

He said nothing.

Wirt peered round his shoulder to see his expression (whilst trying and failing to ignore the Other Face). His eyes were narrowed, but in thought rather than suspicion. Then, as Wirt watched, his mouth opened again.

“What if we stayed the day?”

“What?” The word slipped out sharply before Wirt could stop it.

The head tilted slightly. “Hm?”

“I have already pledged in the past to help you bring in your harvest,” the Woodsman went on, ignoring Wirt. “If I stayed, and the children with me, would you consider the matter until the evening? Then you might give us answer.”

Wirt stared at him agape, snapping out of his fear, if fear it was. What was he doing? Did he forget that they had to get home as soon as possible? And now he was signing them up to work here for the rest of the day!

“Well.” The painted or stitched eyes lifted to the ceiling. “That is a kind offer. Particularly because you have not finished your own harvest.” He looked down on them again. “But I would not consider it payment for answers.”

Wirt’s teeth clenched in desperation.

But Enoch was not finished. “Goodman, I will see what answer I can give by the even.” His ribbons spread out like open hands. “And if y’all wish to help us, you’re welcome to it. But I place no obligation.”

“Re-really?” Wirt clapped his hand over his own mouth, trying too late to suppress the squeaked word.

Another chuckle. “You don’t have to worry, children. I only demand that you do no harm, to our people or to our town, so long as you remain here.” His voice deepened, very slightly, but there was warning in it. “I do not take lightly the care of Pottsfield.”

Wirt shrank from the presence, which seemed nearer, watching, studying his soul. But with a step, the Woodsman drew nearer still. “I will take responsibility for them,” came his answer. “They will do no harm.”

“Oh, no, I don’t think they will.” The lightness, laughingly sincere, returned, and Enoch drew back. “Not these.” He folded his ribbon-hands. “Not with you around.”

The Woodsman—the Goodman—nodded respectfully. “Thank you, great one.”

Chapter Text

“So what’s the plan?” asked Greg as soon as they stepped outside of the barn. “Because I started thinking about Linus meeting the Great Pumpkin and Charlie Brown getting my Rock Facts Rock and Beatrice being Lucy cause she’s blue and crabby, so I didn’t hear anything you guys said.”

“Well, apparently,” Wirt snapped, though he wasn’t looking at Greg, “we’re staying here in Pottsfield for the rest of the day, even though we’re in kind of a hurry to get home!”

“There’s no need to be cross, boy,” the Woodsman said, and Greg turned to look at him. “The Pottsfielders have been hospitable and—”

“But we don’t even know if that… th-that Enoch thing will tell us anything!”

Greg perked up at the name and looked at… hmm, Schroeder. The piano one. “That’s the Great Pumpkin, Schroeder!”

“Greg—”

“I will not have you speaking of Enoch so disrespectfully,” interrupted the Woodsman, looking very sternly and loomingly at Wirt. Dad used the same exact look, but only on special occasions. Like if somebody was crabby about going to church or sassed Mom or something. “He will do as he said he would, and he will not break his word.”

“Yeah! Like Linus says!” Greg gasped—that gave him the perfect idea! “C’mon, Wirt, we gotta find the most sincere pumpkin patch so he can come there!” And he tugged on Wirt’s blue cape.

Wirt frowned and turned away. (Greg knew what that meant: he didn’t want to come this time either.) “But…”

“Boy, you must allow me a little of your trust.” And the Woodsman stepped over to Wirt, not quite so stern now. Maybe still a little looming. “By the time this day is out, you will be on your way home. And, until then, this is truly the safest place in the Unknown that you could be.”

Wirt looked up, with that funny look that meant he didn’t want to say what he wanted to say. Which might be ‘yes’ or ‘no’ sometimes. In the end, he just sighed. “Yeah, well, I guess there’s not much else we can do until we get directions.”

“Yeah!”

He shrugged too. “A-and besides, if you’re right about this Enoch... guy... we’ll be on our way home soon anyway, and we won’t have to worry about any of this ever again.”

They both stopped talking. Greg thought that was a funny kind of a place for a stop-talking. He didn’t quite get what Wirt meant with that last part, either, about any of this and ever again. But not getting what he meant wasn’t unusual. Wirt was Like That.

“Yes,” the Woodsman nodded at last. “Yes, that’s quite right. So you need only be patient ‘til the night.”

“Just like Linus!” declared Greg, accidentally swinging Schroeder around as he side-fist-pumped. If that was what the arm thingy was called. He’d asked Wirt once, but he didn’t know the name either.

“Okay, so… uh…” Wirt looked back up at the Woodsman. “So what are we supposed to actually do at this… harvest thing?”

The Woodsman didn’t smile. But he made his eyes all narrow like he might’ve. “Come with me, boys. I’ve guided you through the woods, and I can guide you through the fields.”

~*~

The fields were familiar to the Woodsman, as he led the boys down country lanes that he’d walked nearly every harvest, for years past his reckoning. He found the way almost without thinking.

They met very few on these dirt-aged roads. Those they did were mostly stragglers late to the festivities. All greeted them. Most then bustled on. But only one stopped.

“Oh, Goodman! Hello!” cried the woman, waving her kerchief. The Woodsman tipped his hat as she approached. “It’s so nice to see you! Have you been to the barn yet?”

“Yes, Mrs. Harmon, I and these boys are off to the harvest now. How are your daughters?”

“Oh, I’m just going to join them now! Leah and Tara went early—you know how they are—and, well, these old bones can’t keep up with them as well as they used to!”

She laughed. Loud and long and hard, as if it were the funniest thing in the world. Greg laughed too. Wirt only stared at them both with confused discomfort.

As Greg introduced himself and his brother, however, the Woodsman's attention was drawn away. A little breeze was stirring, rustling the autumn grass, sending a few stray leaves tumbling to the sky. He thought he felt the faintest portent of winter in its chill.

This leaf-stirring wind stirred him too, set urge in him. Urge to hasten on to their work. Urge to finish the next task. Urge, it could almost be said, to beat winter to the fields.

“Well, we must be going,” he nodded abruptly to the masked mother. “Greet your daughters for me.”

“Of course—they’ll be sorry they missed you!” Mrs. Harmon made to pass them, and he made to leave. But the woman stopped suddenly as she came to his side. She turned her carven face up to him with a little gasp of remembrance. “Oh, and thank you again, Goodman.”

“What for?” interrupted Wirt, unintentionally rude.

But Mrs. Harmon was gracious enough. There was a smile in her voice as she turned to answer him. “Why, for pointing us to Pottsfield! My girls and I’d have been wandering those woods for ages if it hadn’t been for him. And it was such a cold winter that year!”

The winter again. Like a frost, it came now to tinge his thoughts with regret. “Very cold indeed,” he murmured, eyes downcast. And they were ill, too. If only I had done more, perhaps they would not have…

“But the winter doesn’t trouble us in Pottsfield,” she continued without burden nor care. “The girls are so happy here—and I’m happy myself! So of course I must thank him.” She nodded, turning her hollowed gaze back again. “And truly, I do.”

She bade farewell to the boys, and Greg tipped his teapot to her. Before she went her way, however, Mrs. Harmon took his hand gratefully. The fingers were cold beneath the straw, and the words muffled beneath the mask. Yet, for all that, the touch somehow held warmth. For all that, her voice was soft and earnest.

“Be happy while you’re here, friend.”

The Woodsman did not speak for some time as he led the boys on. Wirt must've asked him a thousand questions in his looks. But not even a silent reply did he receive. Even Greg's voice, proclaiming enough for two, seemed hushed in these hills.

At last, they came to a field just behind town, at the back of a little white farmhouse. That was where they’d begin. Straw was always first. And, as every year, the tools they needed were already there waiting for them.

“Look at Schroeder! Haha!” Greg giggled as he balanced his frog on his rake (somehow having managed to find one just his size). The frog seemed content with his lot.

Wirt, on the other hand, seemed much less pleased. “Are—are there any gloves?” he asked, eying the field as if he expected it to bite him.

