Granny Wine & the Refugees: Episode 1 - The Uninvited Guest
Granny Wine’s kitchen smelled like green things and patience.
She stood at the table with her sleeves rolled up, working through dried herbs laid out on old flour sacks. Mullein, soft as lamb’s ear. Thyme, sharp and pine-bright. She eased them into clean jars one at a time, tapping each lid once before setting it on the shelf—habit more than ritual, though the ridge liked habits.
Something heavy bumped the door.
Not a knock. A shoulder. Followed by a low huff that vibrated through the wood.
Granny didn’t startle. She finished sealing the jar in her hand and set it down.
“I hear you, Fred,” she said.
Another huff. Deeper. Then a warning growl—low and serious.
She crossed to the pantry and took down a wrapped fish, still cool from the springhouse. When she opened the door, Fred filled it: black fur, scarred muzzle, eyes sharp and dark and very much bear.
He sniffed the fish.
Did not take it.
Instead, he lifted his head and looked over his shoulder, toward the trees.
Granny followed his gaze.
“Yeah,” she said quietly. “I feel ’em.”
Fred rumbled again—not angry. Measuring.
“So far,” she added, “they’re behaving.”
That earned a longer growl. Considered.
Then Fred leaned in and took the fish with care, like he understood that how you took a thing mattered. He turned away, looked back at her once, and indicated with his full mouth to the right.
“Oh?” Granny said. “Thanks for letting me know.”
Fred huffed and disappeared into the trees, brush bending and settling behind him.
Granny closed the door. Untied her apron. Hung it on its hook.
She washed her hands, dried them, pulled on her jacket, and took her cane—the one crowned with the black crow, its glass eyes catching the light just right. Then she headed out.
Outside, the light was slipping.
That fall kind of evening had settled in—the hills going dark at the edges, the last of the sun catching fire in the maples. The mountain always cooled fast once the sun dipped. That was just the way of it.
The path to the drying shed wasn’t close. She’d set it back on purpose—far enough that curious humans didn’t wander into her business, close enough that the mountain still knew it belonged to her. Leaves whispered under her boots, but she could walk softer than that when she chose. The woods opened and closed around her like they recognized the shape of her.
Halfway there, she slowed.
Not danger.
Presence.
She stopped short of the shed and stood still, cane planted, listening. From inside came a faint scrape, a breath that wasn’t human—and then a thin ribbon of smoke slid up through a seam in the tin roof, lazy and unmistakable.
“Well,” Granny murmured. “That answers that.”
She stepped up and opened the door.
The smell rolled out first—her cured sweetleaf, rich and green, layered with warm animal and wet fur. Inside, a massive shape spun around fast, eyes flaring red in the dim. He growled, low and deep, trying to be menacing.
The growl broke apart into a violent coughing fit.
He coughed hard for a good long minute—deep, rattling hacks that shook his shoulders and sent more smoke rolling out of the shed. Smoke shot out of his nose with each cough, like a dragon who’d made a terrible life choice. He tried to growl through it once, failed, then bent over with his hands on his knees like his lungs were personally offended.
Granny Wine waited him out.
Arms crossed. Weight on one hip. Foot tapping slow against the packed dirt.
She watched him the way you watch a child who knows better and did it anyway.
When he finally managed to breathe again, she said, dry as dust, “Well. That’s a good first impression.”
He blinked up at her, eyes bloodshot and wide. Fur bristled out of habit—then settled when she didn’t move.
“Uh—hey,” he rasped. “Yeah. Wicked timing.”
She didn’t answer.
Just stood there. Foot still tapping. Cane tucked under one arm. Waiting.
He cleared his throat, glanced at the pipe in his hand like it might explain things for him.
“Okay, so—this probably looks bad, but—”
She lifted one eyebrow.
“How’d you end up in my drying shed,” she asked calmly, “and why are you smokin’ my weed?”
He froze.
Not at the words—but at the tone.
“You’re… talkin’ to me,” he said slowly.
“Yes.”
“Like… regular.”
She tilted her head. “You understand me just fine, don’t you?”
“…Yeah,” he said. “I do.”
“Good,” she replied. “Then we can skip the pretendin’.”
She pointed at the hanging bundles behind him.
“That took weeks to cure. And usually,” she went on, folding her arms again, “folks ask first. Or at least bring a gift.”
He stared at her, mouth opening and closing once.
“You’re not scared,” he said finally.
“No.”
“You’re not yellin’.”
“Haven’t seen the need.”
“…You’re not pullin’ a gun.”
She glanced at the pipe.
“I’m discussin’ my inventory.”
That landed.
He let out a breath that sounded half laugh, half disbelief.
“Okay. Wow. That is… wicked cool.”
He shifted, ears tipping back, like the usual menace had failed and he was reaching for the next thing on the shelf. “Alright, so—funny thing that happened—”
Her foot stopped tapping.
He stopped talking.
She smiled. Just a little.
“Son,” she said, “you’re babblin’. Start at the part where you thought stealin’ was a good idea.”
He scrubbed a hand over his face, ears flattening—not in fear. Just tired.
“We’ve been hunted since Humboldt,” he said. “Mean ones. They don’t let us rest. We just—keep movin’.”
She listened. Really listened.
“We,” he added, quieter, “are just tryin’ to protect our babies.”
Her brow creased.
“Babies?” she asked. “Like in two?”
“Yeah. A boy and a girl. Our boy’s got an awful cough.”
“Cold got in his chest,” she said. “That’ll do it.”
She turned toward the path.
“Come on. I might have somethin’ for that.”
He blinked.
“You mean—like—help?”
“I mean I’m not standin’ here jawin’ while a child wheezes,” she said over her shoulder.
He stared at her for a beat, then nodded fast.
“That’s—yeah. That’s bitchin’. Thank you.”
