His Frozen Fingertips

by Charlotte Bowyer

  “What about cats?” Asa inquired. Seeing Parlan’s confused expression, he clarified, “Not like normal little cats, I was talking about huge ones. Like black wolves.”

  Parlan smiled. “Oh, I daresay it could indeed take down a large cat.”

  Parlan entered the dark building without another word and Asa, mouth dry, followed him. He did not glance behind for Avery. His companion’s steady breaths the only testament he needed to his presence. They ducked through the low doorway and into the house itself.

  Candles were lit at periodic intervals down the damp bare walls of the corridor they walked down. Paintings and weapons hung in equal measures on every surface imaginable. Asa followed close to Parlan’s heels, examining everything. They went through another doorway and entered a small kitchen thick with steam, a huge log stove taking up an entire side of the room. Parlan sat in a chair at the head of a small wooden table, and gestured for Asa and Avery to draw up two more.

  “Do you want a drink?” he asked.

  “Water please,” Avery said.

  “Do you have any tea?” Asa responded at the same time. The elder man smiled at them, not with his mouth, but with the corners of his eyes. They crinkled in such a way that he might have been laughing, had his mouth not been an interminable straight line. He nodded at them both.

  “Aye, I have tea, and thusly water too,” he croaked, pulling his chair back and stepping towards the kettle on the stove. It was already piping hot, so he poured it into a metal cup and made tea. For Avery, he went to the corner of the room and poured a small amount of cold water from a water skin into another metal cup. He gave them the beverages. “Here you go, then.”

  “Thank you,” they both murmured, manners they had been taught together as children kicking in.

  “So,” Parlan grunted. “What is your business so far east?”

  “We—” Asa’s voice died off. He decided to change the subject. “What did you mean when you said that you got your powers from outside of the walls?”

  “Don’t change the subject,” the man snapped. “Answer the question. Are you the police? The army? Why are you in my territory?”

  Asa looked at him. His moods had changed so quickly. All was not as it should be in this house. The place was covered in a layer of thick dust, cobwebs trailing their threadlike strands from object to object. Asa caught sight of a spider the size of his fist crouching in a teacup on the dark stovetop. He swore he could hear its pincers click.

  The tea was harsh. Asa managed not to spit it over the table out of sheer grit and courtesy. Dust congealed on the surface of the hot beverage, thick clumps spinning in the dark water. It tasted as though the tea had been used and reused. He gave an approving smile and pretended to drink more, tongue not suffering to touch the tea again. Avery laughed at Asa’s reaction, his expression changing as he sipped his water. Asa smirked, despite his unease. The water in the tin cup smelled like pondweed and algae.

  Parlan had been looking at their reactions with a queer flicker of some emotion. A grey eyebrow twitched as the elder man glared at them.

  “We are here on orders from the queen,” Avery explained, replacing his cup, too.

  “The queen? Queen Ria? Worse than all of the special forces in herself, I’d say, and you her humble servants! I should’ve stuck the both of you when I had the chance.”

  Avery watched him cagily, but Asa stared down at the table, ignoring the rant. He should not feed this man’s anger any more than he already had. He saw his friend sigh, stand, and walk over to the unstable man.

  “Avery?”

  “Don’t worry,” Avery mouthed, before continuing in a louder tone. “Well, you did not “stick” us, did you? There must have been a reason for that.”

  “Aye, there was a reason,” Parlan reckoned.

  “You see,” Avery explained surely. “You didn’t kill us because you knew that we weren’t going to hurt you. You’re a good person, Parlan, aren’t you?”

  “Aye.”

  Avery’s tone was steady and soothing, but his eyes belied his tongue. He looked at Asa and then back to the now-quaking older man. His constructed mask of composure was slipping. Asa saw him bite his tongue as Parlan fell against him, quivering.

  Avery’s voice was controlled. “You weren’t going to kill us.”

  “No.” The man’s grey head snapped up. “Yes.”

  “Avery, back off,” Asa warned.