“Are they needed?” The absence of answer was answer enough. He jerked his head over toward the farmhouse. “On the stairs. Timothy Grub always leaves them out for the labourers, though they’re not often used.”

“Why?”

The Woodsman faltered.

Why?

Why should these people, with their hollowed faces and straw-bound hands, neglect to protect themselves as they worked? Why should they not shudder at the thought of black, life-taking winter? Why should they rejoice in their state? What were they hollowed of? Fear, care, discomfort, sorrow, pain?

Yes.

They were happy here indeed, and no season could trouble them.

So, taking up his rake, the Woodsman drove winter from his thoughts. “Their hands have no need to fret for the straw.”

The boy stood a moment with a doubtful squint. Then, he shrugged and headed for the porch.

~*~

Wirt could still smell the straw and stover as they rattled away from the fields. It wasn’t a smell he knew very well. But it was nice enough. It reminded him of something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. A lot of things around here did that. Maybe it was something from when he was little. Or… or somewhere else.

Timothy Grub had come out of the farmhouse near the end of their work, also harvest-garbed. He and his sons (similarly dressed, but smaller in size) helped them heap up the straw. Then, tipping his hat brim, “Say, you folks oughtta ride to the pumpkin patch with us!”

“Is it a sincere pumpkin patch?” asked Greg, grinning eagerly.

Wirt grimaced: he didn’t really enjoy the thought of socializing, especially here. “Oh… we—we don’t wanna be too much trouble—”

“Oho, no trouble there! The Goodman’s a friend. Besides, the wagon’s already hitched up.”

The Woodsman thanked him for them.

So, as Wirt stared at the sky, letting his thoughts drift, here they were: rolling over dirt roads like the gentle stream of time through golden hills of memory.

In a wagon pulled by huge turkeys.

Driven by a pumpkin man.

What a weird day.

“We lab’rers few, we happy few, we many lab’rers few,” sang Timothy Grub, though his voice came out a little muffled. “We’ve fields to reap and hearts to keep and happy work to do!”

“Happy work, happy work,” Greg mumbled, kicking his legs as he fiddled with something. The Woodsman, sitting next to him, just stared, a little uncertainly. Like he was trying to figure out what to do with the kid.

Pfft. He’d need some pretty good luck for that.

Greg seemed to succeed in whatever he was trying to do. “Aha!” He held up a little paper wrapper, emptied of its sweets. “Hey, do you want a piece of candy, Farmer Grub?”

“Oh, no thanks,” the pumpkin man said over his shoulder. “I’ve got no stomach for it.”

And he laughed. Really, really hard. For no reason at all. Same as the lady earlier.

Geez, that was weird.

Of course, the weirdness was promptly joined by Greg, once again. Which was a little distracting, at least.

“Uh, Greg,” asked Wirt, eying him, “do you even know why you’re laughing?”

“Cause he was laughing!” And he popped the candy in his mouth and chewed happily, humming as he did so. The Woodsman’s brows went up in surprise.

At the sight of them both, Wirt cracked a smile in spite of the weird day, the weird pumpkin people, his own weird self. He couldn't help it.

Greg was just Like That.

~*~

“Yup, I think this is a very sincere pumpkin patch,” Greg nodded, surveying the field. “Don’t you think so, Flying Ace?”

The Flying Ace croaked.

At the insightful comment, he frowned and put a hand on his hip. “Yeah, you’re right. The sky makes it kinda glum, since it’s grey now and not blue anymore.”

He looked around. Farmer Grub was handing Wirt and the Woodsman some snipper thingies to cut the pumpkins. Was he supposed to snip them too? Or maybe he was just supposed to pick out the best ones. Or he could make the faces! That’d be fun.

Wirt leaned back, resting with one hand against the big ol’ turkey. “So, how many of these things are we supposed to get, huh? A dozen or something?”

“Ol' Berwin said to take whatever we need,” waved Farmer Grub. It looked funny with his straw hands. “So we probably oughtta fill up the cart. The harvest goes on for days, and it’s shaping up to be a plentiful year.”

Wirt frowned a thinky frown. “Okay… but, if it’s such a big harvest, how come you don’t have more people working? I-I mean, we’re the only ones out here, so—”

“No, we’re not,” grunted the Woodsman, already lifting a pumpkin. He was winning the pumpkin race!

“Wait, really?”

“Well, sure!” Farmer Grub shrugged. “These pumpkins aren’t gonna move themselves… are they?”

Wirt started to make a funny look, but the Woodsman talked first. “You see, lad, in any given part of these fields, the labourers are few. But they’re never the only ones.” He set Pumpkin Number One in the cart.

“Just like the song!” And Greg started singing the “happy work” part to himself again. Well, and to the Flying Ace.

Wirt looked from the Woodsman to Farmer Grub. He looked like he was gonna say something else. But right when he opened his mouth, the turkey he was leaning on snatched his pointy hat right off his head. And red. Pointy and red.

“HEY!”

He tried to jump and grab it back, but he tripped. He was better at tripping than jumping. The turkey stuck it on the other one’s head, and they both startled gobbling and cackling. Maybe they thought it was a funny joke. Wirt hopped and hopped, but he couldn’t reach. “Give it back, you stupid—!”

“Ho now! Ho!” barked the Woodsman, coming around from the back of the cart. He caught the turkey’s halter and held up his other hand. The turkey tugged against his hold at first. But, as soon as it started to settle down a little, he grabbed the hat. He was taller than Wirt, so he didn’t have to jump.

Greg thumbs-upped. “Haha, good catch!”

“Dogood! Boaz! Bad turkeys!” Farmer Grub scolded the turkeys (which was also funny, because he couldn’t frown with the happy pumpkin over his face). “Sorry, folks, they’re a little pesky today.”

“That’s all right, Mr. Grub,” said the Woodsman, dusting off the pointy and red hat. “No harm done.” And he handed it back to Wirt.

Wirt huffed as he settled it back on his head. “Thanks,” he said, eying Boaz and Dogood with a frown.

The Flying Ace rupped. No, Methuselah. He was in the Bible too, just like Boaz. “Yeah, you’re right, Methuselah. It doesn’t have to be blue. Grey’s a sincere colour too.”

~*~

Something small plopped down in the dirt beside the Woodsman.

“Do you think it hurts?”

"Hm?" He glanced up from his task. Greg was on his hands and knees, inspecting the pumpkins and their vines from inches away.

"When you snip their green things, I mean. I don't wanna snip them if they don't like it."

He blinked. Then, once he understood the question, he considered it (with the assumption that the plants could feel at all). "Perhaps. But I don't believe they would despise it." His hand ran along a round-ridged hull. "They were created to be harvested, after all. It is their purpose."

"Oh, right!" The lad's contemplative frown righted itself. "That makes sense. If I was a pumpkin, I'd sure want to have a cool face and a candle in my mouth!" And with that, he made a... face. Stretching his mouth into a toothy grin. Crossing his eyes. Shaping his cheeks with his fingers.

The Woodsman could not find even a question to ask. He only stared, unsure of whether to be concerned.

"Did you know that that's how pumpkins dress up for Halloween, instead of wearing costumes? It's a Rock Fact!" And Greg held up a painted stone.

A moment. Then, one little word unrolled a map for his lost soul at last. All Hallow's Eve. That's what he's talking of. And a jack-o-lantern face to make of himself. He nodded slowly. Now I under—

"So can I?"

Just as quickly, the map refurled.

"Can you what?"

"Snip the pumpkins!" And he turned his bright face upward expectantly.

Though he understood this well enough, the Woodsman wavered. Even at the Mill, he hadn't let the boy handle the tools. "We... mustn't have you snipping your own fingers, little one..."

"Aw, that's what Wirt said!" protested Greg. "I won't! I know how to be careful!"

A little sigh escaped him at the age-old claim. If I recall, there are few children in all the world with that knowledge.

"Please?"

