Tiny rivulets made by the rain become tumbling brooks and gurgling streams I must cross by way of slippery stones. Finally, I come to a small clearing in this now mighty forest and to a small, round hut. In the window is a short, fat candle burning, sputtering in its own hot liquid, set within a roughly made and chipped pottery bowl. Around the modest yard is a wicket fence woven in and out with willows like a wicker basket. Lining the fence are healthy rambling plantings of deliciously fragrant flowers and herbs.
Vegetables grow along the side of the house.
Slowly, carefully, I lift up on the gate slightly and push it open. Setting it carefully on the ground. I already know somehow that it squeaks if I'm not careful and will alert the old woman inside the hut. Moving surely and carefully so as not to bruise the precious plantings I approach the window. I peer through the window into the hut.