She paused just long enough to glance back at him.
“For now,” she added, “we’ll call you Earl.”
He smiled despite himself.
“Earl works.”
She started walking.
To get back, they had to cross the bridge.
Granny stepped onto it without hesitation, cane tapping the boards like she’d done it a thousand times—because she had. The bridge sagged over the ravine like it always had: old boards, gray nails, blackberry brambles thick underneath, thorned and hungry.
“Won’t hold fools,” she said. “But it oughta hold your big butt.”
Earl peered down at the brambles, ears flattening.
“Yeah, no offense, but gettin’ snagged down there would be a total nightmare, dude.”
The boards creaked.
Held.
On the porch, she waved him down. “Sit. I’ll be right back.”
The sun slid lower, lighting the ridge like stained glass. The air cooled fast, that sharp fall chill settling in once the light began to go. The mountain grew quiet—not empty, just listening.
Inside, Granny moved along her shelves, fingers brushing glass until she found what she wanted. Mullein first. Then thyme—sharp and clean. She wrapped the bundles in cloth. Took down a dented pot. Two thick blankets, worn soft with age. She added his little paper sack of weed last.
The bag was heavy when she tied it shut.
When she came back out, she was dragging it.
Earl stood up immediately. “Whoa—hey—sorry.”
She set it down and handed him a mason jar of clear shine. “Sip.”
He did.
The shine hit him like a freight train.
He coughed hard, eyes watering, one massive hand gripping the porch rail.
“Ma’am,” he gasped, “that is fucking good.”
Granny took the jar back, lifted it, and took a long swallow.
Didn’t cough. Didn’t blink.
“Yeah,” she said. “I know. I made it.”
She pointed at the bag. “Herbs for the cough. Pot to boil water. Blankets for the littles. And that”—a nod toward the weed—“is for you.”
Then she looked up at him.
“You carry it.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
As she stepped off the porch, he said quietly, “You’re not like any human I ever met.”
She didn’t stop walking.
“I’m not like any human,” she said, and kept going. “Alright. Let’s go see to those babies.”
Something in him eased then. Just a notch.
Granny crossed the bridge again without looking back.
Earl waited until she reached the far side. Then he took a breath—slow, careful. One creaking step at a time, weight placed just so. When the boards held, he moved quicker, light-footed despite his size, until he was across and following again.
The woods swallowed them quickly.
The last of the sunset broke apart in the branches, copper light turning to shadow. The cold settled in proper now, sharp and insistent, creeping up from the ground. The mountain quieted the way it did when evening decided to stay—not empty, just paying attention.
Granny took the lead, angling into a stand of trees that didn’t look like a path unless you already knew it was there.
After a few minutes, Granny said, “Okay. Start from the beginning. Fill me in. What’s goin’ on?”
Earl was quiet for a bit. Then he started talking—not careful, not rehearsed. Just… talking.
“We had a good den out west,” he said. “Humboldt. Redwoods. Good cover. Good huntin’. My mate—she’s awesome. Keeps us steady. Keeps the kids calm when I’m runnin’ on fumes.”
“Sounds like a good woman,” Granny said.
“She is,” he said, pride creeping in. “Our girl—she’s already watchin’ the woods. Knows when to go quiet.”
“That’ll serve her,” Granny said.
He nodded, pleased. “The boy… he’s curious. Gets into everything. Stubborn as hell. Even when he started feelin’ off, he still wanted to go out with me.”
“Typical young’un,” Granny said.
Earl huffed a soft laugh.
“First thing that went wrong wasn’t the men,” he said. “It was the buzzin’. Big skeeter sound. High. Wrong. My mate heard it first. Told me to listen.”
He paused, searching for words.
“Thing flew. Didn’t smell right. Didn’t flap. Just… watched.”
“Drone,” Granny said.
He looked at her. “That’s what it’s called?”
“Yes.”
“That’s why they kept findin’ us,” he said softly. “Every time that thing showed up, the men weren’t far behind.”
“How many?” Granny asked.
“Three men,” he said. “One truck.”
She nodded, eyes on the ground ahead, reading what the dirt and leaves were willing to tell her.
“They settin’ traps,” he went on. “Bad ones.”
Her pace didn’t change.
“Holes dug deep,” he said. “Covered with brush. Spikes at the bottom.”
She stopped.
Just long enough to matter.
“Wood or steel?” she asked.
“Steel,” he said. “Rebar.”
Her mouth tightened—not fear, not surprise. Anger.
“They want pain,” she said.
“Yeah,” Earl said. “That’s what I figured. They ain’t tryin’ to catch us clean. Ain’t even tryin’ to kill fast.”
“That ain’t huntin’,” Granny said. “That’s cruelty.”
She started walking again, a shade quicker now, cane biting into the earth with purpose.
“Bear traps too,” Earl added. “Big ones. Heavy. Strong enough to take a leg if you fight it wrong.”
She didn’t slow.
“Anybody hurt?”
The question caught him off guard.
“No,” he said. “Not yet.”
She nodded once.
“Good,” she said. “Let’s keep it that way.”
They walked the rest of the way in silence.
The cave mouth opened ahead—low, shadowed, old.
Granny stopped short.
“Take the bag in,” she said. “Tell her everything. I’ll wait.”
Earl nodded and disappeared inside.
From within came low sounds—not words exactly. Breath and tone and meaning woven together.
Granny stood outside, cane planted, listening.
“This is goin’ better than expected,” she murmured to the mountain.
The woods did not disagree.
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Keep you nicker on, episode 2 is right here
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This story takes place after the events of Granny Wine & the Visitors.
If you missed that journey, you can begin it here.
Offer whatever name you wish to be known by at the hearth today — real or imagined — we look forward to welcoming your words into the circle.