But he knew. As his gaze turned from the tool in his hand to the pleading face, he knew. He wouldn't deny a child a chance to help. He never could.

"Here, then. Let me show you the proper way."

"Yeah, haha!"

It took a little time to show him the safest way to hold the tool (and to work out how to balance it in his small hands). But Greg seemed a quick learner at such things. And, when the blades closed easily on the vine, and the pumpkin shifted in its new freedom, the lad actually cheered.

"See, Methuselah? I did it! Just like Mr. Woodsman showed me!"

The frog ribbited approval.

"Can I carry it to the cart too? I think I'm strong enough."

The Woodsman studied its size, shifted it where it sat. Then he nodded. "I think perhaps you are."

After a moment or two (for Greg insisted that they both bring pumpkins), they headed back for Timothy Grub's cart. Young Wirt was still nearby, picking his own fruits of the vine. The turkeys had settled down by now, and Grub was counting out their harvest.

"Mr. Woodsman, I think you're a born gardener."

At the simple sentence, stark as lightning, the Woodsman's gaze jumped wide and darted down. Greg was already smiling back up.

"A what?" was all he could manage.

"It's what Old Lady Daniels called me. When I helped her clean up in her flowerbeds and her yard and stuff." Greg shrugged lightly. "I think it means you're the kind of person should have a garden, cause you know how to do gardening a lot, and you're good at this kind of stuff. And you're really good at this kind of stuff, so you're a born gardener too!"

The Woodsman blinked. Heat flooded his face. "Er... th-thank you... little one."

"Welcome."

He stared another moment, unnoticed, until he could stare no longer through his muddled thoughts. Then his eyes dropped.

A born gardener? What named me that in your eyes? He shook his heavy head. Lad, I fear you are too kind for the truth.

His gaze swept across the fields and their fruit.

A born gardener, I? Who fells what he has not planted, and roams too far and too long to see things grow?

Answer came. But not from the present.

Long-bygone days were his answer, the green before his eternal black and brown. Days when he tended to other things than twisted trees. Days when another little voice too kind begged to help. Days when the yield of the earth was not a burden.

A born gardener?

Perhaps I was, once.

"Wait, do you have a garden already?"

His words came forth slowly, though not from confusion. "A garden?"

Yet, as he turned to the child before him, he found there the wrong face. A moment. Then his remembrance shattered.

Those days were gone, and long gone.

I am a woodsman now. That is my place, and my burden. I cannot grow. And I will think back no longer on memories today.

His eyes hardened a little.

They drown too easily.

"Well, do you?"

"I have no garden," the Woodsman replied with a stony sigh, setting his orange load in the cart. "The edelwood is my crop, and the oil is my harvest."

Two "ohs" were said. One came, in realization, from the nearby Wirt. The other, more disappointedly, from Greg.

The child looked down again. Set down his pumpkin. Pondered. Then looked back up.

"You can't eat those, can you?"

"No. It is only food for the lantern."

"That lantern must be pretty hungry, then, 'cause you feed it a lot."

He reached out toward the Woodsman's side to pat its metal shell. The Woodsman turned sharply, keeping it out of reach.

But there was no anger to be mustered. When he looked down, he saw only a tiny child. A child with dirt under his nails and frog slime between his fingers and a world of childish reasonings boiling inside that teakettle on his head. A child that would soon be gone, gone away home.

Not his child. But a child nonetheless.

"Come, little gardener," he sighed, with what he hoped was a friendly look. "We've work to do."

"Happy work to do!" sang Greg—that old song, it seemed, had nested in his head like a bird in a tree. Warbling, he skipped away into the fields.

No less lost, the Woodsman followed.

~*~

Beatrice had already kind of given up on finding anybody when she turned to circle again over the town. But she still turned. One last time, she told herself. Just to make sure. Not that that's any assurance they'll actually be ALIVE if I find them, but I may as well know.

So she wheeled once more, keeping her eyes peeled. Her beady little bluebird eyes. Why couldn't she have gotten turned into a falcon or something? Then she could see better. At least there were clouds now. Earlier, with the sun out, it had been way too—

She stumbled on air. She took a second look to make sure she wasn't going crazy. But the flash of red and blue amidst golden stalks was there. Small green and tall grey solidified it: they were in that field, all right. And they seemed to be moving.

"I don't believe it," she muttered to the wind (half-relieved, half-annoyed). Then, like a tiny bird of prey, Beatrice dove. The cornfield, and its trio of new scarecrows, were her aim.

She fluttered as she came to perch on a stalk. "Well, you didn't get eaten."

"AHH!" The kid (she was sure it was "Wirt" now) jumped and almost dropped his basket. His wide eyes swiveled. They found her. Then they rolled. "Ugh, Beatrice." He shifted his weight and walked past her. "I thought you ditched us."

If she could've reddened under her feathers, she would've. Even she wasn't sure if it was irritation or embarrassment, though. Neither really mattered to her scowl.

"Maybe next time, I'll ask you to pick between honour and a fate probably worse than death. We'll see how you respond."

"Pfft, come on, it wasn't that terrifying," he lied. Oh, she could tell that was lying. He was a terrible liar. Her baby brother could've told a lie better than him.

And Wirt seemed to be aware of the fact, too. His lie left an awkward silence in his mouth, and he looked away. When Beatrice tried to stare him down, he frowned, still without eye contact.

"L-look, why don't you go bother Greg?" And he tried to use the setting-down of his basket as a distraction. "He seems to be the main magnet around here for little... woodland creatures, or... whatever."

That remark tightened her grip on the stalk furiously. Oh, really? How'd YOU like to be a little woodland creature? Maybe I'll give YOU a bluebird curse. See how your dumb face looks with a beak.

In actuality, she placed no such curse (even if it would've worked, which she still wasn't sure of). Instead, she forced her wings into a shrug. "Believe me, I would. But he found himself a different woodland creature."

"Huh?" Wirt stood up and glanced around for his brother. It took him about four seconds longer than Beatrice thought believable to spot him. The kid was prancing around under the stalks like an elephant in the corn. The old woodsman was close behind, watching him with a hesitant eye.

"C'mon, it's even happier work if you sing!"

"L-little one, I... well, I fear my voice is not the sort to make anyone happy."

"Psh. Everybody's voice makes somebody happy. Here, Crosby and me can show you how!" And he started singing some random chorus about happy work and hams to keep, plucking corn as he went. That frog of his hopped alongside. His other friend, however, only looked more lost.

Beatrice shook her little head, the slightest bit smug. Looks like your "Guidesman" doesn't know EVERYTHING, does he?

"Well," shrugged Wirt beside her, turning back to the stalks, "at least Greg's bugging him instead of me now." He plucked an ear.

"Yeah, yeah." Beatrice looked at him. Eying the corn with his tongue just poking out the side. Dork. Then she took another glance at the pair. Still noisy as a river and silent as a stone. Neither paying attention.

So she took the opportunity. Hopping onto a closer stalk, she began to speak a little lower.

"Speaking of which, you're not really sticking with that guy, right?"

The ear half-raised to Wirt's mouth froze. "What?"

"I mean, it's not like you know anything about him. How do you know what kind of things he's done, out there, alone in the woods, for years on end?"

"I-I don't need to know his life story, Beatrice," he interrupted, tossing the unmunched corn into the basket and reaching for another. "I just need to get home. And, hey," he shrugged again (which was really getting annoying), "he got us here."

Rolling her eyes, she fluttered after him and perched again. "And then what? Did you offer community service in return for not being murdered or something?

"No," Wirt scoffed. "We're just helping them out while we wait on the next step. At the end of the day, these guys are gonna give us directions. Then we'll be out of here."

Ugh, quit having plans already! "Supposedly."

This time, he turned towards her fully, complete with hand on his hip. Trying to look sternly disinterested or something. "Beatrice, is there a point to all this, or are you just being a raincloud?"

Beatrice thought up a quick deflection. "I'm just saying, I don't like it. I mean, you find all this as creepy as I do, right?"

