The Hearth-Keepers' Guide to the Low Mire

Folklore

Listen close, Elspeth. The Low Mire is a nuisance, not a mystery. The autumn equinox brings the Mire-Guests, and they are the most tedious sort of company. Follow these rules or don't. Just don't come crying to me when your toes are missing. First: the salt. Use the coarse grey salt from the cellar. Line every threshold. Every single one. If you see a gap the size of a needle, the line is broken. Redo it. It is a chore, yes, but it is better than scrubbing peat-slime out of the rugs for a month. Second: the voices. You will hear me calling from the heather. You will hear your cousin Silas, who has been dead since the Great Frost. Ignore them. Why would I be standing in a bog in October? Use your head. Do not answer. Do not even whisper 'no'. Silence is the only wall they cannot climb. Third: the windows. Shutters must be bolted by the first chime of midnight. If you see a finger tapping the glass, ignore it. They love the drama of a frightened girl. Give them nothing. They will move on to the neighbor's house if you are boring enough. Fourth: the hearth. Keep the fire roaring. Throw in a handful of dried rowan berries. The smoke smells like old socks, but it keeps the dampness from curdling the milk and the Guests from smelling your warmth. Fifth: the offering. Place one loaf of bread on the porch stone at sunset. Use the burnt loaf from Tuesday. They have no sense of taste, but they have a sense of entitlement. A small bribe prevents a long night of scratching at the walls. Lastly: the mirrors. Cover them with linen. A Mire-Guest cannot enter if it cannot see its own lack of a reflection. It is a simple matter of vanity. Now, go fetch the salt.