by Alex Aster
A young man with a shaved head approached them. “Come with us,” he offered. “We’re from a village in the west called Fluska.”
Melda smiled. “Thank you,” she said. She looked over at Tor and Engle earnestly. “But we have our own journey still ahead of us.”
“Then, please, allow me to give you a token of our appreciation.” He produced a coin from his pocket, one that looked nothing like a dobble. It was silver and had a spiral in the middle, with a more intricate design on the edges. Tor knew it right away. The emblem for teleportation.
“You’re a telecorp!” Engle yelled.
The man nodded with a flicker of amusement in his eyes. He pressed the coin against the top of his arm, where a similar spiral sat—enchanting it, so that the object captured a bit of his emblem’s power. The young man winced, for it was not a pleasant process, and the token glowed for just a moment. Then, he placed it in Melda’s hand.
“When that journey is over,” he said. “This will take you back home.”
“Thank you.” Melda stared down at the gift in her palm, and Tor imagined his longing for home matched the look of yearning written across her face. But then her eyes hardened, and she slipped the coin into her pocket.
The man nodded and turned to go—then seemed to change his mind. He faced them again. “Forgive me, but not many people go this far into the Shadows by choice. Are you traveling deeper still?”
Melda nodded once.
The telecorp’s expression turned solemn. “As you can imagine, my talent allows me to get in and out of places unnoticed. I’ve spent many a nighttime hour in The Plains’ library, reading everything they have on the Shadows.
“So, allow me to give you a warning. Prepare yourselves. It is cold as ice farther inside, the weather as temperamental as a child. A few miles north of where we stand, there is an abandoned mill at the edge of an abandoned village. We passed it on our way. Go there, and prepare,” he urged them, eyes gleaming. “Ready yourselves, because the Shadows will test you, body and mind. Forgive me, but people far more capable than you have been tested—and have failed.”
The Sun and Moon
Once upon a starlit night, there was a girl with silver hair and eyes like pearls. She came out only after dusk, for she liked the quiet of the darkness.
There was also a boy with golden hair who loved the feeling of heat upon his skin. He adored the outdoors so much, he had trouble sleeping at night, yearning for daytime. It was during one of these restless nights that the boy saw the girl through the glass of his window.
He slipped on his shoes and went outside.
“Where are you going?” he asked, trying to catch up.
She was fast, weaving quietly through the village until she reached the sea. He found her there, on the water’s edge, staring so deeply into the ocean that the tip of her silver hair swirled in the sea foam.
“Who are you?” he asked.
Her eyes wide, she jumped up and backed away. “I am no one,” she said. “A nightmare, if you let me be.”
The boy could not get the girl out of his head. So the next night, instead of sleeping, he walked to that same sea and found her there.
“You shouldn’t have come,” she said. And even though she had warned him twice to stay away, the boy sat down beside her.
The boy and girl fell in love. They planned a future together. They left the village and traveled across the island, on adventures like sewn-together dreams, too much like fairy tales to be real.
But the universe did not approve this pairing. They were cursed, never to be together. And the only way to keep them apart was to separate them. Forever.
The girl became the moon, pearl in the sky.
And the boy became the sun, fiery ball of light.
Each dusk and dawn they pass, never to meet again.
Yet, their love never died.
16
The Mill
By the time they left the tower, it was almost morning. Their backpack full of bread, Engle, Tor, and Melda watched the Fluskas enter the dark forest. The baby with the snowflake emblem stopped what was left of the fire with a single gesture, and the telecorp gave them a sideways wave, as if to say good luck, before disappearing into the foliage.
Tor found he didn’t know what to say. What could he say? He had abandoned a mission he himself had created and had left one of his friends behind… Guilt ate at him.
They stood for a moment, facing each other in silence.
“I’m sorry,” Tor blurted out, at the same time that Melda said, “I hope you’re sorry.”
Her eyes widened a bit in surprise, like she hadn’t expected for him to apologize so easily. “What for?”
“We should have never let you go alone,” he admitted. Melda raised her eyebrows, and he added, “We should have never left in the first place.”
“That’s right,” she said sharply. The serious set of her mouth softened. Tor noticed how effortlessly Melda could move from firm to empathetic. It was those kinds of things that made people want to follow her. And that was the magic of a leadership emblem, after all. Being able to inspire others to join a person in their cause not through force, but through trust and faith.
“The Shadows makes the worst part of ourselves come out, if we let it,” she was saying. “But the only way we make it to the Night Witch is together.” She sighed. “This isn’t about just us anymore.”
She was right. As much as Tor wished he could turn back home again, they had a bigger purpose now. If the witch was responsible for the Shadows and its wicked people, she had to be stopped.
“Like the telecorp said, we need to be ready,” Melda said. “We haven’t slept for almost twenty-four hours, we’ve hardly had anything to eat, we’ll freeze in these clothes if it gets any colder, and, I don’t know about you, but I’m sore as a bruised banana.” She patted her ribs and winced. “If we have any chance at even reaching the witch, we have to be smart. I think we should go to the mill in the abandoned village the telecorp told us about and see if we can find more supplies.”
