[Author's note: Harper James has turned to hypnotic scripts as therapy for her anxiety condition. However, they are opening up a new world of possibilities for her and her husband Peter.]
---
WOODMAN
Something had changed between them, Peter thought.
Harper was more attentive, happier. She was also writing every day and the work that she'd shown him was good. It appeared to settle her.
They were going out more regularly, too. She was happier in crowded places and they were enjoying going out to restaurants. Neither of them were drinking.
Then Harper had had her period.
Peter had known as soon as she came out of the bathroom, and he'd just held her in his arms, feeling utterly useless. He'd suggested going to see a doctor and having tests done, and that had been met with stony silence. Peter knew why. Harper wanted to prove that her body was able to do it without assistance. She was attempting the most basic thing in the world. Perhaps foolishly, Peter had suggested they try another story.
Harper had seized at the idea, which was a concern, but at least it animated her. She'd been tapping away for an entire afternoon before she called Peter into the kitchen, where she'd set up her laptop.
"Ready for the show?" she asked.
Peter could see how nervous she was. He nodded, and Harper dived straight in.
"I was thinking, Pete, after Sala and Carrick. You really got into it. You took the character in directions that I'd never thought of."
"Why, thank you. I'll be here all week," Peter quipped, and Harper smiled.
"It felt pretty real," Peter continued. "It was like I was there in the desert city."
"Getting the blowjob of your life from a slave girl."
"Giving a beautiful woman a sixty-nine in a wood-paneled boudoir heavy with the scent of spices," Peter fired back.
"Okay," Harper conceded. "Like I said, you really got inside the story. How did it feel for you?"
Peter didn't answer immediately, because it was a question he'd been coming back to in the days and weeks since. It had felt real, like he really had been the head of the Spice Guild, powerful and cunning. He could still picture the bedchamber vividly, even though all either of them had had to work from was a generated image that Harper had created from a site online.
That had been part of the elaborate trance preparation, fixing the character in his mind, then the location. Harper had put herself under as well, repeating the same process until Carrick's rooms were embedded in her mind too. Then she had dropped him deep into trance and it had become immersive, like walking onto a movie set.
"I felt like him. I thought like him. When you came in, I could see Sala in her silks being offered to me. I didn't trust you as far as I could throw you," he laughed.
Harper smiled in response, but she became more serious. "You didn't trust me?"
"Of course not. I knew you were a trick. I just had to work out how you were a trick."
"Me, or Sala?"
"You, Sala. What's the matter?"
Harper's expression had clouded as he spoke. She met his eyes. "You were Carrick, weren't you?" she asked.
"Of course. Like you said would happen, when we put the induction scripts together. It worked perfectly. You were Sala, too."
"I wasn't, Pete."
"What?"
Harper shifted uneasily. "I mean, I was Sala. I felt like her, I talked like her, I had all the background in my head. But it was like I was steering her as if she was a puppet, making sure she was playing the role as I'd imagined it. Sala was doing all the talking, if I just wanted to let her flow, but I was always there in the background. Didn't it feel like that for you, too?"
Peter hesitated, then he shook his head.
"You were Carrick, weren't you?" Harper persisted. "There wasn't any Pete in the back, steering."
"I guess not."
Harper didn't respond, and an uneasy silence descended.
"So, what have you been working on?" Peter asked, trying to raise the tone. "I'd love to see."
"Sure."
They spent the next hour going through the character notes and looking at the images Harper had prepared, but Harper was subdued throughout. When at last Peter had read everything, she closed up the laptop and slid it away from them.
"You want to do it, Pete?"
"Yeah, I'm looking forward to it. A lost traveller in a forest, a sexy witch."
"I didn't say sexy."
"You're the witch. She's going to be hot as hell."
"It's just rough at this stage. I don't even know what happens when he goes in the house."
"We've got character outlines and scene artwork. We write the movie as we go. It's going to be great. We should do it tonight."
"Uh, that's pretty soon. Don't you want to read it over again, first, Pete?"
"Nah. Looking forward to it. What else are we gonna do? Watch TV? I've got a point, right? This beats those crappy shows hands down."
Harper picked up her laptop and stood. "I guess," she muttered. "Okay, tonight."
