Bob looked at Betony Rue. Have it yer own way, then, Miss, since ever'one has agreed to pay. And woe betide ye if'n ye back out! he says, looking at the others.
He toddles over to her. Ye'll have to sit, ye're rather on the tallish side. After seeing that she is seated, he goes to her and gently touches his gnarled tree-like appendages to her temples for a moment. Betony Rue doesn't feel anything unusual when this happens.
Ah, 'tis an easy toll ye'll owe me, then, Bob says, satisfied. I'll take 7 teardrops from ye, Missy, along wit' the story that'll bring 'em to yer eyes.
Bob produces a strangely-shaped opalescent bottle from a hidden pocket in his green, tangled rags. The bottle has an opening that is shaped like a funnel.
Go on then, Missy, lessn' ye've changed yer mind about doin' this wit' an audience.
Betony Rue took the vial. She remained seated. She didn't say anything further, it was going to be difficult enough without adding words to jumble the mess. Kneeling, she closed her eyes. She knew which thoughts caused her sorrow. She also knew that simply thinking them was not enough. She had immerse herself completely in them. Allow herself full comprehension of what that thought meant, what it meant to her, and how deeply it penetrated her being in it's horrid reality.
She remained silent as minutes passed. The Hedge itself seemed seemed to darken and quiet. Betony's breath came with a forced evenness, as the pain in her chest grew. She had to clear her mind of all other consideration. It wasn't a story. Stories were simply events. It was a truth.
There was the barest hint of trembeling in her breath.
More time passed, as Betony struggled with everything the truth represented and affected in her life. It prevented her from finding her brother. It had taken her family from her. It had robbed her of who she had been and replaced it with a hag woman. She struggled to let the futile anger go. Wrath did no good against something so abstract. And with the passing of rage, nothing was left but the coldness of despair.
The tears came slowly, one at a time. Had she not started out holding the bottle below her chin, she likely would have lost them, for she didn't move to catch them. Even so, as the seventh fell, some part of Betony Rue must have been aware. She gave a ragged gasp of air and came out of her revery. She dried her face with her shawl before handing over the hollow piece of glass and got up.
"There is no story. These are from the fact that I do not have memories of any of the names of my mother, father, sister, brother," there was a small hesistation before she finished "or my own."
Derek stands as close to Betony Rue as she will allow, having some idea how difficult it is for her to access these feelings and allow herself to cry - something she has long thought was a sign of weakness. He doesn't say anything, or touch her, unless or until she gives some sign that is something some part of her would welcome right now.
At the same time, he couldn't help wondering if there might not be some way for her to regain her lost memories... and what the result would be if she did.
Bob stumped over and took the strange bottle from Betony Rue, closing it with a stout cork. The contents of the bottle took on a swirling, twisting, smoke-like quality, with many colors woven with a thread of black. He looked at it with satisfaction.
Yer toll is paid, lass. Although, a long, heart-wrenchin' story would have made yer gift e'en better. T'is a disappointment, to be sure. Who'll be next, then?
He looks at the remaining crew with an outstretched finger, moving back and forth to point at them like a weird game-spinner. How 'bout you?
The same price? Doubtful! chortles the tree creature.
If yer's ready, have a seat.
Bob touches Grrface's temples in the same way he did Betony Rue's. His touch is different this time, though. While Betony Rue felt nothing unusual, Grrface experiences Bob's touch differently. The twisted creature's hands feel cold and clammy, and Grr picks up the damp scent of a fresh-dug grave.
Bob nods though, satisfied that he knows what he wants. Spin me a yarn about yer worst failure. No tears required though, ain't ye the lucky 'un? He pauses for a moment. Although, if yers feel so inclined, Bob wouldn't say nae. A grin twists the hob's wizened face.
He holds out another strange bottle, and finds a stray piece of candy to gnaw on.
Betony could have throttled both Mr. Koskov and the root man. Belittling her price. She stood a foot from Derek, working to recompose herself, not think on her sorrow, and rekindle the wrath that protected her from it. She didn't argue should he try to touch her but that stemmed from the fact she was standing very stiffly at the time.
Bob looks at Grrface. Havin' trouble decidin' which failure's the worst, are ye? A'right, whilst yer conjure it up, we'll move on. Don't ye be worryin' thysel', Bob won't forget ye! Bob cackles, and looks at Arch, handing her a twisted bottle.
Shall we make it the same toll as last time, then, Pussycat? That were a rare treat fer old Bob. He leers suggestively at the Hedge Warden.
Arch spits out Screw you, you malicious, vicious, twisted little piece of rotted deadwood!, her face hot with anger and shame. As she speaks, tiny blood-red maple leaves no larger than a penny leave her mouth and float to the vial.
Bob promptly corks it and shakes it happily, watching the miniature leaves float in a blue mist. The effect is like that of a shaken snowglobe.
Toll's paid! Good girl!
Arch drops to the ground in disbelief. Unbe-fuckin'-lievable. He tricked me, she thought dully. Why am I not surprised? she said sarcastically, trying to recover some dignity.
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