Hawthorn
I was sixteen years old when I found an injured barn owl in the forest.
He had been pierced through the wing by an iron-headed arrow — too singular a weapon for the men and women of the village. They would never risk offending the Fair Folk in such a way. That, and it was dangerous to venture so deep into the forest at night. I wouldn’t have dared under usual circumstances, but Father’s chest pain had returned, which meant we were in desperate need of more hawthorn leaves.