Snow Summer

by Kit Peel

  “You stood by and let the ice bear hurt Kate. You could have healed her, but you didn’t.”

  “I can take the ice from her, but only you can save her and all the other humans. There’s still time,” said Tawhir, reaching out and holding her tightly.

  “I can’t,” she said.

  Tawhir released her.

  “Then stay hidden. If the earth brings me back, maybe you will look for me, as I did for you,” he said.

  His eyes glimmered sliver.

  “Your friend is healed.”

  He was gone.

  “Tawhir!” she cried. There was no trace of him in the sky.

  Far off, the silence of the dale was shattered by a chainsaw roaring into life. Another joined it. And another. Even though she was several miles away, Wyn felt the trees in Skrikes Wood vibrating. She could sense their fear. Angrily, she tore her thoughts away from Tawhir. Only now did she turn her attention to the three earth spirits.

  Old Mal lay motionless in the snow. She bent over him.

  “I’ll see to him,” Hackfall told her.

  The look on her face was plain, just as it was on Thwaite’s. Wyn didn’t have to be a mind reader to know what they were thinking, what they thought of her.

  “We need to stop the felling,” she told Thwaite.

  He was looking between her and the sky, searching for the boy who she could no longer sense.

  “You should go after him.”

  “I can’t. I’m not Mugasa anymore.”

  “No, you’re Wyn. You’re better than she was. Mugasa made a choice to abandon the world. Will you make that choice again?”

  Frustration raged in Wyn. She couldn’t stop Tawhir and bring back summer, but she could at least save Skrikes Wood. She turned away from the earth spirits, breaking into a run.

  “Well, are you coming?” she yelled over her shoulder.

  Wyn led Thwaite at a fierce pace towards the wood. With every step through the snow, more memories of her past came back to her. Over and over, she saw woods being cleared and houses being built, great rivers dammed, the smoke of a million chimneys rising into the sky. And she saw Sh’en Shiekar and herself arguing in the mountain tops.

  But even as she worked herself up into a rage, Wyn heard Mrs. March’s strident voice, Kate’s laughter, and felt Robin’s hand squeezing her shoulder.

  Where was Tawhir now? When would he cross the border? Would he wait until the last moment, when the sun was setting, or attempt it now?

  Pateley Bridge was vanishing under the driving snow. The streets were empty. All the lights in the houses were off. Candles glimmered behind windows.

  Thwaite drove the butt of his axe into the snow in front of him, pulling himself on through the storm.

  “I should have known the boy was Sh’en Shiekar,” he said. “Who else could have found you?”

  “He should have said who he was.”

  “If he gives up his powers, the weather will return to normal, but it won’t last. The rebel spirits will cause chaos, and don’t think humans will take things lying down.”

  Wyn saw John. He was in the upper reaches of Skrikes Wood, standing beside his father, as David Ramsgill oversaw a tall birch being felled. Without replying to Thwaite, she hurried towards the roar of chainsaws.

  The men started when they saw her stride out towards them. David Ramsgill waved his arms, shouting at them to turn off their saws. Snow flurried over fallen trees.

  “Wyn! Where have you been? I’ve been trying to reach you for days,” called John, running forward to greet her.

  “I thought you wanted to stop the felling, not join in with it,” she snapped.

  The boy flushed.

  “You’re to go back home, Wyn,” said David Ramsgill. “It’s not safe for you to be here.”

  “I’m not leaving until the felling stops.”

  “John, take your friend home.”

  Nervously, John reached out for Wyn. She slapped his hand away. The boy winced, looking at her in surprise.

  From the corner of her eye, she saw Thwaite, leaning on his axe at the edge of the clearing. He couldn’t stop the felling. He wouldn’t.

  Angrily, Wyn sent her thoughts down into the ground. Down beneath the snow, the frozen soil, deep into the rocky bones of the dale. They were reluctant to listen to her, but she would have none of it. Grasping the rocks with her will, Wyn forced them into life.