His face twisted like an explanation was about to come out of it. "I-I mean, so maybe it's a weird... whatever it is, where they wear vegetable costumes and—"

"And worship a giant pumpkin head?"

"Follow a giant pumpkin head," he corrected (nerd), "they don't actually act like they worship it. Him. Whatever." Wirt hurriedly waved it off and took a few steps forward. A few steps closer to the others. They still didn't notice. "But they like the Woodsman. And..." He wavered. "...they seem nice."

Seriously? You're not even gonna agree on THAT? "Okay, you're in denial. That's fine. But I'm telling you," she added, glancing around, "something feels off about this place."

At that, they both seemed to poise on silence, suddenly aware of faces. Pumpkin faces, staring at them through the stalks. As if the very speaking of their strangeness had summoned them. Even Wirt couldn't ignore them.

But Wirt was more capable of ignorance than she thought. He huffed stubbornly and stomped on past her. Boy, he might as well have outright said 'I'm not about to listen to a bluebird'.

"You know what? This whole thing has felt off ever since we came into the woods. But the Woodsman told us this place is safe—which, so far, it has been! Safer than that wereling thing we ran into before."

"The what?"

"So I'm gonna wait until the end of the day." He reached for another ear. "When Enoch comes, he'll tell us what we need to know."

"Oh, and you trust this Enoch guy?"

"Who said anything about that? The Woodsman said—"

Beatrice was quick. Her voice shrank, and she bunched up her feathers innocently around her.

"Do you trust him?" 

She held her breath. It was a risk. Clearly, some big thing happened with a 'wereling', whatever that was, and she could easily believe that the woodsman either ran it off or killed it. And clearly, he'd led them all the way here. Any normal kid would have every reason to trust the guy. And, too, with the woodsman so closeby, she was risking putting him on the scent (which was the real reason she'd stayed away from Greg).

But her risk paid off more than she expected. All Wirt's retorts and excuses dropped from him. His open mouth soon shut out the silence, working without words. He stared at her until his eyes flicked away and fell.

Jeepers, you'd think it was a dirty word I was getting him to say.

But maybe that was just what she wanted.

"Look, Wirt, is it?" she asked, still in a hushed voice. One stalk closer. Time to be careful. "You can think what you want, you can trust people or not. I really don't care."

Very c areful.

"But if it doesn't turn out the way you want, just remember that I owe you a favour. I can take you to somebody who will know how to get you home, if you want."

His eyes got just a little wider, and he looked up.

Gotcha.

"And, let's be honest," she added nonchalantly, wings shrugging, "I'm probably the only one around here who's physically incapable of keeping you from leaving."

Wirt wavered. But it was a wavering on whether or not to say what you really think. She was almost sure of that. "I—"

Something whipped past Beatrice, making her squawk. Though it didn't hit her, it smacked Wirt right in the forehead. It flopped upright again, quavering like the cornstalk it was. He, however, tripped over his own basket and toppled, limbs flailing ridiculously before he hit the ground.

Oh, the ground didn't hold him long. The others rushed on by her, probably not even noticing her. Greg was apologizing. His hands and that woodsman's were already reaching down to help the guy.

But Wirt wasn't looking at them. He was only watching her. So she risked a little more to give him a conspiratorial smirk. Then, she took off, leaving the cornfield and her quarry behind.

For now.

Chapter Text

Wirt wiped his brow, huffing a smile. Was it weird that it felt kinda good to just work? It wasn’t usually like that. At least, not with his normal chores back home. And what was it the Woodsman said before, about doing better with a purpose?

The memory almost brought with it someone else’s words. He hurried to bury the lot of them.

“These are some BIG holes!” shouted Greg’s voice. As Wirt turned, he just glimpsed a kettle-top popping over the brim of said hole. Then (as Greg’s jump seemingly ended) it vanished again.

Wirt scoffed. They were pretty big holes.

Timothy Grub had carted off the pumpkins and things—the harvest they gathered—a while ago. Now, the three of them were alone in a different field. This one didn’t seem to have any crops. This time, they were just digging. And digging a lot.

The Woodsman, in his own hole, paused his work just long enough to glance up. “Large, yes, as they must be.” His shovel shoveled on. “For their purposes, it would not do to dig them shallow.”

That phrasing plowed furrows in Wirt’s brow. “Wait, what purposes?”

“It is only another part of their harvest. No need to fret.”

“Well, I-I wasn’t fretting, exactly, I just—” He frowned, tilting his head. “What are they for, though? What, are we gonna plant giant seeds or something?”

A curious look came into the old man’s eye, turning down. “No. These seeds were already planted.” He seemed about to say more. But he hovered on it too long, and soon shoveled his words away instead.

“Yeah, Seymour, we’re diggin’ up seeds!” came Greg’s unseen voice. An invisible croak. Then, a little spade started flinging dirt in the air.

Wirt looked from one hole to the other. He shrugged, and started shoveling again.

Well, so what. Maybe this place really was just weird. Even with the increasingly-accumulating oddities, it was nice here. The weirdos were friendly weirdos. The random stuff they did wasn’t that freaky. Beatrice didn’t know what she was talking about.

So she could stop poking her smart-aleck beak around in his brain already.

“Diggy, diggy, diggy, dig, holes in the ground!” chirped Greg, as his shovel appeared and disappeared over the edge of his hole. “Hey! We’re just like hobbies!”

Wirt snorted. “That’s hobbits, Greg. Also, I’m pretty sure me and the Woodsman are too tall to be hobbits.”

“Nahh, you’re short enough.”

Frowning, he picked up a lump of dirt and lobbed it toward Greg’s hole.

“HEY!”

He kept in a smirk as he started back digging.

Over to his left, he saw the Woodsman, bewilderedly staring, and he had to keep in more than a smirk. He was genuinely not used to people, was he? Though, to be fair, he didn’t seem the type to know about hobbits. Probably after his time. How old was he, a hundred, hundred-fifty?

Whatever his age, the Woodsman gave Greg’s hole a last glance, then shrugged slightly. His shovel went to work once again. He even started mumbling some made-up little tune to himself. Well, probably made-up. Same as he’d been doing when they first saw him, chopping up trees in the woods yesterday. Gosh, was it yesterday? It felt like months now.

He stared at their guide.

It felt like this guy had been watching out for them a long, long time now.

As soon as the thought grazed his mind, Wirt jerked his gaze away and glued it to the dirt, shoving his shovel in hard.

Come on. They were leaving soon. They’d had their fun little excursion in Magic Land, fighting monsters and harvesting with weird pumpkin hobbits. It was cool. Maybe even kinda awesome (kinda). But it was almost over. Now they were about to go home. The Woodsman helped them get here, but it wasn’t like he was their friend or something.

Shovel.

Okay, sure, he saved their lives a couple times. A forest ranger would’ve done the same thing! Maybe that’s what he was: just the spooky, fantasy version of a forest ranger. It was his job to watch out for people who got lost out here. He just took it weirdly seriously. Like he took his whole lantern thing weirdly seriously. Or all that ‘elder child’ stuff.

Wirt’s hard shoveling softened.

Why couldn’t he get that out of his head? Why couldn’t he get a lot of those things out of his head? Yeah, he was cool and all for rescuing them, but he was also kinda ridiculous for totally not getting Greg, and always talking like a fairytale, and… well. Well, maybe—possibly—conceivably—he sorta thought that was cool too, but… but…

But do you trust him?

His defenses failed at last. Beatrice’s incessant question, which he’d avoided for so long, finally slipped through. For a second, it was all he could do to stare it in the face. To look at it, to see it, in all its substance and weight and deadly potential.

Then, he dodged its sharp gaze and shoveled substance away.

At this point, do I need to?

~*~

“Whoa.”

The Woodsman was in the middle of a swing when he heard the mumbled word.

“WHOA!” echoed another, much louder.

In truth, either voice would have lifted his gaze. But the little fist clenching a spade, flying up in triumph, drew his attention to the second hole.

