Baird's Entry - Bramble (Patreon)

Bramble

Here we arrive at the edge of the forest, of the expansive fields, at the precipice of seeming normality. Perhaps your mother or grandmother, after baking off a fresh cake, or sipping her berry-hued cordial, warned you to stay clear of the bramble and its delicious berries. Perhaps you only thought her to be warning of the bushes' thick thorns, or the tendency to drop blood-red juice on your knickers as you steal a handful as a treat. 

But nay, these are no ordinary greens. It is said that as far back as time is remembered, the thickest brambles have served as the boundary between our world and the domain of the Fair Folk. They protect the land, preventing passers through; and woe to anyone who tries. For these twisted vines know the antics they can cause, and are eager to snare unsuspecting intruders into unspeakable fates.

I know this legend for a fact, after speaking with a man from Inverness, who wishes to retain his anonymity. He spun his yarn of how the brambles caught him and his mates as they were traipsing through the edge of town, out collecting bramble berries for their wives' holiday pies. He thought he'd gone mad when vines took hold of his wrist, tugging him deeper into the brush. His vessel was threaded with thorns, tendrils, and greenery until he could barely breathe. All the strapping mens' bodies slowly took the form of ewes—common Dunface, to be precise—trapped fast by their new, thick wool. When he awoke from the nightmare, he found himself alone in a field outside the village, surrounded by berries, and wearing nary a scrap of clothing.

Heed my warning that the brambles are the most dastardly plant one can encounter. Keep your hands to yourselves, your children close, and your holiday pies free of forbidden fruit.

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