Tor agreed. A few pieces of bread and what was left of the giantess’s provisions weren’t going to be enough to last them the rest of their journey to the Night Witch.
Worry tightened his chest. Tor knew very well that they weren’t just going to the mill for food and rest—the truth was they also didn’t know where to go next. The next story mentioned a lake, but even that clue wasn’t any help, since the area of the map that marked the Shadows was blank. And it wasn’t like they could ask locals for aid.
This far deep into the darkness, the only people they could trust were each other.
* * *
The abandoned village looked as though a raging fire had burnt a normal town to a crisp. It sat just outside of the woods, each building covered in soot-colored plaster. Flaky gray dirt lined the streets like volcanic sand.
“How could anyone have lived like this?” Engle asked.
Tor wondered the same thing. He thought of the canopy of purple leaves over his house, and all of the blue, yellow, and orange trees under which everyone else lived. The rainbow of birds that filled those trees and sang along with Rosa every morning. That was life, he told himself.
This looked like death.
“I don’t know. Maybe that’s why they left.”
They wandered into the modest town square, framed by tiny shops, each with a chimney and two windows. Melda coughed when they opened the first store’s door, dust creating a thick cloud. She waved her hands in front of her, ordering it all away. If only she could.
“Well, this solves one of our problems,” Melda said. The room they had walked into was filled with stacks of wool, piled high like blankets. A spinning wheel and loom were situated in the back, along with barrels of what looked to be black dye. There were also tables of clothes that had already been finished and neatly
folded. Tor looked down at his dirt-covered outfit. There was a hole near his elbow, and on his knee. It would be nice to change.
“The telecorp said it would get colder, so we’ll need warmer clothing to make it deeper into the Shadows.” She picked up a gray shirt and a pair of pants that looked slightly too large. “This should do for a base…” she mumbled to herself. “I’ll just have to use some of this extra fabric to make something like a sweater…some warmer socks, if I have time…”
Engle and Tor looked at her, mouths slightly ajar.
“You can make a sweater out of this?” Engle asked, motioning toward the fabric and wool.
She nodded sheepishly. “I make all my brothers’ clothes,” she said in a tiny voice, looking down at the floor. “And my own.”
Her expensive-looking clothing suddenly made sense. Still, Tor wondered how Melda possibly had time to make five sets of clothing every time her brothers grew a little more, while also helping to take care of them and completing the stacks of assignments Mrs. Alma gave every night. She had never even been late to class once. “Do you sleep, Melda?” he asked.
She shrugged. “Not as much as I should, I suppose.”
He scratched the back of his head. “And what should we do?” he said, feeling useless. It was a strange thing, speaking those words. Though he supposed she was the only one with a leadership emblem now.
Melda didn’t even bat an eye. “I imagine we’ll be battling some tough trials as we near the Night Witch. We’ll need our strength. Engle, if you could, try to find some stored water. And locate some beds or cots we can sleep on tonight.” She turned to Tor. “It would be great if you could visit each building and then the mill. See if there are any weapons, food that hasn’t spoiled yet, or other resources we can use.”
Then, with a deep breath, she started combing through the piles of gray clothing.
* * *
Engle and Tor parted ways in what used to be the town square. Abandoned carts had been turned over, ash-coated rats scurrying around their wheels. Tor was almost reassured by the sight of the vermin; at least something was alive here.
He entered a small shop with a bell at the top of the door. It jangled loudly, making him jump.
Rolls of parchment sat behind the counter, some of it dyed different shades like lavender, honey, rose, and teal. It was a paper store. He studied them, surprised. This far into the Shadows, he hadn’t expected to see so much color.
With no time to waste, Tor grabbed a piece of wound-up parchment, an ink pot, and a quill, deciding to use it to keep track of anything useful he might find.
The next store seemed to have been a tavern in its prime. The entire interior was crafted in reddish mahogany, from the long bar to the chairs that had been stacked into neat piles. Each step Tor took was matched by a gust of dust, making him sneeze. The place reminded him of the pub in Cristal Town. Emblem, was that only a few days ago? Tor thought. It seemed like forever.
In a back storage room, he spotted a tank of water. He made note of it on his paper, then moved on to the next shop.
Tor visited a total of ten different stores, each surprisingly intact and filled with different artisanal products. He found leather boots in one place, a dozen gloves in another, a gold pocket watch, and even a wheel of cheese that had, unfortunately, gone bad long ago. Funny, Tor had thought that cheese was one of those things that got better with age, but this particular one had crumbled into a sour-smelling powder the consistency of sand. He took another whiff just to be sure and almost lost the small amount that was in his stomach. No, he thought, leaving the store at once. Definitely not edible.
With each new discovery, Tor began to question more and more why the people of the town had left behind such valuable objects.
It almost seemed as if the village had been abandoned overnight. But why?