  Avery retreated to where Asa was sitting, and they both backed away from Parlan, moving into a corner. The man let loose a low growl, as feral as that of the cat they had killed. He was drooling, with flecks of spit running down his grimy, stubbled chin and dripping slickly off onto his clothes. His eyes rolled back in his head so that none of the black was visible. All Asa could see was bloodshot off-white. A deadly silence overtook the room, wrapping itself around them both that neither could think to utter a single word. Parlan was curled over as he panted, the spine of his back showing through his thin shirt. He whined in apparent pain.

  “What’s wrong with him?” Asa asked, spooked by the odd mannerisms.

  “More like what isn’t wrong with him,” Avery muttered darkly. “Have you seen this house?”

  “What do we do?”

  “Get away from him, Asa! Good, to your right. You’re clear. We’ll make a break for it. We run.”

  “We can’t just leave him. He’s clearly sick.”

  “Sick in the head.” Avery shook his hair out of his face. “We can’t help him. On three, okay? One . . . two . . . Asa!”

  Asa had stopped. He frowned in consternation, thoughts dashing between the man convulsing next to him and his companion’s apparent ire. He paused for a breath. Avery repeated his name again, more forcefully now. Asa sighed.

  “Coming, Avery.”

  “Go.” They both ran at once for the door. Parlan turned, dark irises huge in the dim lighting. He smiled, and Asa realised that the dim light in the room had come from the old man’s colour-changing eyes. His drawn face was thin, the skin sticking to the bones of his skull. It gave him an odd, skeletal look, translucence and opacity merging in the sharp angles. Asa stumbled once, grabbed onto the door handle, and pulled himself through the thin gap before Avery slammed it shut behind him. They paused for a single breath before retreating down the narrow corridor.

  They burst into dazzling sunshine, eyes shrinking back at the bright light. The dust was settled now, trickling into the cracks left by the weapon that Parlan had used. Everything was still. Asa lead the way over the broken fountain, feet gripping to the smashed stone, and found the road that they had been taking, slipping from a jog into a full-out run when his mind had fully comprehended what he had seen. That man, that ordinary man, had possessed powers that he had never seen before. He had shrunk in on himself and had become something condensed, strong, something altogether darker than a mere human.

  The streets were as empty and as quiet as Asa had ever seen a town. Snow capped the roofs of the houses and left a thin layer underfoot, just enough to make the stones slippery and uneven. A thin, balding rat scurried down a gutter and into a hole. He eventually slowed to a walk, out of breath and tiring of the fast pace. It didn’t feel as dangerous here. The demonic creature that had lured them into his house surely would not go out during the middle of the day, he thought. It would be dangerous at night, to be sure, but by then they would both be long gone.

  “I’m sorry,” he apologised breathlessly.

  Avery squinted at him, dodging a tree root. “What are you going on about?”

  “I keep on doing this.” Asa swore. “I wish that I was as talented as you.”

  “At what?” Avery snorted.

  “At this, Avery,” he scowled, kicking a stone out of his way. “This was my idea, okay, and I thought that I would be better at it than you. I wanted to be the calm, confident one. I wanted to be the best for once. And yet again, I am the damsel in distress. I lead us into danger. And you just follow me into trouble t
hen get us both out.”

  “But you’re the one who knows what we’re doing,” Avery mumbled confusedly. “I have done nothing but swing a sword about, and Erebus knows that isn’t helpful.”

  “I hate this,” he whispered. “I hate it.”

  “We’re doing it now.” Avery shrugged. “Nothing can change that.”

  The houses finally thinned out, leading to a single swelling hill. It wasn’t high, or even steep. Still, their feet and calves ached as they ambled towards it. Asa frowned. He didn’t want to walk anymore. The boots rubbed his feet raw, blistering his lower legs and ankles. He limped, licking dry lips.

  Avery coughed, bringing Asa back to the present. His legs burned as they mounted the peak in a few long strides and were able to look out on the landscape below.

  At once, the low rolling hills of the countryside had given way to a length of flat snow-strewn land. Stretching up, grazing the clouds themselves, was an immense stone wall. They stopped to look at the landmark. It was dark against the light grey of the sky, a silhouette of a giant’s plaything. Asa had a stirring, odd sensation deep in his stomach. It was the feeling of being out of scale, a tiny speck on the infinite world. It pressed down on his shoulders, and he could do nothing in that moment but stare up at the plane of stone, mouth open.