  All across the wood, the ground began shaking; a low rumble at first, causing John, his father, and the other men to step back, alarmed. At Wyn’s command, the shaking grew stronger and now snow was tumbling from trees, the fallen birches crashing into each other. John, David Ramsgill and his men were struggling to stay on their feet. Wyn saw Thwaite drop to his knees, placing his hands on the snow. She felt his will trying to compete with her own, trying to calm the earth. Wyn increased the strength of the earthquake, dominating the earth spirit’s power as if it barely existed.

  The slim birches still standing at the top of the wood were swaying furiously now. But Wyn was oblivious to their voices, to the sound of tearing roots.

  As Thwaite fought against her, one of his blackbirds jinked through the falling snow. The bird was followed by Robin, coming uphill through the wood on his hands and knees.

  He had almost reached Thwaite when several of the birches were ripped from the ground. Wyn saw them falling towards Robin, saw him look up in alarm.

  Then, just inches from Robin, Thwaite caught them in his huge hands.

  Wyn stumbled backwards, shocked at what had almost happened. She felt John’s hands steadying her.

  “You okay?” he asked. Wyn nodded. As she did, all her senses came to life.

  A soft wind began to blow through the tree tops. A faint music rose up from the canopy as one by one the trees found their voices. Wyn searched the sky for Tawhir, but he wasn’t causing the wind. All through Skrikes Wood, trees were breaking into song; the low burr of hollies and oaks, rising through pine and beech, to the bell-like chiming of birches. Wyn saw David Ramsgill staring up at the trees, wonder written across his face. Several of his men were doing the same, as was John.

  “What is that?” he asked Wyn.

  “You can hear it?”

  “It sounds like … singing.”

  Wyn nodded at the boy. The trees had found their voices, but not because of anything she had done. Just for a moment, another presence had come into the wood, filling everything with warmth and light. Wyn’s eyes met Thwaite’s and she saw his joy. As the spirit of the earth herself vanished and the trees fell silent, Wyn hugged her arms to her chest, letting the tears fall freely down her face.

  “Wyn, love?”

  It was Robin. She let him put his arms around her.

  “I heard from the hospital. Kate’s woken up.”

  David Ramsgill was still looking up into the trees. Some of his men had put down their chainsaws, while others still held theirs, and were asking if they should resume felling.

  “No, you mustn’t,” said Robin.

  “Are you going to petition me again, Robin?” asked David Ramsgill.

  “If I have to.”

  John’s father’s expression changed. He was looking directly at Thwaite now. Wyn saw the earth spirit nod in greeting.

  “Who on earth…?” he muttered. Wyn squared up in front of David Ramsgill.

  “When you were a boy, you could feel and see things when you were outside in the woods and fields. Things that other people couldn’t,” she said.

  “I don’t know what you’re saying, Wyn,” he replied, glancing between her and Thwaite.

  “Just because you have ignored this gift for years, doesn’t mean you don’t still have it.”

  Thwaite slipped behind trees. David Ramsgill was shaking his head in disbelief.

  “What
gift? Wyn?” John was asking.

  “Call off your men, David,” said Robin.

  John’s father nodded, slowly.

  “What is it, Dad?”

  “We’ll come back another day.”

  He put his arm around his son. With a final curious look backwards, he strode out amongst his men, telling them that the felling was off.

  23

  —

  “It’s madness. You don’t even know where he is,” said Robin.

  But Wyn did, with absolute certainty.

  “He’s in the Alps,” she said.

  “If Thwaite’s right, there’ll be spirits all over the world looking for you. The moment you leave the dale, you’ll be exposed.”

  “I can outrun them.”

  “Can you, child?” said Thwaite. “Are you ready to become who you were born to be?”

  Wyn wasn’t ready. She was terrified of what lay before her, but for the first time her mind and heart spoke as one and she knew what she had to do. She did her best to hide her fear from Robin and Thwaite.

  “I can try,” she said, sending her thought into the sky.

