Babe in the Woods

"It's dangerous in the woods," my grandmother said as I put on my hood, "Be sure to stick to the path so you don't get lost."

"Of course, grandmother," I kissed her cheek as I donned my satchel, "I'll be home before you know it."

The snow was deep and pristinely white. The trees were largely barren and sparkling with icicles. It was perfect weather to spot bright red hawthorn berries.

I skipped down the path merrily. My feet knew it well, every dip and crevice. There was no way I would fall.

There were few berries to be found. I worried we would have nothing to spread on our nightly toast. The last of the butter was long since gone, and there would be no more until the herb garden sprouted, yielding ingredients for poultices, which could be traded for necessary goods.

Suddenly, I tripped on a hidden root that shouldn't be there. Somehow, the path had become strange. I looked around, but nothing seemed familiar.

Ahead of me was the largest hawthorn I'd ever seen, at least 50 feet high, covered in juicy berries. I ran down the path, anxious to pick as many as possible. This would yield enough jam to make it through the long winter.

As I ran toward the tree, the earth beneath the roots spread wide, welcoming me to the underworld. I tried to turn away and saw my body frozen in the snow. Grandmother would have to survive the winter without me.