  Avery walked jerkily forward, Asa following in his wake. The grasses were scratchy and dry beneath their blanket of snow, suffocated. They trailed down the hill as slowly as they possibly could, relieved at the lack of stress to their sore limbs. It could have been Asa’s imagination but the way down was miles shorter than the upwards ascent. Soon their feet met the clear snow-covered flat. The ground was darker here, under the shadow of the great wall.

  The two of them crossed in complete silence, a sort of reverential awe in their muffled footsteps. The shadow was ice cold, a feeling of being soaked by a bucket of dry water.

  “A house,” Avery choked out in front of him.

  A small cottage, a tiny snuffbox to their perspective, was propped against the stone ahead. Asa squinted at it, unsure whether or not he was imagining things. Avery voiced his thoughts.

  “Is that the gate?” Their eyes met.

  “Gatekeeper’s cottage,” Asa said. Avery smiled and withdrew the loop of keys from around his belt. They exchanged a victorious smirk before racing as fast as their tired legs could carry them towards the wall.

  Predictably, Avery reached the cottage first. He hit it with his fists and waited for Asa to get there, panting. Asa stumbled the last few steps and flopped face first into the snow, dizzy as anything and so very cold. Avery let him lie there, then grabbed his arm and heaved him to his feet.

  “Come on, get up.” He chucked Asa under the chin and kept one hand on the back of his neck in case he fell over again. Asa leant into the warmth.

  Avery pulled him to the door of the rickety wooden cottage, supporting a good proportion of his friend’s weight with one arm. He searched on the loop of keys for the one that might open the front door. Asa watched him, leaning against the wood. He let out a startled cry, like a baby chick, as the door swung open under his bodyweight. He crashed to the doormat and stayed still for a moment, blinking up at his friend, whose arm was outstretched as if to grab him. Avery exhaled, a breathless laugh.

  “Seems to me that this is all I ever to do as of late.” He smiled. He offered a hand but Asa refused it, pulling himself peevishly up on the doorframe.

  “Depend on it, this is not my fault.” He scowled, stamping his feet as he entered the small cottage.

  It was remarkably clean inside, neat and ordered. Asa remembered the withered old man whom they had taken the keys from. He and his wife must have spent their whole lives here. Mats lined the cold floors and a huge patchwork quilt covered the double bed, what seemed to be a lifetime of scraps weaved into a vast tapestry. Asa trailed his cold fingers over the soft fabric, catching his breath. It was so still, so perfect—like a house in a fairy tale.

  Avery followed him, looking injured. He slunk off into the other side of the two-room apartment, off on his own devices. Asa sat comfortably on the hard bed, wrapping the coverlet around him. It smelled of must, old furniture, polish, and smoke. He inhaled the scent, rolling his mind around it giddily. It smelled like home.

  There was a victorious shout from the kitchen and Asa jumped up, startled. Before he was able to inquire as to why Avery was creating such a racket, the blond sped into the room, clutching boxes and bags of something Asa could not quite read. He dumped them on the bed in front of him and grinned.

  “Not too shabby, eh?”

  It was food. Boxes and boxes of food. Asa’s mouth watered. He reached out for a box. Dried peas. The rest of the fare was of the same sort. None of it was luxurious, but it was food nonetheless, and food was what they needed. He laughed with his friend, forgetting their heavy journey in this flash of fortune. The words rushed to his lips.

  “Oh thanks,” he said gratefully.

  “Thank what?” Avery cheekily inquired.

  Asa chuckled. “I don’t even know. Thank luck, I guess.”

  “Thanks, indeed.” Avery started to bundle the food back into his arms. He came to the door in-between the rooms and paused, looking back. “And, Asa?”

  “Yeah?”

  “We’ll feast tonight.” The blond winked, retreating into what Asa assumed to be the kitchen.

