The Cursed Healer

Hailey

The air in the square is thick enough to swallow. It tastes of woodsmoke, damp soil, and the sour tang of fear. Elder Borin stands on the raised platform, his voice a low rumble that rolls over the silent crowd. Every family is here. Every pair of eyes is fixed on the line of girls standing beside me. All of us born in the eighteenth summer of the village’s founding. All of us eligible.

“The Blackwood demands its due,” Borin says, his hands clasped behind his back. “The pact, honored by our fathers and their fathers before them, keeps the beasts at bay. It grants us another year of peace, of harvest, of life. One of our daughters must walk the Blackwood Path.”

My fingers brush against the worn leather pouch at my hip. The familiar shapes of the tools inside, the faint, earthy scent of dried herbs clinging to the flap, are the only steady things in a world about to tilt on its axis. My grandmother’s last gift. ‘The forest provides for those who listen,’ she’d whispered, her voice thin as cobwebs. ‘It takes, too. You must be prepared for both.’

I am prepared. Just not for this.

A murmur ripples through the crowd as Joric, Borin’s son, steps forward. He is all polished leather and shining confidence. The sunlight catches the silver pin on his collar, making it gleam. The other girls in the line shift, their nervous glances turning to admiration. He has their hearts. He has the village’s respect. He has always, always had my scorn.

“My father speaks the truth,” Joric’s voice rings out, clear and strong where his father’s was gravel. “The pact must be honored. But I ask you, what is the purpose of this tradition? Is it merely to lose a daughter? Or is it to show the forest our strength? To prove that our village is worthy of survival?”

He lets the question hang in the air. He’s a showman, always has been. He paces the edge of the platform, his gaze sweeping over the crowd, making every person feel as if he speaks directly to them.

“I say we send an offering that has meaning,” he continues, his voice rising. “Not just the pull of a name from a bowl. A choice. A choice that strengthens us all. A choice that removes a weakness from our midst.”

His eyes, cold and sharp as flint, land on me. The crowd follows his gaze. A hundred pairs of eyes turn, pinning me in place. The whispers start, a rustle of dry leaves. ‘The hedge witch’s girl.’ ‘Strange one.’ ‘Always digging in the dirt.’

I keep my chin up. I meet his stare. I will not give him the satisfaction of seeing me tremble.

“Hailey,” he says my name like it’s a curse. “She lives in the shadow of this village. She speaks to weeds and mud. Her hands offer no skill in the loom, no strength in the fields. Her only trade is in bitter tinctures and poultices, remedies for the sick and the dying. A constant reminder of our frailties.”

My grip tightens on the pouch. My grandmother’s remedies saved his own sister from the lung fever two winters ago. A fact he conveniently forgets.

“What value does her life hold here?” Joric asks the crowd, his arms spread wide. “She is an outcast. A burden we have politely tolerated for too long. I say, let her life finally have purpose. Let her be the one to serve the village in a way she never could while living within its walls. Let her be the one to walk the Blackwood Path.”

Silence. A heavy, suffocating blanket of it. Not a single person speaks against him. In their eyes, I see it. Not malice, not hatred. Just a terrible, selfish relief. It isn’t their daughter. It isn’t their sister.

Joric turns to his father, a smug, triumphant tilt to his lips. “Father. It is the only sensible choice. Let her sacrifice mean something. Let her cleanse us of her strangeness.”

Elder Borin looks at me. His face is a mask of stone, but I see the flicker in his eyes. He is considering it. The logic, twisted and cruel as it is, appeals to him. A neat solution to two problems: the pact, and the quiet girl who reminds everyone of an older, wilder magic they’ve tried to forget.

“This is not how it is done,” a voice says, thin but clear. It’s Mara, the baker’s wife. Her own daughter, Lyra, is standing two places down from me in the line, her face pale as flour.

Joric rounds on her. “And why not, goodwife? Are the old ways so sacred when a better way presents itself? A way that ensures the one chosen is the one we can most afford to lose?”

His words are a slap. The other girls in the line pointedly look away from me. They can afford to lose me. I have no mother to weep, no father to rage. My grandmother is gone. I am an island, and the sea is rising.

“She is one of us,” Mara insists, though her voice wavers now.

“Is she?” Joric sneers. “Does she join the harvest songs? Does she dance at the midsummer festival? Or does she spend her days in the woods, whispering to plants and scaring children? She belongs more to the forest than to this village. Let her go home.”

The final, venomous words strike their mark. The crowd murmurs in agreement. He’s right. They’ve always seen me as something other, something untamed. My knowledge of herbs, the very thing that helps them, is also what sets me apart. They come to my door in the dead of night for a feverfew tonic or a willow bark tea, but in the daylight, they cross the square to avoid me.

Elder Borin raises a hand, and the square falls silent again. He walks to the edge of the platform and looks down at me. His gaze is heavy, judging. He is not just the elder; he is Joric’s father. The pride in his son is a blinding light.