“Wirt,” the eager little voice continued from within, “this is amazing! I just found buried treasure!”

The Woodsman’s brows went up. “Treasure, you call it?”

“Yeah!”

“Really? I-I just hit something too!” From the first hole this time. And there seemed a little excitement even in Wirt’s voice as he laid aside his shovel. “Greg, come help me!”

“I’m comin’, brother o’ mine!”

Two little hands appeared on the brim of the second hole, accompanied by scrambling grunts. No head appeared. In fact, the hands suddenly vanished themselves with a thump.

“Hold on a moment, little one!” said the Woodsman, stepping out of his hole. It only stood to his thigh. To Wirt, it was rib-high. But little Greg was in over his bekettled head. “Just a moment!”

In a few strides, he stood over the little pit. There sat Greg, dusted in dirt, almost laying atop his unfortunate frog.

The Woodsman bent down. “What are you doing there?”

“I slipped.”

“Are you hurt?”

Greg shook his head. “Nuh-uh. Are you hurt, Long John Silver?”

A croak.

“That’s good. Are you hurt, Mister Buried Treasure?”

Greg pushed himself off the ground. There beneath him lay his ‘treasure’: a skeleton. Barren bones, still half-lost in the earth. Yet, to his inspection, not a one seemed cracked or smashed by the collision.

“Nope, we’re all okay!” And Greg stuck his thumb in the air.

It barely took a moment for him to hoist the child up. As soon as Greg was settled on his feet, outside of his hole, he beamed up.

“Thanks, Mr. Woodsman! Did you find treasure too?”

He squinted down in bafflement (not for the first time—nor, he guessed, the last). “I’m… certain I’ll find something soon, little one.”

“Well, don’t stop looking!” Greg insisted, tugging his frog into his arms. “They definitely wouldn’t put treasure just for me and Wirt. They like you a lot!”

And he pattered over to join his brother, completely missing the stare he received before the Woodsman headed back for his own hole.

How can such wide eyes see so little? He stepped down and grabbed his shovel. A woodsman as a gardener, now a skeleton as treasure.

Though he could not understand them, he glanced at the boys. They were hardly visible over the rim of Wirt’s pit, digging away chatteringly. Then he turned his gaze further. Across the empty field around him. About the grey clouds above. But the emptiness offered no dread, and the grey offered no gloom.

A deep, slow breath he rarely had leisure for filled his lungs. He could smell the harvest, strong as a taste and faint as a memory. Just as slowly, he breathed it out.

In this place, I could almost believe it.

Before he could put spade to dirt, however, the solitude was shattered by a piercing scream. Wirt’s scream. The Woodsman’s head jerked up, and he saw a scramble of motion in the hole. He glimpsed horror on Wirt’s face as he emerged.

“What’s happening?” he barked out, heaving himself from his hole as fast as he could. His hand fisted white on the shovel-handle. “What’s the matter, boy?”

“Yeah, what’s the matter, Wirt?” came Greg’s innocent voice, somewhere out of sight. “It’s just buried treasure, like mine!”

“Like y—are you nuts, Greg?!” Wirt’s fear turned desperately upward. “Mr. Woodsman!”

“What is it?” And he rushed upon the rim of the boys’ hole, shovel at the ready.

“It’s a skeleton—a SKELETON, Mr. Woodsman! Look!” He gestured to the bones at his feet.

At that, the Woodsman could not help releasing a little breath, a little tension in his muscles. Is that all? No deadly danger, no injuries? Only the bones of some sleeper? His death grip on the shovel loosened slightly.

His reaction could not have been more ill-timed.

~*~

For a moment, it felt like the world was crashing around Wirt’s ears. Not only had they just dug up a skeleton—according to Greg (who of course saw this as positive), TWO skeletons—in the middle of this field, but the Woodsman? Their guide, who protected them before? He was LESS worried when he heard that than when he first ran up. LESS.

“How are you not even bothered by this?!” Wirt threw up his hands and started pacing, in frantic zig-zags instead of circles. “We—we’ve gotta tell someone, or—o-or call the police!”

“Calm down now, boy, calm down. I told you, there’s nothing to fear here.”

“Yeah, nothin’ to fear!” repeated Greg, unhelpfully.

“Yeah, but we didn’t know about the unmarked graves we were gonna be digging up!” Wild suspicion started running through Wirt’s mind—did the people know? Were they playing some kind of a sick joke? Was this whole place some kind of Harvest Death Cult? His imagination began filling in the spaces between the Pottsfielders’ words, the gaps in their carved smiles, with malice. “We didn’t know what they were hiding!”

“Well…”

Wirt stared up, frozen.

No.

“You knew?”

The Woodsman shook his head, in some kind of apologetic realization. “I should’ve thought to tell you beforehand.”

If he were younger, Wirt felt sure he would’ve burst into tears. As it was, his chest was tightening in panicky knots, his horrified heart pounding within his own skeleton. “This—no. No, this is insane. I’ve lost my marbles.”

“Whoa, I didn’t know you liked marbles, Wirt!”

Greg’s oblivious interruption only built up a further tumult of emotions; this time, an added anger. “So—so you forgot to tell us we were walking right into some kind of cult town?” He threw up his hands, glaring. “Y-you just forgot to let us know we were digging our own—”

“Boy!” Though the Woodsman barked the word, he put a hand on Wirt’s shoulder. His eyes affixed him, firmly sincere. “I promised you that you would be safe here, and so you are. No one is going to be harmed or killed.”

“Then how did these skeletons get here?!” Wirt was yelling now.

“They are the Pottsfielders!”

Gosh, he was about to rip out his own hair. “And how do you not see the problem with that?! They’re murdering—”

“No, no, not murdered! You see, in Pottsfield—”

His explanation (as if it would have helped in the slightest!) was cut off by the sound of drums. All three of their heads shot up and glanced around. Though Wirt came second, it was Greg who saw it first. Instantly, his hands flew in the air excitedly.

“Yay, the Great Pumpkin’s coming!”

As soon as Wirt’s eyes landed on the gigantic orange head, processing slowly through the fields to the sound of trumpets (hot dog, did it sound like a dirge!), instinct took over. With a squeak, he made to scurry off. But a grip on his arm (really only firm, but seeming in that moment cruel) turned him round.

“Wait, lad! Wait!”

Wirt tugged him right back. “Are you nuts?! We gotta hide some—”

“All will be well, watch! See what happens next!” The Woodsman held his gaze earnestly. “Trust me, boy!”

“But I…”

He trailed off as both he and (it seemed) the Woodsman sensed someone else with them. They turned in unison.

Enoch, and all the Pottsfielders, were right there. Looming over them. Staring at them.

Wirt jumped, heart pounding, with a squawk. A moment, he dared hesitate. Then he tore himself away from the Woodsman’s hand.

“Boy!” came the sharp whisper behind him, commanding. But he couldn’t answer. He couldn’t listen. He couldn’t stay. Not now.

He ran from the holes they’d dug (graves) and made a dive into the tall grass. For a second, he just lay there, listening for any sounds of pursuit. There was nothing. No, wait—the grass was rustling. It was moving. Something was—

“Why are we running, Wirt?”

Exhaling too sharply for comfort, Wirt slapped his hands over Greg’s mouth. “Keep it down!” he hissed, tugging him in further. “We don’t want them to find us!”

Greg shoved the hand away and whispered, “Is Mr. Woodsman playing hide-and-seek too?”

“I—” Wirt grimaced, wild uncertainty and fearful regret racing in his veins. “I-I don’t know, Greg. I think he wanted us to stay.”

“Why didn’t we?”

Wirt pushed aside some of the tall grass and peered out. Enoch and the Pottsfielders stood just where they had been before. The Woodsman was staring out where the boys had gone.

Even as Wirt watched, the man’s face fell.

A twinge of guilt twisted his gut. Why couldn’t he have stayed? Or—or why couldn’t the Woodsman be smart and run with them? What in the world did he think was going on, that digging up two skeletons in a field wasn’t something out of a horror story? Why couldn’t he have just told them and tried to make sense?

