[ IP ] The Mothers

The rule of the village is simple, never untie the string. It keeps you safe sweet child; for long ago we did what no village should do, no matter how great their sorrow. A dark time came, with doubt and gray, where life withered and hope drowned. Many days passed in quiet, and every night brought a bitter sting to the cheeks of babes. 
 
 We blamed those poor women, barren and from far off lands. We cursed them for the life they could not give, as though it cursed us all. No trial could sate our rage, and exile would not return our crops or herds. We traded their lives, thinking that would free all the life their withered bodies had soaked from our men. They were beautiful, and village men are weak to temptation. 
 
 It was n't their fault though. The water. We only learned after it was too late that the water made our herds sick and crops die. Boiling it was always necessary for us, but we did n't think of them. But as the women burned, they promised us. They promised us they would be mothers yet, and we did not but laugh. When the first child vanished, it was thought a hoax. A jest by local boys. Yet now we know that they lurk the wood, still bitter cold and wanting. 
 
 So please, sweet child, wear your string notched tight. For the mothers will come when you least expect, and take you from the light.