---
Munro was a farmer, just like his father, just like his grandfather. They'd worked their allotted land for decades. It had been parcelled out by their lord, like all the other menfolk in the village, meaning that a portion of their produce was taken each year as rent. The winter had been harsh, as had the one before, and Munro had found himself lying awake in the middle of the night, hungry, wondering how he was going to make ends meet.
He was lucky, in a way. His older brother had taken on their parents, leaving him with rights to a strip of land and a small dwelling on the edge of the forest. But, he hadn't yet taken a wife and so he only had his own mouth to feed. Even so, he was struggling. He'd give as much as he could to his brother, to the family, but the expense of taking a wife and feeding his own children felt impossible to bear. They just needed a good summer. They all just needed a break in the bad luck.
So, Munro found himself later than he would have liked on the forest path, on his way home from the market with a small bag of seeds for planting out. The air had turned cold and he could smell frost on the way. The damned winter was refusing to cede its stranglehold.
As the shadows lengthened, Munro came across a tree that had toppled across his path. The grass was thick around it, like it had been lying there for years, even though the way had been clear this morning. He looked around into the shadows of the woods and realised that he'd taken a wrong turn.
Grumbling under his breath, he retraced his steps as the light faded, angry at himself for not paying attention. But, the path became narrower and more overgrown. He halted in frustration, doubling back on himself again towards the fallen tree to see where the turning point had been.
He couldn't find the tree either, and as he turned around and around in the darkening forest, he knew he'd become lost. Then, through the trees, he caught a glimmer of light. The temperature was falling again as the night came in. It would soon be below freezing. Munro made a mistake and left the path.
The house was set back a little way, in a clearing. It was old, hewn from logs, with moss hanging from the eaves. Warm, yellow light flickered from the window. Munro approached the door cautiously, listening for sounds from inside, but the place was silent. Looking back the way he'd come, he couldn't see the path anymore. He made a decision and knocked on the door, feeling like a fool for becoming lost in the dark with the frost coming down.
The door opened and warm air enveloped him. A dark-haired woman eyed him curiously from within.
"Please, I'm sorry to trouble you, but I've become lost," he told her.
"Indeed you have." Her face was cast in shadow, inscrutable.
"I know that this is a burden, but it's freezing. Could I ask you for shelter, just for the night? I'll be gone first thing in the morning."
The figure shifted. Outlined against the yellow glow of a hearty fire, Munro could make out her slim form, her long, dark hair, and nothing else.
"But I live here alone," she protested. "How could I let a man into my house, a stranger?"
"Please, miss. I have nowhere else to go," Munro begged.
"Would you agree to safeguards?"
"I agree to whatever safeguards you believe necessary. I'd be very grateful for shelter."
"Hold out your hands then."
Puzzled, Munro did as she requested, raising his hands. The woman produced a cord and wrapped it around his wrist, crossing over to bind his other wrist, weaving back and forth and then finally tying it off.
"Come in," she said, stepping to the side.
Munro entered the little house gratefully, his wrists tied in front of him. The cord was slender, but as he tested his bindings, he found that he was unable to make it give. The door closed behind him and he was grateful of the warmth. Turning, he saw his host in the flickering firelight for the first time, and halted, staring. She was beautiful.
Her long, dark hair framed a delicate face, grey eyes and a soft mouth, dressed in a flowing green robe that clung to her hips and came down to her ankles. She was barefoot on the earthen floor.
"I'm... I'm Munro," he stammered.
"My name is Vyra. It means 'mistress of the house' in the old tongue. Pleased to meet you. Will you sit by the fire and get warm?"
Vyra indicated a stool by the hearth, and he sat down on it gladly. Vyra perched on another stool next to him.
"I'm sorry for the intrusion," he began, but then he looked into her eyes and halted. They were grey, like the sea in a storm, like he saw as a boy on trips with his father to the coast. He looked away, quickly, letting his attention wander to the crackling fire.
"Don't worry. Just rest a while. Let the fire do its work."
Her voice was soothing. He stared into the dancing flames.
"I like nothing better than to sit here, watching the flames. Look at the way they dance. So relaxing."
Munro found himself nodding in agreement. The fire was captivating.
"You can let your burdens slip away, just take a deep breath and let them melt away."
The flames danced before his eyes. He could feel the warmth of the fire on his face.
"Just relax. There's nothing better is there? Feeling drowsy, like you just want to close your eyes."