At last, he stood in front of the mill. It was the biggest one he had ever seen, the door taller than three of him combined. Inside was even more of a surprise. Though it looked like a regular—albeit huge—mill from the outside, the interior resembled a mansion. Two staircases greeted him, spiraling up in the shape of a heart. The floors were made of a white, pristine stone. A fireplace stood against the back wall, framed by sculpture crafted out of colored marble. The middle of the mill was hollow, just the stairs wrapping all the way up like the interior of a lighthouse he had seen a few years back, just north of his village. Standing in the center, he looked up and counted five more floors stretched out above him.
Statues of animals and women wearing stone gowns watched Tor as he made his way between the stairs and down the hall.
“Lightning, isn’t it?”
Tor whipped around, heart in his throat.
Engle stood there, a jar of vegetables in his hand. “It’s still good,” he said with a shrug. Tor followed his friend into a kitchen larger than the one in his father’s restaurant.
Lest he be accused of slacking off on his responsibilities, Engle puffed up his chest proudly. “Found plenty of beds upstairs, with the softest blankets you’ve ever felt. I want to take some home with me.” Tor didn’t have the heart or energy to tell his friend that they would certainly not be hauling a comforter on their backs all the way to the Night Witch. “There’s water, too, though not much.”
“That’s fine,” Tor said. “I found some at the pub.”
Something behind Engle’s head caught Tor’s attention. It was a painting, crafted out of swirling, oily strokes. He walked over to it, then pressed a hand against its expertly cut frame.
There was a family: a mother, father, and two small children—all wearing brightly colored clothing and smiling. They were beautiful, especially the woman, whose shining brown hair seemed soft as silk, her eyes the green of emeralds. Tor squinted. “Something happened here,” he said. Perhaps he was wrong. Maybe the village’s inhabitants hadn’t simply up and left.
“What do you mean?”
“Look around. This place wasn’t always so dark.”
By the time they made it back to Melda, she had sweat on her brow and had almost completed a sweater. “Lucky enough, I found a thicker fabric in the back room. Saved me hours of work, since now I don’t have to line them with wool…” She looked up from her station. “How did you fare? Any food?”
Engle grinned. “Plenty. Well hidden, though.”
They ate dinner in the mill kitchen, using spoons they found in drawers to scrape jars that held corn and other vegetables. This was good. They couldn’t just live on bread alone. They needed to get their strength back if they were going to face the witch.
Melda agreed the townspeople had clearly fled something bad enough to make them up and leave their entire lives behind, valuables and all. She assured them, however, that whatever the villagers had run away from must have been long gone.
Tor hoped she was right.
Using a box of matches Engle had discovered in a cabinet, they lit a fire that warmed Tor to the bone, then made their way to the second floor. Each person had their own room. Tor’s had an enchanted dragon clock that breathed fire when it was time to wake up; he guessed it had belonged to the family’s son, once upon a time.
Though he finally had a comfortable bed for the first time in days—complete with dust-covered pillows, sheets, and a wool-lined blanket—Tor still found he couldn’t sleep. Thoughts tossed and turned in his brain like a poorly built ship in a hurricane. Not so much thoughts…but fears.
Tor feared failure.
It was the reason he had always hated his leadership emblem and why he had never tried to do well in school. His mother was one of the best Chieftesses of the last century—how could he ever compare?
So instead of trying and failing to live up to her impossible standards, Tor convinced himself he didn’t like leadership and had been gifted the wrong marking. Unfortunately, he was beginning to understand th
at might not be it at all.
Maybe he had been given the right emblem—but had been too afraid of failing to use it.
* * *
Perhaps it was the Shadows and the dark effect it had on minds, but Tor stayed wide awake for hours. His fears turned into worries, and those worries bloomed into guilt. It was an endless cycle that made him feel as though his entire body had turned into a swirling black hole.
He refused to kill the witch—which meant he needed to somehow convince her to end the curse.
And he didn’t have the slightest idea of how he might do that.
In the middle of reprimanding himself for not being able to fall asleep, he heard a creak. The soft groan of wood being stepped on in the middle of the night.
He stood and lit the candle on his bedside table. If Melda was awake, maybe there was work to be done. He would do anything to help if it meant not having to be alone with his torturous thoughts.
Sure enough, when Tor opened his door, Melda was there, dressed in a nightgown she had likely found in one of the wardrobes. She turned to him, wide-eyed. “Did you hear that?” she whispered.
He squinted at her. “That wasn’t you?”
She shook her head.
They quietly made their way to Engle’s room. He was splayed out on the bed like a silver falcon in flight, clearly having no trouble sleeping. Tor woke him up with a sharp poke in the arm. With an annoyed grunt, he followed them back down the hall, still half asleep.
In the dark of night, they walked to the middle of the second floor and craned their heads to look up at the levels above. There, at the very top, they saw a light.
Melda turned to face them, eyes wide and solemn. “Someone else is here.”
* * *
They walked up the spiral steps, Tor gripping his candlestick tightly with both hands in case he had to use it as a weapon. Engle had woken up completely now and was at the rear, teeth chattering as if he expected a phantom to appear at any moment.
Melda led the way, closely followed by Tor. He stepped as quietly as possible, strategically: heel first, then arch, then toes, evenly distributing his weight. Engle’s foot landed on a loose floorboard, and the wood groaned loudly, echoing through the mill.