Wintermore (Aeon of Light Book 1)

by Sethlen, Aron

  “Yield?” Yaz says.

  “Yes, yes, yield, yield,” Dix frantically says. “Nice one, Penter.”

  Preta chuckles and closes the shutters. She slips on a robe and heads to the main room and sniffs the air, porridge, then she rubs her aching stomach and swallows funny from the dry slime caked on the inside of her mouth. Yuck. Preta twists her face and smacks her gums in disgust. She snatches a water glass off the table and downs the entire contents without coming up for air. Lowering the glass to the table, Preta let’s out a loud burp and gurgle.

  With long spoon in hand, Nala turns away from the cast iron pot swinging over the coals. “Finally up, I see. You’ve got to be hungry.”

  Preta scrunches her nose as she sits at the table. “I’m not sure. My stomach and body feel weird.”

  Nala places a ceramic bowl and a copper spoon in front of Preta. “You should feel weird. You’ve been asleep for a day and two nights—now eat.”

  Preta picks up the spoon apprehensively. Her stomach churns with a dull ache, beyond the point of hunger. She places a spoonful of oats into her mouth and gums them for a second and then drops the spoon back into the bowl and slumps in her chair.

  Nala sits across the table and points at Preta’s bowl with her spoon. “Hey, kiddo, eat, you need to regain your strength.”

  “All I see is the nightmare I had last night, of a boy’s face all twisted up and stiff. And then a blinding light hits me hard in the chest and takes my breath away.”

  “That’s definitely a bad dream and unfortunately was as real as rain. Deet and Yaz brought you home the other night.”

  “It was real?” Preta says.

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Then who was the boy? And what about that light that hit me?”

  Nala shrugs. “I don’t know, and neither does anyone else.”

  Preta fidgets and stirs her porridge, with no intention of taking another bite. “How am I going to forget this?” She lowers her gaze. “It was so horrible, that poor boy.”

  Nala sighs. “It will get better as time goes on, I promise.”

  “Ha ha—” Yaz shouts from the yard.

  Nala chuckles as she glances at the window. “Boys and their swords, always playing with them.”

  Preta eyes the window for a second, but her mind still dwells on the light and the boy’s face. Is something wrong with me? She shifts in her chair and the old wood legs squeak. “I feel something is wrong with me, inside, I can feel it.” Preta scoops a spoonful of oats and turns it over, gooey porridge drips off the end and plops back into the bowl.

  “Your mind and body have been through a shock, and you haven’t eaten in two days. Now stop playing with your food and eat it.”

  Preta ignores Nala and taps the bowl with her spoon. “So where’s Deet and Grandpa today?”

  “In town, finishing the footing on the Meezer foundation. If you’re up to it, you can take them lunch and pick up some mackerel from Halona the fishmonger. Fresh air and a long ride are exactly what you need to get the blood flowing; take Roscoe with you.”

  “Okay, Nala.”

  “And Preta, keep this to yourself for your own good. The nosey people in this town already talk enough about what doesn’t concern them—no need to give them a reason to spread more rumors.”

  “I won’t, Nala. I just want to forget this happened and never see that light or the boy’s face ever again.”

  Over the next few minutes, Preta reluctantly finishes her porridge and goes to her room. As she searches for her things to stuff into her pack for her trip into town, again her mind envisions the boy’s stiff face and the horror and shock in his eyes. She clinches her teeth tight and scrunches her face, trying to push away the images. “Stop it, Preta,” she says to herself, tensing the muscles in her arms. Preta takes a deep breath and relaxes, but then questions flood her mind. Where did the boy come from and why did the blonde woman kill him? Will she be all right? The light hit her so hard. Preta rubs her sore chest, her body tightens, the aqua light barreling toward her flash in her mind. “Stop!” She shakes her head and then her body as something scratchy on her back distracts her. Preta gingerly touches a sore spot on the base of her neck where the light singed her skin.

  “You still going to town?” Nala says just outside of Preta’s bedroom.

  “Yup, just a minute.” Preta shakes off the sensation and thoughts and slips on a dark wool sweater, grabs her backpack, and fills it with food, water, and a cloak. Packed up, Preta closes her bag with a knot and steps through the cottage door.

