I stared at him, furious, as I choked on the words of damnation lodged in my throat.
But before I could rage at him - tell him exactly what I thought of how he wished to be thanked, the wails of sorrow filtered from the village and into the forest, and those sounds were enough to remind me exactly why I was here - what I had lost.
Ignoring the Demon entirely, I turned my back on him and marched out of the forest - a dangerous move, but I was beyond caring, having resigned myself to the fact that I would die here - either by his hand or by water herself because I refused to be tied to this land - refused to be tied to the boy I had run from so long ago.
The Demon didn't follow me, but I felt his gaze at the base of my spine for the entire duration of my walk through my forest, and I wasn't the least bit surprised that he was checking out my ass.
***
With each crunch of my boots against the twig-strewn floor of the forest, my body seemed to relax - seemed to remember that while I belonged to the woods, they belonged to me too.
The wind danced against my shoulders in greeting, and the shadows pulled back, allowing me to walk in a path bathed in sunlight. This was what I had been missing - this was what I had given up, and it pained me to admit that when I left him, I had unintentionally left this too.
I understood why my element was pissed, but I had rationalized it away - reasoning that the element was a body of water that expanded across continents - she wasn’t simply confined to one place, so how could she expect me to confine myself here - to tie myself to him? Even after everything that had happened, she couldn’t be so callus - so shallow.
But those shallow waters ran deep, stretching and manipulating all those who had sworn themselves to her. Working with water had been as natural as breathing. La Mere had bathed me in these waters as a babe, singing soft lullabies that tied us to the land - that spoke of voyage and belonging. They were the same songs that I knew in the marrow of my bones that I would sing to my own children - even if their feet never touched these banks, because such heritage wasn’t simply tied to a place. The irony that we were Tizagne being forced to tie ourselves to a place due to the Magick that flowered in our vans and wagons, wasn’t lost on me. Travelers were never meant to be tied down to one specific land, but somewhere along the way, we had morphed from those who traveled - those who never truly belonged to one place, to suddenly belonging to the mountains themselves. For we had never claimed the land - as gypsies - Tizange - we never could, but that hadn't stopped the land from rising up, recognizing our Magick, and claiming us in response.
There was no escaping this land - no escaping the hold it had on me - the memories it unfolded, for I was Marie des Montagnes - granddaughter of Jeanne des Montagnes, and exiled Witch of this community, even if my grandmother’s death had thrust me as the leader of this coven.
The words felt heavy on my tongue, for we weren’t a coven - it was too English a word - too simplistic in what we were. We were a community - one that bred Magick as easily as it bred rabbits, and yet I wanted nothing to do with it, not when the community ways were archaic - not when I had been expected to follow through with a marriage at the tender age of sixteen - what did sixteen-year-old girls know about marriage anyway?
I had posed that exact question to my grandmother a day before I had left - had fled, abandoning my promises - my heritage - my land. My grandmother had looked at me with the same blue eyes that stared back at me in the mirror each day, and informed me that many Queens were coronated at a younger age.
There was only one flaw in her reasoning - I wasn’t a Queen.
The rapid waters of the river could still be heard even from this distance, only serving as a reminder of what the Demon had promised - what he had offered. In the end, it was exactly what my grandmother would have wanted, and somehow I knew that she was probably smirking down smugly at me, an I-told-you-so ready to be pushed from her lips.
Only, I would never hear those words from her lips again - would never have the luxury of sitting still whilst she scolded me. I knew that she had harbored dreams of holding my infant children - once upon a time, I had harbored those same dreams, and now it seemed we would both die with disappointment marring our very souls.
The lush vegetation seemed to become sparser the closer to town I walked, and I found myself dragging my feet, unwilling to enter the threshold of the world I had once known.
This village was so far removed from anything that could be deemed civilization. Sure, the teenagers had iPhones, and I had no doubt that some of those small cottages and camper vans now boasted streaming services, but that had done nothing to allow for global language shifts to take place. How many times had I been mocked because my father was American? My only salvation had been the fact that my grandmother was Jeanne, and no one dared to insult our family. The Magick that flowed through my family’s veins was deemed strong - powerful - sought after.
I should have understood that from a younger age - should have paid attention to the way the elders gambled and bartered with one another, playing matchmakers and alliances.
So when I chose Julian, I genuinely believed that I had chosen him - that he liked me, liked my body, but in the end, it was an arranged marriage that had him seeking pleasure with not only his wife.
Too soon the village appeared before me, humanity washing over me - my culture simultaneously welcoming me home whilst the people here stonewalled me.
It didn’t take long for one of the village boys to spot me as I hesitated by the treeline, unsure whether I should place one foot in front of the other and bridge the gap that kept me away from the village - away from them.
I had no doubt that in an instant word would spread that I was here - forcing him to face me. Forcing me to look upon the mistake a silly little sixteen-year-old girl had made.
But I wasn’t that girl any longer, and I wouldn’t cower and run from him, no matter how much I wanted to. I had a right to be here - my very heritage demanded it.
I forced my feet to move, guiding one step carefully in front of the other until I was no longer walking upon the earthy floor of the forest. Instead, my boots pressed upon the cobblestones of the village, filling me with the power - memories - heritage that this village at the foot of the French Alps encompassed. It was as if I could suddenly breathe again.
But when being back here meant that I had to remain tied to this village - tied to him, breathing seemed overrated.
The boy must have been about thirteen, standing there between the awkward stage of childhood whilst the cusp of manhood stood just out of reach. And then he was gone, scampering off to inform everyone that Marie des Montagnes had returned.
As homecomings went, this one was pretty shit, but I hadn’t expected anything less.
I held my position with bated breath as those who had once known me poured out of their houses and caravans, their scrutiny nothing I hadn’t expected. I didn’t shy away from them, instead, I straightened my spine, pushing my breasts out in a way that I knew drew attention to my nipples, the wet shirt still clinging to my flesh. I would not cower before them - would not allow their archaic traditions to control me.
The memory of how I had been exiled seeped into my bones and reignited the rage that I had fought to keep at bay. Good. I would rather feel rage as I stood before them than disappointment - hurt - betrayal. Because they thought I had betrayed them, but they had betrayed a young girl who didn’t know any better, and when you weighed the two crimes against one another, theirs was unforgivable.
I gazed up at Marta - my grandmother’s best friend and confidante. The lines in her face had grown deeper somehow, her hazel eyes dimmed, and I watched her lean on a cane, giving away exactly how bad her left leg had become. She had been the one to teach me how to break the neck of a chicken clean - she had bandaged my torn knee when I had climbed the tree that my grandmother had warned me about, and it was her courgette soup that the village claimed had healing properties.