Glade Pollen Witch

She counted our breaths. First: trespass. Second: fear. Third: intention to burn. Jory cursed. Flowers opened across his tongue before we heard him.

Gold pollen made the glade too bright for midnight. Each grain seemed to turn toward us. The Witch stood rooted by her dress hem, a white orchid for a face and a human mouth inside its throat. Blossoms opened on her arms when we breathed. The crew began following separate trails through the haze.

I raised the rain bladder over my head and cut it. Water pulled the gold down. She could no longer tell our breaths apart. Every orchid face turned toward me while we carried Jory into water deep enough to wash his voice clean.

She reads exhalation before movement. Given several breaths, she learns fear or deceit, whether someone means fire, their illness and destination. Personalized scents and false clearings split the visitors onto different paths. Spoken threats invite throat blooms. Holding a breath amuses her and may buy a short audience.

Secrets told into flowers can be bargained, especially truths never said elsewhere. Rain destroys the distinctions she has made. Strong crosswind or immersion does too, provoking indiscriminate attacks. She stops at the last pollen-bearing blossom unless someone carries one out.