  Dix, cocky, he faces Preta with puffed out chest and arms held wide. “Hey, Preta, how’s it going?”

  Yaz slaps Dix’s butt with the flat of his sword. “Come on, Ix. Leave her alone. We have more sparring to practice.”

  Preta glances at the ground and gives an embarrassed smile. “Both of you naked again? You two are so cute playing with your swords. The perfect couple.”

  Dix opens his arms and rocks his head side to side. “Ha ha ha, afraid of the light now, are we?”

  Preta slides her bike away from the barn and swings her leg over the seat. “Funny, funny.”

  Yaz shoves Dix. “Shut up, stupid, I told you.”

  “What?” Dix says. “Oh, right, sorry, sorry. See yah, Preta, and be careful.”

  Yaz punches Dix in his arm. “Stupid.” He smiles and waves goodbye to Preta. “Be safe, Sis.”

  Preta hits the dirt path leading away from the Penter property and turns onto a small dirt road leading to the small sea town of Waighton.

  Roscoe catches up with her and trots alongside her bike.

  “Hey, boy, coming along to protect me on the way to town?”

  Roscoe’s head twitches, and he sprints down the road, kicking up a dust cloud.

  Birds fly out from the tops of the trees and a deer leaps into the forest as a wind gust sweeps multicolored leaves into the air. The leaves float and dance in circles as Preta zips through them on her bike. The temperature suddenly drops, and rushing water echoes off the jagged cliffs rising above the trees. A damp wetness clings to Preta’s skin, giving her a chill.

  Roscoe bursts out of the forest at full speed and skids to a stop in front of Preta’s bicycle wheel.

  She drags her boots on the ground to slow her momentum and then hops off her bike. “Nocklin Creek, Roscoe. Only ten more minutes to town.”

  A moldy sign nailed to a crooked wooden post sticks out from the overgrowth. Waighton 1km is etched in faded black, and an arrow points to the other side of the creek.

  Ahead, the road widens, and a sturdy stone wall parallels the road leading to a bridge.

  On Preta’s left, she passes a small, empty, crumbling guard shack with a chimney.

  Above the entrance to the bridge, a twenty-foot-high cobblestone archway ascends to a rounded point. A stone boy cherub covered in green-and-orange lichens leans over the arch’s apex and blows a kiss to all that pass under him.

  Preta passes through the opening as she stares up at the boy and scrapes her fingertips on the coarse cobblestones.

  In the middle of the bridge, Preta leans over the railing and gazes into Nocklin Creek’s turbulent waters, and Roscoe noses the back of her leg leaving a wet print.

  On the far side of the bridge, a horse-drawn cart draws closer, rounding the corner in the road.

  Preta smiles and skips toward the cart.

  A pleasant-faced, shaggy brown-haired man with a pipe dangling from his mouth, gives Preta a kind smile and a wave. Around his neck, he wears a pure white scarf patterned with bright yellow and lush red specks. “Preta, my girl. How are you doing this fine fall day?” the old man says, bringing the cart to a stop.

  “I’m doing good, Mr. Felsten. Hey, nice scarf there, fancy.”

  Mr. Felsten pinches the silk-like garment. “Oh, this old thing? Just something I put together last week. Hey, I heard you had a real scare the other night in the Nocklin Forest.”

  “Did you?” Preta says.
“No, umm, not really.”

  Mr. Felsten cocks his head to the side. “No? That’s not what I heard, though I’m glad you’re all right.” He shrugs and twists his lips. “You sure look fine to me. I tell you what, the stories some people spread are truly amazing, makes you wonder what’s real or not.”

  Preta tries to change the subject and giggles as she strokes the horse’s neck. “It looks like you’ve got a full load today.”

  “Yup, we’re heading to the northern port city of Bielston. I need to be there by day past next. So old Redley here’s got a real long two days and nights of pulling this old bag of bones through the mountains. Sure wish they’d finish building that darn railroad to Waighton they keep talking about. Preta, did you know in Iinia they can travel from Ardinia to the coast in two days? Can you believe it? Two bloomin’ days!”

  “It’s hard to imagine,” Preta says. “I guess I gotta see it to believe it.” She tilts her head as she examines the back of Mr. Felsten’s cart and his cargo. “Bielston—really? In just two days? You must not be stopping at all.”

