Hen of the Woods

The craft, an old, narrow rowboat that couldn't help but surprise Theo and Corsica just by remaining afloat, gradually beached, crunching slowly upon the sandy bank. The hand gripped the edge of the boat, and slowly came another, and then a head. She was a woman, startling in her features, as if she hadn't thought of anything pleasant for so long that her mind had lost its store of pleasant things to think about. Her mouth drew downwards as if unseen weights were tied to its corners, and her irises were black, as if she couldn't even see wholesome things any longer. Her hair was thin, and in no particular shape, and her sallow skin pulled tightly along her face, a starving person's face.