“The boy speaks with a hard truth,” he says finally. The words are a death sentence. “The needs of the village are paramount. The choice must serve us all in the best way possible. Logic dictates the path Joric has laid out.”

Lyra gasps beside me. A few of the other girls let out shaky breaths of relief. It is done. The world has tilted.

“The choice is made,” Elder Borin declares, his voice leaving no room for argument. “Hailey will be the offering. She will walk the Blackwood Path at dusk.”

Joric smiles. It is a victor’s smile, sharp and cruel. He thinks he has broken me. He expects tears. He expects begging. He has wanted to see me brought to my knees since we were children, since I bested him in a race to the standing stones and he pushed me into a patch of stinging nettles for my trouble.

I give him none of it. I straighten my shoulders. My hand, which has been clutching my grandmother’s pouch, relaxes. I let my gaze sweep over the crowd, the elder, and finally land back on Joric. There is no fear in me now. Just a cold, quiet calm. The kind of calm that comes when the worst has happened, and you are still standing.

I take a single step forward, separating myself from the other girls. My voice is quiet, but in the ringing silence, it carries across the square.

“I accept.”

A shockwave passes through the crowd. This is not the reaction of a victim. This is the response of a volunteer. Joric’s smile falters for a fraction of a second. His father narrows his eyes.

They do not understand. They think they are sending a lamb to the slaughter. They see a weak, useless girl they can discard. They have no idea what my grandmother truly taught me. They see an outcast going to her death.

I see a girl finally being set free.

I turn without another word and walk away from the platform, toward my small cottage at the edge of the village. The crowd parts for me, a sea of faces etched with pity, relief, and a new, unsettling flicker of confusion. They don’t know what to make of my stillness. They wanted a sacrifice, a spectacle of fear and sorrow to make their own safety feel earned. I have denied them that.

Back inside my home, the familiar scents of dried lavender, chamomile, and rich soil greet me. It is the only place I have ever felt truly safe. I move through the small room with purpose. There is no time for grief. There is only time for preparation.

From a loose stone in the hearth, I retrieve a small, oilskin-wrapped bundle. Inside are three knives, their blades sharpened to a razor’s edge. One for skinning, one for carving, and a small, wickedly sharp one for protection. My grandmother believed in being prepared for more than just harvesting roots.

I open the leather pouch at my hip and check its contents. Bundles of yarrow for wounds. Nightshade berries, carefully wrapped, for poison. Dried rowan for warding, and a small flint and steel. Tools. Not just for a healer, but for a survivor.

As the sun begins to dip below the horizon, painting the sky in shades of blood and fire, there is a knock at my door. I open it to find Lyra standing there, her face tear-streaked. In her hands, she holds a small loaf of bread and a waterskin.

“I’m sorry, Hailey,” she whispers, her eyes darting nervously back toward the village. “It’s wrong. What Joric said, what they did… it’s wrong.”

“Joric is as he has always been,” I say, my voice even. “And the village is afraid. Fear makes people cruel.”

“You’re not… you’re not scared?” she asks, her voice full of disbelief.

I think of the endless days of whispers behind my back. Of the loneliness that has been my constant companion. Of the suffocating judgment of the village. I think of the Blackwood, vast and dangerous, but honest in its peril.

“I am scared of dying,” I admit softly. “But I am not scared of leaving this place.”

I take the bread and water from her. “Thank you, Lyra. You are the only one who showed me kindness today.”

She throws her arms around me in a quick, desperate hug. “May the spirits of the wood guide you,” she sobs into my shoulder.

“They will,” I say, pulling away gently. “They know me better than anyone here.”

When the elders come for me, I am ready. They bring the simple white sacrificial gown. It’s thin and useless, meant to show vulnerability. I put it on over my own practical tunic and leggings. They cannot stop me from wearing clothes beneath it. A small act of defiance. My boots are sturdy, my knives are secured to my legs, hidden by the gown’s folds. My pouch is tied firmly at my waist.

They lead me through the silent village to the edge of the Blackwood. The trees loom like giants, their branches clawing at the last of the evening light. Joric is there, standing with his arms crossed, his smug expression back in place. He is here to watch his victory.

“Your life finally has meaning, Hailey,” he says, his voice dripping with condescension. “Try not to scream too loudly. It upsets the children.”

I stop and turn to face him. I look directly into his eyes, and for the first time, I let him see the cold fire burning within me. The fire my grandmother kindled.

“And your life, Joric,” I say, my voice low and dangerous. “What meaning does it have? Hiding behind your father’s title and the fear of your people? You think the wolves are the monsters in the forest. You’re wrong. The worst monsters are the ones who wear human skin.”

His face twists in a flash of rage. I have finally struck a nerve. It’s a small victory, but it tastes sweet.

Without waiting for their dismissal, I turn my back on him, on all of them. I face the oppressive gloom of the Blackwood Forest. I take a deep breath. It does not smell of death. It smells of pine, of damp earth, of life. It smells like home.

I take my first step onto the path, leaving the village behind me. I do not look back. My fate is not to be a sacrifice. It is to survive.