Wirt bit his lip and shut his eyes.

“Because Beatrice was right.”

Chapter Text

“Say, Goodman, where’re your friends off to in such a rush?” 

“Don’t they know they’re about to miss the harvest?” 

“I hope everything’s all right!”

All these murmurs amongst the masked crowd went unanswered. The Woodsman heard them, of course. But he said nothing. Only watched the tall grasses until their rustling faded. It did not return. Nor, he suspected, would it. 

His eyes slipped shut with a sigh. Then, disheartened, he turned to face Pottsfield. 

“The harvest is prepared,” rumbled Enoch, gigantic head bright against the grey sky. “And I understand you and your charges have done fine work to help us along, Goodman.”

A cheerless nod. “Yes, great one. The lads well attended the tasks they were given.” 

“Yes. And yet, I don’t believe I see them here.”

“They… they are afraid.” 

“What’re they afraid of?” chuckled a confused voice—that of Timothy Grub. “Those clouds won’t storm today.” 

The Woodsman hesitated (he could not say ‘of you’) . “The harvest is strange to them, and they do not understand it.” A twinge of disappointment dropped his gaze. It was regret, however, that hunched his shoulders. 

They did not trust me. But I did not tell them. Not as I should. How many ways might I have spoken differently! Explanations without existence spun formlessly in and out of thought. 

The Pottsfielders only murmured in puzzlement. After all, how could they make sense of the concept? How could anyone find such a wondrous event strange or frightening? 

Enoch, however, seemed to understand. He nodded, humming somberly. “Truly, it saddens me that they don’t wish to join us for our celebration here. Particularly because,” he added, voice dropping, “the time has come.” 

At the pronouncement, an entire town held its breath, though they did not need it. The instruments that had played merrily earlier now blew forth a solemn dirge, the last mourning of seeds, placelessly planted here in the Unknown. 

Its notes were familiar to the Woodsman. Yet it had never held the menace of its forest counterfeit. Not in his ears. Not here. 

The song went silent. The funeral was over. And, as anticipation held breathless sway over them all, something began to happen in the three holes they had dug. 

A clinking. A shuffling. A soft falling and brushing of earth. And a bone-white, dirt-browned hand clasped the rim of the pit. An effort, and it was joined by a skull, a ribcage, femurs and fibulas. Very soon, Greg’s buried treasure stood upon its feet and danced. 

The hush of the crowd erupted into cheers and glad greetings, as all rushed forth to welcome an old friend. Cries of “Welcome back, Larry!” and “He looks exactly the same!” swarmed the air. The jolly skeleton, banging his bones on his head, soon slipped into his harvest garb, happily donning the pumpkins given him (indeed, the very ones the Woodsman and Greg had snipped earlier). Another dry-bone man—hailed as “Edward”—emerged from Wirt’s pit. 

And yet, came the Woodsman’s thought, his realization, as he watched, most would see this sight for the first time and call it a horror. He shook his head, bewildered. It... did make sense. But a disconnected sort of sense. 

A grunt and tumbling struggle came from behind, and the Woodsman turned. He found he had not dug in quite the right spot. A third skeleton, half embedded in the wall, was scrabbling out of the dirt. With a crumble, the wall gave way. With a tumble, he slid to the ground. 

The Woodsman stepped over to the rim. “Here, friend. Let me help you.” And offered his hand. 

Empty eye-sockets raised to look at him. Though the expression did not, could not, change, the pale frame gave a start. “I know you,” rasped through the slack jaw.

A frozen pause. “You—you do?” 

“You helped us before, when we were attacked by that… that creature.” And he took the hand proffered. “Where is Tom?” 

The Woodsman made no answer. He vaguely remembered the two men. But he did not know what had happened to them, after he’d slain their wereling pursuer. He did not know where Tom had gone after burying Charles here, nor what had given him the occasion. But he helped the man up, preparing his words. For, ‘twould seem, this place warrants explanation.  

At the motion, the Pottsfielders quieted and turned toward the newcomer. They said not a word. The newcomer, as soon as he saw them, stared, yet in surprise. More in bewilderment than any fear. “What… what is…” 

Before the Woodsman could open his mouth, Enoch overshadowed them both. But the shadow was warm. 

“What’s your name, friend?” he asked gently. 

“Charles,” stammered the skeleton, small under the great gaze. “But where am I? I was on the road, I thought, in the woods. I hope I haven’t trespassed. I was just looking for a place to live, to…” He scratched hopelessly at his skinless neck. “…t-to rest.” 

“You’ve found it, Charles,” smiled the huge voice. “You’re in Pottsfield now. You’re home.” 

Not a word more was given to explain. Nor was it asked. That simple greeting, that half-handful of words, was enough. 

For Charles, so it seemed, every burden of time lifted from his bones at once. The pit lay forgotten. The stranger stepped to join the town, and was a stranger no more. Cheers and welcomes thronged him as they had their own. A pumpkin soon smiled brightly for him, and his naked bones were clothed in bounty. 

Charles turned back toward the Woodsman and waved. Then he was swept up in a sudden dance, and saw him no more. 

Slowly, the Woodsman lifted his hand in return. 

“What a wonderful harvest,” boomed Enoch, beaming down upon his little town. 

And it was wonderful. It was dancing and music and abundance. It was joy and laughter and, somehow, despite all death, life. The Woodsman drank in the sight, with what could only be called love. For this place, for its people. Wonderful, indeed.  

A lonely tinge coloured the golden scene with grey. 

Too wonderful for me.

As the Pottsfielders danced, bright in their harvest hues, here he stood dim, an outpost of the shadowed wood and the looming winter. 

As parent laughed with child and friend embraced friend, here he stood alone, a cold lantern at his side. No beaming child to take his hand. Not even those who were not his, who could shelter in his shadow but not his words. 

As Charles whirled in a gladsome reel, as at home as if he had never wandered, as lively as if he had never died, here stood the Woodsman. A man with a home he could never return to. A man whom death ignored and life forgot. 

A guest here, yes, and welcome. But only ever a guest. 

~*~

“And what about those boys of yours, Goodman?”

The man seemed to snap from a distant melancholy. “What of them?” 

“Are they still here? Are they still yours to safekeep?” 

“Yes.” A sigh of returning to himself. “Yes, they must be.” 

~*~

Wirt didn’t actually realize anybody was coming. 

His eyes had been fastened tight to the “harvest”. The freaky, bizarre, yet apparently very non-lethal harvest. The skeletons leaping from their graves and putting on everything the three of them had harvested today. The celebration, the strangely happy Danse Macabre before them. 

Come to think of it, their whole thing about laughing at random phrases made a lot more sense now. 

Greg, of course, was enthralled, and clearly not paying attention to anything else. Why wouldn’t he be? He thought they were buried treasure. Wirt… well, he didn’t know what to make of it all. He tried to figure it out. Mostly, though, he sat and stared, stuck in the crossroads of relieved, revolted, and riveted. 

That was why he was off his guard when something rustled, very near, in the grass. 

Wirt jumped as panic kicked him. Was he wrong again? Were they coming for them after all? Should he hide, or run, or— 

“Boys?” 

And that was worse. 

Whipping off his highly-visible red cap (he’d learned that lesson once already… somewhere), Wirt ducked down low. Great . A Pottsfielder was one thing. At least he had the excuse of, well, skeletons . Wanting to avoid talking to not-properly-alive, not-at-all-dead people was normal! 

Facing the Woodsman again—now, after running away—was another thing entirely. 

Greg didn’t seem to be bothered by either of the Things. 

“HA-HA!” he burst out, leaping from his own hiding spot. “You found us, Mr. Woodsman! Now it’s our turn to seek, right, Mikey?” The frog croaked as Greg’s feet started tramping off (probably to find a good seeking spot… or whatever it was called). 

“Not yet, lad,” urged the Woodsman’s voice. (Wirt glimpsed him catching Greg’s shoulder, half-obscured by grass.) “No more games for the moment.” 

