An old tale from the forest where unanswered questions go to die.

There is an ancient cruelty in the nature of certain creatures. They do not announce their intentions, nor do they offer warnings before striking. They exist according to their nature, concealed beneath fallen leaves, among the roots of forgotten trees, or within the shadows where unsuspecting travelers dare to wander.

A woman once walked through an enchanted forest beneath a silver moon. The earth was damp, the air carried the scent of approaching rain, and somewhere beyond the trees, an owl called into the darkness.

She had traveled this path many times before. She knew its winding passages, its hidden clearings, and the sensational beauty of the wilderness surrounding her. Even the serpents had become familiar, their jeweled scales occasionally catching the moonlight as they rested among the roots.

One lay coiled beneath an ancient willow, its emerald body glistening with dew.

She had passed it a hundred times. Sometimes she lingered, admiring the exquisite patterns along its back. On other evenings, she spoke softly to it, imagining that something in those unblinking eyes recognized her.

That night, as she reached toward the creature, it struck.

The bite was swift, almost delicate. Two crimson punctures appeared beneath her wrist, and the serpent vanished into the ferns.

For several moments, she stood bewildered.

Then she followed.

She called into the undergrowth, asking what offense she had committed. She reminded the creature of all the evenings she had passed without disturbing it, of the gentleness with which she had approached, of the affection she had developed for something so beautifully dangerous.

The forest answered with the rustling of leaves.

She continued deeper among the trees, her voice growing desperate. Surely the serpent remembered her. Surely it could distinguish tenderness from threat.

Perhaps, if she found it, those emerald eyes would finally reveal what had happened.

But beneath her skin, the venom had begun its work.

The first hour stole the warmth from her fingers. The second made the branches sway strangely above her. By the third, the moon had acquired a violet halo, and she could no longer distinguish the whispering of the forest from the sound of her own blood.

Still, she searched.

At the edge of a clearing stood an ancient stone well, its walls entwined with ivy and night-blooming roses. The villagers believed its waters belonged to an oracle older than the forest itself. Travelers came from distant kingdoms to ask questions of its depths, though the answers were seldom what they expected.

She approached the well and lowered herself against its stones.

A silver coin rested in her palm, one she had carried for years. She dropped it into the darkness and waited.

When the ripples settled, the serpent appeared beneath the water.

Its emerald scales shimmered like precious stones. Its golden eyes regarded her with the same inscrutable stillness she remembered from the willow.

She leaned closer.

“Why?”

The image dissolved.

She cast another coin.

This time the water revealed the willow tree, its branches swaying over an empty patch of earth. Beneath it lay the delicate impression of a serpent’s coils, already filling with rain.

Again she asked.

Again the water changed.

Now she saw herself wandering through the forest, one hand pressed against her wounded wrist, the other parting branches as she searched. Beyond the trees stood a small cottage with smoke rising from its chimney. Bundles of dried herbs hung beside the doorway, and a lantern burned in the window.

She scarcely noticed it.

Her eyes were fixed upon the shadows, searching for a flash of emerald.

The water darkened.

From somewhere beneath the stones came a sound resembling the turning of an enormous key.

She reached for another coin, but her fingers had grown too numb to close around it.

A drop of blood fell from her wrist into the well.

The surface shuddered.

Deep below, something awakened.

The reflection of the forest disappeared, replaced by a vast chamber filled with hundreds of silver mirrors. In each stood a woman wearing the same torn dress, her wrist marked by the same two crimson punctures.

Some were weeping. Others were pleading with figures concealed beyond the glass. One held a serpent against her breast, its fangs buried in her heart. Another knelt before an empty throne, waiting for someone who had never intended to return.

At the far end of the chamber stood a mirror covered in black velvet.

Unlike the others, it bore no reflection.

The woman reached toward it.

As her fingertips touched the water, the velvet slipped away.

She saw a narrow bed beneath a cottage window. White linen, a basin of water, and a small porcelain bowl filled with crushed herbs waited beside it.

The bed was empty.

Then the vision vanished, and the well returned to its ordinary darkness.

A wind passed through the clearing, carrying the scent of rosemary and burning cedar.

She looked toward the eastern trees.

Between their trunks, a distant lantern flickered.

She had seen its light earlier that evening, long before reaching the well. She remembered passing the narrow path leading toward it, dismissing the warmth beyond the trees because she had been certain the serpent was somewhere ahead.

Now the light seemed impossibly far away.

She rose unsteadily.

The last silver coin slipped from her hand and rolled toward the well. It circled the stone rim, hesitated at the edge, and disappeared into the depths.

She did not wait to hear it fall.

The path east was overgrown, and the journey demanded what little strength remained in her body. Thorns caught the hem of her dress. Her breath grew shallow. Once, she stumbled against a fallen branch and remained on her knees until the cold earth beneath her palms reminded her to rise.

Behind her, the forest whispered.

For a moment, she thought she heard the familiar movement of scales through wet leaves.

She turned.

Beneath the silver moon, the ancient willow stood perfectly still.

Its roots were empty.

She continued toward the lantern.

By dawn, the cottage door stood open, and an elderly woman was tending the fire. She looked up as the stranger collapsed across the threshold, her injured wrist resting against the wooden floor.

The healer said nothing.

She lifted the woman into bed, prepared her remedies, and began the slow, uncertain work of drawing the poison from her blood.

For nine nights, the woman dreamed of the well.

Sometimes the serpent appeared in its waters. Sometimes the mirrors returned, their silver frames tarnished with age. On the seventh night, she dreamed that the ancient willow had grown through the floor of her chamber, its roots curling around the bedposts.

A serpent rested among its branches.

She watched it for a long time.

Then she closed the curtains.

When spring arrived, the woman returned to the edge of the forest.

The wound had healed, leaving two pale marks upon her wrist. She wore no gloves to conceal them.

Beyond the meadow, the ancient willow had begun to flower. Its branches were heavy with green, and beneath them the earth was alive with creatures emerging from their winter sleep.

She stopped beside a weathered milestone.

A serpent lay across the path, warming itself in the morning sun.

Its scales were emerald.

Its eyes were gold.

For an instant, she recognized the exquisite patterns along its back.

The creature lifted its head.

She stood motionless, the sunlight resting upon the two small scars beneath her wrist.

Then she stepped around it and continued toward the village.

The serpent remained where it was.

Far within the forest, beneath the ivy and night-blooming roses, the ancient well held its secrets.

And at the bottom, among centuries of unanswered wishes, lay a silver coin bearing the image of a woman who had once mistaken a question for a cure.