  “Ha. We’re definitely pushing hard on this trip, that’s for sure, and we may even try to make it all the way through. But I imagine we’ll stay in either Preston or Milton for a night.”

  Preta smiles and then she sighs. “Sure wish I could go to the capital, I’ve never been farther than Rotalin Pass, but I’ll make it to Bielston someday, I’m sure of it.”

  “No worries on Bielston, Preta. A young adventurer like yourself, you have many years to explore the world; and you’ll get there sooner than you think. Now hold Redley’s reins for me while I fetch some water for the old boy.”

  Preta takes the reins and smiles, imagining Bielston and how wonderful it would be to see a modern city. “Sure, no problem, I’ll keep Redly company while you’re gone.”

  Mr. Felsten hops off the cart and grabs a bucket from the back. “I’ll just be a minute.” He slips into the forest with Roscoe right on his heels.

  Preta drops her bike and hums while pacing alongside the cart. She stops next to the horse’s head. “Hey, Redley.” Preta gently strokes Redley’s neck and the horse grunts and jerks his head in satisfaction. She eyes the creek as Roscoe barks.

  “Sounds like Roscoe’s having fun with Mr. Felsten.” Preta turns back and stares into the horse’s big brown eye. “They’ll be back in a minute and you can be on your way.” She reaches out to stroke the horse, but her arm doesn’t move. “What the heck?”

  Redley is motionless, his glazed eye fixated on Preta.

  Energy suddenly pulsates into Preta’s body. She sways as the bursts hit her in surging waves, building in her chest. In her periphery, a light bluish haze hovers around her boots. “What is this? What’s going on?” Preta says with a crack of panic in her voice though no words escape her mouth.

  “My aching back, girl, please rub my back,” a man says, whose deep raspy voice Preta doesn’t recognize.

  Preta doesn’t know what to say or think, and if her body could move, she would be swaying back and forth. “Umm—”

  The raspy man grunts. “The weight of these damned straps—if I ever—”

  “What in the five furies are you doing?” Mr. Felsten says in a fright, staring at Preta connected to his horse with the fluttering aqua light. The old tailor drops the water bucket, his face frozen in shock, and then he snaps into the moment and sternly points at Preta. “Get away from my horse!”

  Preta’s body flinches, breaking her trance and the connection. She stumbles backward. “What? Sorry?”

  With trembling hands, Mr. Felsten scoops up the bucket and throws it into the back of the cart, soaking everything wet. He points with a shaky hand at Preta’s chest, fear reflects back at her from his eyes. “You-you, stay away from me. You stay away from us. Redley, go, get a move on, horse, move, move.” Mr. Felsten cracks the reins and glowers at Preta as the cart passes by her.

  In a daze, Preta staggers to a mossy boulder next to the bridge and sits down. “What the heck was that light?”

  Roscoe noses Preta’s thigh, leaving two wet prints on her brown baggy wool trousers. The dog sits with nervous energy, taking in every sound from the creek and forest. He suddenly stands up and circles in front of Preta, not wanting to stay at the bridge any longer.

  “Roscoe, sit,” Preta says.

  Roscoe immediately sits while still scanning the surroundings for any sound.

  What the heck was that? My aching back—the weight of these damned straps—if I ever. Was the horse talking to me? Fear and confusion surge and flood Preta. She gazes at Roscoe. “Maybe… Roscoe!”

  The dog’s ears twitch, and his head flinches at his name. In eager anticipation, Roscoe stares at Preta.

  “Here we go.” Preta reenacts the exact sequence of thoughts and actions she did with Redley.

  Nothing happens, and Preta puckers her lips in frustration. “Again.” Preta directs her focus into Roscoe’s eyes. A blood vessel in Preta’s temple throbs, and her face wrinkles. Her arm shakes attempting to grab Roscoe with her mind while stopping it from physically rising. Preta clinches her teeth and holds her breath. Preta’s strained focus intensifies as she mumbles in a drawn-out vibrating tone, “Roscoe, talk, I command you to t-a-l-k—”

  Distracted, Roscoe’s head twitches away from her, and the dog glances toward the creek.

  Preta pounds her fist on her thigh. “Shoot.”