“Aw, how come?” 

“Because Enoch—” He seemed to revise the title. “—th-the, er, Great Pumpkin is ready to speak with you.” 

Greg’s gasp proved his revision worthy. “Then we definitely need to put our game on hold. We’re comin’, Great Pumpkin! Wirt, let’s go!” 

Through the blades, Wirt saw the Woodsman turn, gaze drifting toward his part of the field. Hastily, he dropped down. Withdrew. Waited. 

A pause. Then, a hushed sigh. “I think your brother is not ready to follow us yet.” 

“What? He should!” And Greg seemed to cup his hands round his mouth. “ Wi-irt, c’mon! Let’s go see the Great Pumpkin! Are you ready?” 

Flushing, Wirt rolled his eyes. Greg. Always prodding him, embarrassing him. 

“You ready, Wirt? Heeeeere goes! Weeeee’re goin’! Leeeeet’s —” 

“Well! There you are, now.”

The soft boom like stormless thunder froze Wirt rigid. Fear of discovery ducked him lower. But no sounds came upon his hiding spot. Only the noise of two rustlings, then of shoes on dirt. Pair of boots, pair of penny loafers. 

“I apologize, Enoch,” rasped the old voice, “for the elder child’s absence. If you wish, I will fetch him—” 

“That’s all right, Goodman,” he interrupted, to Wirt’s relief. “Leave him be.” Then, a seemingly deliberate change in tone. Or direction. “What he needs to hear, he’ll hear.” 

“You hear that, Wirt?” piped Greg. “You can hear this too, even though you’re still hiding ‘cause Beatrice was right!” 

Wirt ground his forehead into the dirt, wishing he was buried in it after all. Shut up, Greg! 

“Okay, Mister Great Pumpkin! We’re ready!” 

“I see you are, child. I see you are.” A vast shiff of weighty motion, cloth and straw. “Now then. As I recollect, you boys want to know how to get home. That so?” 

“Uh-huh! Do you know how?”

“What I know,” and he creaked, presence seeming to bend over all, “is what I’ll tell you. And that may help.” 

“Oh boy! I knew you were gonna help us!” 

Hesitantly, Wirt crept up to his knees, lightly brushing the autumn grass from his view. He saw the Woodsman, hat off, back turned, grey as the gloomy heavens. He just barely saw Greg, teapot off, and frog in teapot. 

He saw Enoch, towering like an orange sun caught in a cornstalk. 

And Enoch spoke. 

“What brought you here? Find that. It’ll be that—and that alone—that brings you home.” 

Wirt squinted at that. Wait, what? They weren’t brought here, they just got lost when they were… He paused, trying to call up what they were doing. His attempts failed. Maybe they were brought here. How was he supposed to know? 

“Uhhh…” Greg’s voice droned for a couple of seconds. “I don’t remember how we got here. We were already here when we were walking.” 

(See? Even Greg didn’t know.) 

“What does this mean, Enoch?” asked the sky-grey man, almost camouflaged in the clouds. “Must they retrace their path to its beginning? Or is there some wandering magic that has brought them here?” 

“That, I cannot tell.” 

At that, Wirt (mostly) suppressed a groan. Mysteries again! Didn’t anybody talk straight here? 

“Can you tell us something else, then, Mister Great Pumpkin? Because Wirt really wants to go home. And me and Toto. Right, Toto?” A gurgle from the teapot. 

The great head tilted, the voice almost sing-song. “If you fell through the earth, it is through the earth you can return. If you stepped into a tree, it is through a tree you can step out. If you were swept here by a river, it is through a river you can find your way home.”

Cold poured into Wirt’s chest like water down his lungs. He shook it out quickly, halfheartedly pinning the feeling on the incident with the wereling. On his own dumb poetic imagery. On anything that didn’t smack of vague, forgotten nightmares. 

Greg’s voice gave him a (this time) welcome distraction. 

“Um. There’s a lot of trees and rivers and dirt.” 

Enoch chuckled kindly. A ribbon-arm drifted down to touch atop Greg’s head (which made Greg giggle). “Don’t you fret, now.”

Then the stitched eyes lifted. Away from Greg. Out to the field. To the grass. To Wirt’s grass. To Wirt’s eyes.

There, they locked.

“When you find the one that’ll lead you home, you’ll know.”

~*~

A bird watched the strange town and its stranger people and its strangest-of-all leader. She’d made sure to keep out of sight. This meant her perch was too far away to quite catch the words he was saying. 

When they were over, though, she could tell. 

She couldn’t reach the little kid now. He was in, around, and everywhere that was in the middle of things. No chances to slip him away. 

Her eyes still weren’t as good as a hawk’s. But she peeled them. Soon enough, she caught a flash of a darker blue than hers, hidden amongst the stalks. 

A cautious glance. Then, slowly, she started making her way around the field, keeping to the grass. She didn’t want to attract too much attention. 

~*~

Wirt heard but did not hear Enoch set Greg free from the conversation. He saw but did not see Greg replace his teapot as he rushed off into the crowd. He noticed but did not notice the two figures, still lingering on the edge of the field. 

He considered none of it. Only sat. The river was forgotten. His shoulders shivered from the look. His head rang from the words, his name inscribed on each one with invisible ink. 

He was supposed to find it. 

He was supposed to ‘know when he saw it’. 

Heck, if he was reading the look Enoch gave him when he said it right, it was Wirt’s responsibility to actually get them home! As if he knew any more about it than Greg! His stunned silence turned protests of thought. He was just as lost as Greg, how was he supposed to know anything? 

His complaint was cut short. Suddenly, he was aware of two voices, in hushed discussion. Startled, he scrambled to listen, though he had already missed the beginning.

“…be of aid?” the Woodsman was saying. “If they alone can recognize their crossing, what help could I give?” 

“You said you promised you’d guide them, didn’t you now?” 

“Guide them, yes, protect them from the perils of the Unknown, but—” 

“Then I’d say that’s all the burden laid to you, Goodman. You keep ‘em on safe paths, keep off dangers they don’t know. Time comes, they’ll find their crossing and leave these lands. You just watch their steps ‘til then.” 

“I… I shall, then.” The Woodsman’s voice tapered off into vague mumbles, then went out. Sound became a thing of the harvest, and not of conversation. 

Wirt sat back, though still rather cautiously.

Huh.

The Woodsman was still supposed to be their guide. Wirt wasn’t supposed to fight off werelings or know which way they were going or anything. They still had their Guidesman.

And that was great! That meant Wirt was off the hook!

…right?

But then, the memory of that look pinned him once again. You. You’ll find it. You’ll know. It’ll be you to cross whatever border—whether jumping down a dark hole or walking into one of those awful trees or stepping out into the cold, coiling currents of a winding river—and bring the both of you back. Not Greg. Not the Woodsman. You.  

Words echoed back from that first night in the woods. 

It is your burden to bear.  

The thought wavered weightily in his mind, a question without a question mark. Then he turned it aside, refusing to look at it. 

He didn’t need to think about that. They still needed to figure out which path they were even taking. It wasn’t his job to know the right paths. He didn’t know anything about this place. So he’d just wait and follow along until they got to what they needed. 

Wirt didn’t look back at their guide or his strange friend as he made himself comfortable in the tall grass. 

~*~

“And,” whispered a tentative voice, “what of the other matter?” 

“Yes, Goodman?”

A fidgeting sort of hesitance. “Have you discovered any news—any way that…?” 

The great head shook slowly. 

“I’ve found no way to do what you ask. And I’ve found no news that might change that answer.”

The grey against the greater grey slumped, barely noticeable. “I see.”

A ribbon fluttered down, as if blown loose by the breeze. It settled on a gloomy shoulder. “Tend to your boys, Goodman. Enjoy the harvest. And remember,” and his voice dropped very low indeed, “that the Beast’s always been a liar.”