  To her embarrassment, Thwaite lowered himself onto one knee, bowing his head to her.

  “Fly well, Wyn,” called Thwaite above the howl of the coming winds. Tears were filling Robin’s eyes.

  Then the winds came screaming through the trees. At the last moment, Wyn realized that she had no idea how this was going to work. Hoping for the best, she stuck out her arms like birds’ wings.

  Fists slammed into her. She tumbled head over heels through the air, out of the wood and up the side of the dale. All around her the winds howled with something like laughter. At a command of “Stop!” Wyn was thrown facedown into a snowdrift, her breath knocked out of her. The winds fled upwards as Wyn stumbled to her hands and knees and threw up.

  She had landed in the moors at the edge of Nidderdale. Far away, the winds were still shrieking at their sport. Angrily, Wyn rose to her feet and wrested back the middle winds. They came faster than before, and this time she made them carry her how she wanted. It was like she was surfing and the winds were waves that she had to learn to ride. The winds obeyed her will, although not without some ideas of their own.

  They nudged her towards the deep recesses of the storm, all the time whispering about the wild fun of dodging lightning and outpacing thunder.

  She was flying! Really flying! On her own, without Tawhir to hang on to. The winds offered her ever more speed and she took it, greedily. Yelling them on, she streaked east, deeper into the vast snowstorm that was growing stronger and colder by the second.

  Beneath her, Wyn watched towns come and go; pools of orange light in the frozen landscape. Every so often, the vast poly-farms appeared, miles upon miles of crops visible through the plastic sheeting that covered them.

  And occasionally against the snowy landscape, Wyn caught sight of spirits.

  She saw earth spirits, sometimes in human form, other times as animals. But in whichever form they took, Wyn found she recognized the earthers as clearly as if they were bathed in green light. She saw water spirits frozen in lakes and rivers, just as Naia had been. Far off, where the coast met the frozen sea, she saw a wind spirit with flaming red hair, who Wyn knew as Landlash. He watched her pass with suspicious, gleaming eyes.

  As she streaked across the pale sea, reaching mainland Europe, Wyn had the sense of the world shrinking around her. With a glance, distant landscapes were suddenly close up. Each new place seemed utterly familiar. She remembered the faces of the spirits who lived there, past and present. She knew all their allegiances, their rivalries and their disputes over territory. It felt like a million voices were clamoring in Wyn’s head.

  Suddenly, the middle wind that was carrying her swept away, back towards England, and Wyn fell hundreds of feet before another wind swept underneath and caught her.

  “Come back!” Wyn shouted at the departing wind.

  But no command would make this wind return.

  “It’s at the end of its range,” said a voice sharply. A stern-looking girl in pale swirling robes materialized just in front of Wyn. The name, Foehn, came immediately to Wyn’s mind.

  “The middle winds always weaken. Then even the most powerful wind spirits are vulnerable. That is, if you are a wind spirit.”

  She smiled at Wyn. A thin, fleeting smile, trying to mask the hatred in her face.

  “Get out of my way,” said Wyn, all the time searching the skies for another middle wind. There was one to the west. She summoned it.

  “Tell me your name.”

  “Wyn.”

  “No, your real name.”

  “My name’s Wyn.”

  Foehn drew away from Wyn, her eyes gleaming gray.

  “Sh’en Shiekar isn’t here to save you now, Mugasa.”

  Through the gathering storm Wyn saw three spirits tearing towards her: two ice spirits in the form of eagles, with feathers of snow and talons of ice, and Landlash, his whole body crackling with lightning.

  Just in time, the middle wind swept in from the west. Wyn drove it at the birds. One of the eagles was sent tumbling back into the storm, but the other ice spirit was too fast. The eagle swept under Wyn, then shot up, talons outstretched, and gripped her legs. Wyn cried out and tried to beat the bird off with her fists and the winds. But even as Wyn commanded winds to blast against the birds, Foehn and Landlash were trying to take control of them.