  Asa rolled his eyes, leaping from the bed. He crossed the room to the fireplace and reached across the high mantelpiece until he had found what he was looking for—a small flint and steel. A large woven basket stood next to the hearth, piled with logs of all kinds and a small faggot of kindling. Asa piled a few into the fireplace and set about lighting a small blaze, just enough to warm them. The flames burst into life, a mockery of any other one that they had seen on the entire journey. The crackling of the logs burning and the soothing smell of smoke comforted Asa’s soul like nothing else had. For the first time he had an overwhelming feeling that everything would be alright.

  He heard Avery banging around in the kitchen, the dim clanking of pots and pans being thrown onto the stove reminiscent of his childhood. He stared into the flickering light for a few moments, lost in his thoughts. It was only when he heard his friend calling his name that he turned, stood, and went to investigate the delicious smells coming from the other room.

  A thick cloud of steam greeted him as he came into the room, clouding his vision until it dispersed. Avery was bent over an archaic stove, stoking a fire beneath it with a cautious boot whilst stirring a pot with one hand and toasting bread with the other. He gestured Asa over to a small table with a flick of his head, a single bead of sweat running down his cheek. He pulled the toast out of the fire with his left hand and dropped the charred pieces onto rustic wooden plates with a skilful aim. He stopped stoking the fire and stirred the steaming pot a couple more times, smelling the cloud that had gathered above it with relish. He lifted the pan up with care and carried the water across the room.

  “What’s on?” Asa asked.

  “Mushrooms on toast,” Avery said distractedly, draining the water out of the open window.

  He used a wooden spoon to ladle out the brown lumps onto the blackened bread, wincing as the scalding metal brushed against his skin. “Ah, hot!”

  “You okay?” Asa inquired.

  “Fine.” Avery carried the plates gingerly over to the table, depositing the pan on the stove.

  “Codswallop,” Asa snorted. “Let me see.”

  His friend put down their supper and held out his hand. Asa took hold of the callused fingers in his cold ones and examined the small blister that had formed on the palm, on the soft pad beneath the thumb. Angry red lines surrounded it.

  “Don’t touch!” Avery exclaimed as Asa reached out a tentative index finger.

  “Wasn’t going to,” Asa lied. The blond raised an eyebrow. “What?”

  “Do you take me for a complete fool, Asa Hounslow?”

  “
Not a complete one, Avery,” Asa mumbled, before continuing in a more enthusiastic tone. “What are we even waiting for? Food!”

  “Food indeed.” Avery picked up his slice of burnt bread. “At last.”

  Asa bit into the warm meal, his mouth relishing the way it filled it with heat and food. His stomach grumbled, and Asa patted it like one would a dog. Soon, he thought to himself, soon I will be full. He continued eating the crisp toast, flavours from the aromatic mushrooms seeping into the plain bread. He leant back on his stool and smiled at anything, anyone. The ceiling would even do.

  The moment of fullness came sooner than even he had expected. In less than half a slice of bread and vegetables, Asa found he was too stuffed to continue eating. He fought against the feeling, loathe to waste any of the rare meal, but found that the idea of more food had become simply nauseating. He put the remainder of his food down in surprise, hoping that a short break would aid his digestion. Across the table, Avery stopped chewing and looked down, dropping a crust to his plate.

  “I’m full,” Asa stated blankly.

  “As am I.” Avery looked at the solitary crust incredulously.

  “Is that normal?”

  “I don’t know.” Aware as ever of wastage, Avery collected their half-eaten meals and put a bowl upside-down over both of them to stop them from going bad in the warm house.

  They made a brief excursion out of the front door and into the snow, rinsing their hands in the clean ice. The sky was less clouded here, blackness merely washed with a tint of grey. If he squinted, Asa could swear that he saw pinpricks of light shining through the cover. Stars. He searched the darkness for any clearer but saw nothing, not even the moon. He had always been able to see the moon, even in the town. When did it leave the sky?

  Aware of his breath forming clouds in the cold air, Asa retreated back inside the house, rubbing his chilled hands. The fire seemed ever warmer as the night drew in, wrapping the house in a shield of light and safety. Asa relaxed. He was trying to remember when the last time he had been able to do so was. It couldn’t have been for over a week at least. Two maybe. Not since they started their adventure. He thought back, struggling to recollect how many sunrises he had seen since their departure from Brandenbury in the white carriage.