Quietly though he said it, all other noise seemed to stumble at the word. Music faltered, and dancers tripped. The next moment, the Pottsfielders glanced around at each other, perplexed. Seeming to shrug, they continued their harvest reel as if nothing had been said. 

“Even liars may tell some truth,” muttered the Woodsman, quieter still, “if they are cruel enough.” 

~*~

The grey one and the great one parted ways, to see or to oversee the harvest celebration. 

Both knew of their eavesdropper in the grass, though one had forgotten. 

Neither saw the flutter of bird wings, as soon as they had gone away. 

~*~

Greg, laughing, spun out at last, landing on his hands and knees. He’d been in the middle of the dance, swinging (oh, he forgot what name he named him last time) around. But he couldn’t really keep up. He wasn’t very good at this dance. But it was still fun! 

Panting hard, he pushed himself up. “I bet Wirt would like this dance.” 

His frog croaked questionly. 

“Yeah, he doesn’t do it a lot, but he wrote some poems about dancing, so I think he likes it.” With a puff, he turned and walked over to the grass. “Hey, Wirt! You should try doing this dance! You can even pretend to be a feather hat if you—” 

He paused. 

“Wirt?” 

Confused, he pushed through the grass. Their hiding spot was empty. 

“Hmm.” He stepped back and rubbed his chin. Then, turning around, Greg dropped into a crouch. “Sherlock Croaks, do you see any clues where Wirt disappeared?” 

Sherlock Croaks blinked up at him. 

After a second, he hopped over to his left. He leaped into the tall grass and vanished. Then he popped his head back out with a rup . 

“Haha, found you!” Greg gasped in revelation. “You’re right, Sherlock Croaks! That’s exactly what happened to Wirt!” 

As he started to push back the grass, he heard somebody behind him. “Hold up there, sonny! Where you headin’ off to?” 

Greg spun round. “Sorry, Farmer Grub, I’ll have to dance more later! Wirt found a new hiding spot, and it’s my turn to seek! See ya!” And he tossed a wave over his shoulder. 

He barely glimpsed the pumpkin people waving back as he scurried off, following his detective frog to find Wirt. 

~*~

The Woodsman jolted. Not from a sudden noise, but a lack of one. 

“Are you all right, Goodman?” 

“Just a moment, please.” And his head went swiveling, ears tuned and eyes peeled. Across the swirling dance. Around the carts of crops, the bounty they had gathered in. About the musicians, playing their lively tunes. 

Greg was in none of those places. 

And the Woodsman was beginning to realize that he hadn’t heard his voice in some time. 

“I’m afraid I must go, Mrs. Harmon. I must find the boys.” 

“Ah!” Her pumpkin head nodded knowingly. “I should’ve known that look. Claims me often enough with my girls!” She laid a hand on his forearm. “You go check on the dears, keep them out of trouble.” 

“Thank you, ma’am.” He tipped his hat in return. Hopefully, I’ll return soon. We have yet to make our arrangements for tonight, and departure in the morning.  

The Woodsman tried to avoid bumping people as he passed the harvest reels, eying each head for a teapot. He ducked behind the carts, just to be doubly sure. Then he stopped at the pits. None of the three held Greg. 

Perhaps he is with his brother , he persuaded himself, heading toward the fringes of the field. Attempting to bring him into the dance, I shouldn’t wonder. And indeed, some rather froglike marks led into the grass. 

But when he peered down to the place where (he knew) they had hidden before, he found nothing. No frog. No boys. 

Only a trail of bent stalks and trampled grass leading away, toward the trees. 

What! He growled, dragging his palm across his brow. Wandered off! Both together, or the younger left behind and trailing after? It matters little enough. Why did I not keep them in my sight?  

Shaking his head, the Woodsman tramped after them. 

~*~

The song came to an end, and the Pottsfielders all applauded. Instruments then began tuning, pitches hummed, as the head musician stepped up. 

“If you’ll give us a minute, now, we’ll be playing ‘Harvest Home’!” 

A yet-greater cheer went up from all. Some limbered up their voices. A few hummed over the tune or ran through the words. But they knew the song perfectly. They all knew. Every voice in Pottsfield could sing it as easy as saying their own names. 

Tap-tap , and silence waited for psalm. 

~*~

As soon as he crossed the fence, at the limits of Pottsfield, the Woodsman’s instincts sent his hand to the axe at his side. 

His tracking took little time. The footprints were clear. Even clearer, perhaps, because of Greg, whose feet seemed made to dance, to kick at leaf piles, to hop, skip, and jump his way along. The Woodsman followed his merry trail with hurried caution. 

It vanished upon the path. 

Looking about him, he spotted two small figures walking, some yards away. 

“Lads!” he cried out, stomp-running to reach them before they got further. “Hold, now!” 

They spun, startled (and Wirt recoiling). Three voices gasped. Three?  

Ah, but now, as he came closer, the Woodsman could see her. The bluebird they had met in the morning. She fluttered about Wirt’s redcap peak, sometimes swerving above, sometimes ducking behind. 

The Woodsman ignored her. “Where do you boys think you’re going, stealing away like that?” 

“Stealing?” gasped Greg, stamping his foot dramatically. “How dare you! You’ll never convict!” 

He turned his eye on the elder brother. “If you wished to flee from fear, you might’ve done so at the first. You did not.” 

Wirt (with some discomfort) dodged his gaze. “We-well, Beatrice was just… she—she came up and asked me if… I mean, we were just waiting around, so we thought…” 

“Ugh, look ,” cut in the bluebird, swooping in closer. “They still need to get home, right? And I still owe them, so I offered to take them to somebody who can help.” 

“So we’re goin’ to see Beatrice’s friend, Adelaide!” proclaimed Greg, seeming to have forgotten the charge of stealing. His frog croaked supportively. 

“No, we’re not.” The Woodsman turned toward Beatrice. “Miss, it is my duty to guide these lads until they can find their way home. Not yours, nor any other bird’s.” 

“Adelaide’s not a bird, she’s just a Good Woman Of The Woods!” Greg gasped. “Hey—Goodman, Goodwoman! Maybe she’s your long-lost sister!” 

Beatrice rolled her eyes. 

He shook his head. “I’m sorry, but unless you can repay your debt some other way, it must wait.” Then, shuffling Greg on, he added, “Come, boys. We must return to Pottsfield.” 

“What? Why?” 

The Woodsman turned in surprise. Wirt had not taken a step. 

The lad glanced back at the ground, kicking at a wayward leaf. “Look, even if we don’t go to see this magic fairy godmother person, we’ve still gotta find that… that crossing place or whatever. And if that’s the plan, then we should probably get going while it’s still light. Right?” 

“Yeah!” 

“I-I mean, it’ll be harder to ‘know it when we see it’ if we can’t actually see it, y’know? And we’re already out here. So, so yeah, we should probably just go.” 

“But—” The Woodsman stopped dead, glancing back over his shoulder. Back toward Pottsfield. He could not see it now. But he could hear the townsfolk singing. The familiar song whose words he could never recall after he left. 

Oh, could we not stay one night? A few hours longer in that town?  

A voice chirped quietly behind his back. “Hey, if he wants to stick around, that’s fine. I’m ready to just go ahead and take you whenever you want.” 

One moment, he lingered, longed. But he could not linger longer. He would lose them if he did. “No,” he sighed heavily. “I promised to guide them. So I must go.” 

Beatrice let loose a bristled breath. Wirt’s shoes shuffled the dirt that held his gaze. Only Greg and his frog cheered at the news. 

The Woodsman said nothing, but began to walk. 

Thus they left Pottsfield behind. Greg, with frog tucked under his arm, questioned Beatrice about the friend they would not visit. Wirt was quieter, and shied awkwardly off to the side. Almost tiptoeing around the Woodsman’s presence. 

But the Woodsman did not seek his gaze. The ache of turning away from that place kept his eyes on the road ahead. 

So five travellers made their way into the golden light of autumn. The faint hymns of the harvest home drifted away on the wind, and soon faded behind them.