  The first eagle returned, slamming into Wyn. All she felt was pain as both ice spirits attacked her with talons and beaks.

  Locked in her battle with the four spirits, Wyn tumbled downwards. She was fighting for her life, in a blur of snow and blood and anger … anger that she would die like this, anger that she wouldn’t be able to reach Tawhir. Wyn lashed out against the spirits, her fingers prising loose talons even as she felt the winds returning to her control. She was no longer falling. And the storm no longer raged around her. A blue corridor had opened up overhead, rising all the way up to the distant mists of the upper skies.

  Moving across them, like vast torrents, Wyn sensed the high winds.

  Reaching up her thought, she summoned them to her. The high winds didn’t shift their course or even seem to notice her. Wyn heard Tawhir’s voice berating her.

  “You ruled the winds!” Wyn yelled up at the skies, calling the high winds by name.

  And now they heard her. Down, down came the mighty torrents of the skies. Foehn gave a shriek of rage and then she and the other spirits were flung aside as the dragon winds snatched Wyn away and hurtled her through the storm and up, up, into the stratosphere.

  She raced beneath the cloak of space.

  Unlike the middle winds that fell away after a short time, the high winds carried her across mountain ranges, forests and cities without once losing speed. Only after what seemed like an age did Wyn have to summon other high winds to carry her onwards.

  The last day of summer was aging around her.

  She streaked across Europe until she saw mountains, their golden peaks rising above the wild weather. The storm that had covered the world had yet to touch them. Praying that this meant Tawhir was there, Wyn hurtled towards them.

  She had flown through these mountains a thousand times in her dreams. Releasing the high winds, Wyn summoned middle winds to carry her among them, steering a path that led towards a remote valley,

  As she drifted over the valley, Wyn’s heart began to pound. She had always thought of Nidderdale as her home, but now that she was here, she realized that this was where she truly belonged.

  Everything she looked for was there: the three peaks with the glacier between them; the small lake, now frozen hard; and the pine forest, like a vast white canopy. She picked out familiar individual trees. Was it the wind bending them, or did the trees lean towards her?

 
Above the forest was a wide slope leading to the lake. Once it had been a wildflower meadow. How many times in her dreams had she flown amongst the flowers and felt them brush against her belly?

  Her gaze turned to the tallest of the three peaks. She flew towards it, towards the cave of her dreams that looked out over the world.

  Wyn had crossed half of Europe in the hope that Tawhir would be there. Now she concentrated on the cave, trying to see into it.

  Wyn landed on the wide snowy ledge outside the cave, slipping a little as she caught her balance. Icicles, glowing pink in the setting sun, hung down over the cave mouth. Wyn’s senses strained for any sound or movement from within. There was only darkness and silence. Praying that she would find Tawhir inside, Wyn stepped out of the storm.

  24

  —

  “Tawhir!”

  Her voice echoed around the empty cave.

  A film of dust lay over everything, resting like snow over the smooth rock.

  She saw herself looking out of the cave one hot summer morning. Wildflowers and lean alpine grass filled the meadow. White-bellied swifts raced around the peaks, where blue gentians clung to sunny precipices like climbers pausing to admire the valley below. In the form of a mountain goat, Tawhir was lying by the edge of the small lake, his eyes shut. Moments later, she was beside him. All that morning, they lay together beside the lake, their minds roaming across the world, watching over the lands and the waters and the skies.

  Wyn already knew what she would see when she went to the back wall of the cavern. Nevertheless, she still had to steady herself when she saw what dust or time couldn’t obscure.

  ☯

  Worn with age, but unmistakeable, the yin-yang symbol was carved into the rock. Hugging her arms around her chest, Wyn returned to the cave mouth, staring numbly at the snow-filled meadow and the towering fury of the approaching storm.

  Night had almost come.

  “TAWHIR!” she yelled to the sunset.

  She searched the sky but could not sense him. He was either far, far away, or hiding from her.