  Roscoe moves in closer to Preta and licks her face with his slimy tongue.

  “Ew.” Preta wipes the dog saliva off her lips. She frowns in disgust. “I knew it, come on, let’s go.”

  EVERYBODY DIES

  Nala opens Preta’s window shutters, letting in the light. “Wake up.”

  “Why?” Preta groans and curls into a tight ball as she pulls the fur blanket over her head to block out the light.

  “Get up.” Nala rips the blanket off Preta’s body. “It’s time for school.”

  “I hate you,” Preta says.

  “Sure you do—now get a move on, young lady.”

  Preta wipes her crusty eyes and rolls off the bed. “Up, up, up—whatever.” Groggy, she slips on her clothes and sandals and heads out the back door to the privy.

  Preta grips the privy door handle, and a chorus of flatulence from inside the outhouse vibrates her hand.

  “Ah…” echoes from inside.

  Preta lets go of the door handle and steps away. “Hey now, come on, hurry up in there.”

  “Gotta get up earlier next time if you want the throne,” Yaz says, and more gaseous sounds reverberate from within. “Ah…”

  Preta grabs the door handle and shakes it hard. “Come on, I gotta go, Yaz.”

  “I feel for you, Sis, I really, really feel—ah…”

  “Fine.” Preta pounds the door with her fist then darts to the closest bush and goes.

  On her way to the washhouse, Preta fills two wooden buckets from a large water barrel.

  “Ah…” Yaz groans.

  Inside the washhouse, Preta scowls and closes the door. She sets the water buckets on the brick floor. On the right next to the wooden wall, a large metal bath tub, and through the center, a trench lined with small pebbles and sand extends out through the back wall.

  The white candle, no more than a nub, flickers on the ledge. Hot liquid drips over the wooden shelf’s ledge and forms waxy stalactites.

  Preta strips off her clothes and hangs them on three wooden pegs.

  On the floor beneath the pegs, Preta eyes four small copper bowls filled with roots, oils, flowers, and colorful salts. She pinches a smidgen of each and tosses the concoction into a small bucket. Preta swirls the contents with her hand until it turns into a milky liquid, then she dips a cloth into the bowl. After scrubbing her body raw and covering herself with the mixture, Preta rinses her skin with the clean water.

  In the mirror, after brushing her teeth, Preta’s blurry reflection catches her eye. She leans in and pokes her cheek. Preta scowls and backs away a
s she turns her body to the side. “What’s that?” Preta angles her back toward the mirror and sees the black circle branded on the base of her neck.

  A cool draft hits Preta’s wet body and goose pimples form. She shivers, to cold to worry about the mark, she turns away from the mirror, wipes the water off with her hands, and finishes drying with a cloth. Preta slips on her tan sweater and charcoal baggy wool trousers. “Get up earlier, he says. Humph.” She dumps the milky bucket remnants into the trench and wraps the cloth around her long hair. Preta blows out the candle, kicks open the door, and tosses the buckets toward the well.

  At the cottage, Deet packs his backpack as he sits next to the fireplace. “Hurry up, Preta, we need to get to town, we’re already late.”

  Nala shoves a bowl of porridge into Preta’s hand. “Move faster, young lady.”

  “All right, all right, all right.” In the bedroom, Preta dumps a spoonful of porridge into her mouth and places the bowl on a nightstand. She opens her pack and tosses in items: ruler, charcoals, scraps of parchment, cloak, and then she jams everything into a wadded ball and cinches the top.

  “Come on, let’s go!” Nala says, smacking her palm on the doorframe.

  Preta scurries through the cottage with backpack dangling from the crook of her arm.

  Nala steps in front of Preta and hands her a wrapping of bread and an apple. “They’re already in the cart loaded up and waiting for you.”

  “See yah.” Preta waves goodbye and opens the front door with a bump from her butt.

  Yaz and Grandpa sit in the cart, waving their arms in heated argument.

  “Let’s go,” Deet says to Preta from the other side of the yard.

  “Coming!” Preta says. She plops her butt onto the wooden bench behind Yaz. “Sorry, I’m here.”

  Grandpa flicks his head toward the gate marking the Penter property. “Getter movin’, Dee.”