Solstice: A Short Story

by Wendeberg, A.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Other Books

  Solstice

  Preview

  Acknowledgements

  by

  A. Wendeberg

  Copyright 2016 by A. Wendeberg

  Smashwords Edition

  This is a work of fiction. Characters, places, and names in this book are products of the author’s imagination. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the copyright owner.

  Cover and interior design by Annelie Wendeberg.

  Books by this author:

  Mickaela Capra Series:

  1/2986

  fog

  ice

  Anna Kronberg Series:

  The Devil’s Grin

  The Fall

  The Journey

  Moriarty

  The Lion’s Courtship

  Keeper of Pleas Series:

  Keeper of Pleas

  Spider Silk

  Find out more at:

  www.anneliewendeberg.com

  Bonus material at the end of this book:

  Preview of 1/2986

  &

  access to free eBooks.

  Death’s gaze sweeps the valley. Down to where purple clouds bleed across a black mirror, and water spiders skip over its mute surface, leaving ripples of silver in their wake. A little farther off, the evening wind dips into tall grass and brushes over a dozen mud huts that huddle by a river.

  A forest clings to the far side of the valley. A wall of ancients, their roots tugging at Earth’s navel.

  The dying sun flares up in a final pulse of protest as night throws its blanket over the land. A raven calls. Death’s pupils dilate.

  A breeze ruffles the tops of the trees and touches the plumage of birds. A gentle caress. Death lifts his head and sucks in air. Crisp scents of pine sap, wild boar, deer, blueberries, and rotting leaves, of water tumbling over rocks. The unmistakably biting scent of a fox. And lingering amidst it — the stink of man.

  His hackles twitch.

  Shadows emerge from the forest. The rhythmic clanking of swords against metal breast plates. He sniffs, inhaling the rising fog, and watches the men push across the river and the meadow. They are as small and insignificant to him as ants are to the sun. And yet, they give him a purpose and a name. Desire and curse.

  Death is upon me!

  As though he’s come for only one of them.

  The men fall silent now. They’ve almost reached the huts that stand crammed together as though closeness could lend protection. Smoke curls from adobe chimneys. Someone plays a reed pipe by the fireside. The player and his family are of the species of man, too. Strangers to the world, these creatures are the only living things that seem to lack a sense of community and enjoy killing their own kind. Occasionally, when Death’s belly is full and his lids not quite heavy enough, he wonders what fate man bestowed on their own world before abandoning it and invading this one.

  Fate. A silly word. To Death, fate does not exist. Nor is there a difference between guilty and innocent, nor good and bad. There’s only is and isn’t.

  Once, in a streak of curiosity (perhaps to break the monotony of his task), he intervened during an attack. He was surprised by the surge of hate and terror his presence brought about — on both sides. Even the children, who’d had their futures taken from them, had not wanted the help of Death.

  With man, it’s ever only the oldest and weakest who think him a mercy.

  The villagers’ time has come. Doors are kicked in. Women are dragged out into the open, the young, the old, the underaged. Swords are driven into husbands, brothers and fathers, and later into the women and children, once they are of no use anymore. One or two might be left unharmed. The young and pretty ones. Offerings to the king of man. Whoever dares resist is grabbed with large, hooked iron jaws — two hooks for the eyes, two hooks for the chest or belly — and hung alive on a tree. The screeches are not from this world.

  He flicks his ears and waits. Houses burn. Smoke sticks its fingers up into the night sky, staining silvery stars a dull grey.

  When the men signal their retreat, he stretches his limbs, and affords himself the luxury of a yawn.

  His long, flexible spine and muscular legs propel him down the gentle slope, his tail balancing the raw power. His feline body flows like a river. A terrifying sight. The men flee. A few are turning to look how close Death might be.

  Foolish things. He can see the whites of their eyes, and smell the acrid stink of their fear.

  A lunge and his jaws find a neck. He curls back his tongue so as not to taste the man’s skin — grimy and sweaty with the sick flavours of excitement from forced copulation. His incisors cut through flesh without effort, piercing a large artery, penetrating the gap between two vertebrae. He gives the convulsing body a rough shake, and drops it. His eyes are already set on his next victim. His body never stops moving. He leaps, once, twice, and rips into the man, then kills the next and the next until blood coats his face and chest.

  With a quick glance he appraises his work. Bodies litter the ground, their blood soaking through moss and dead leaves. Before sunrise, the forest will begin to feed on them. Satisfied, Death sits on his haunches and washes his pelt. Soon, he will rest and, a little later, hunt to eat.

  Tomorrow, he would begin anew.

  He is interrupted by an acorn hitting his head. He looks up. A raven drops another acorn, and misses. The bird caws, perhaps laughing, shows off its blood-red beak, unfurls its wings, and dives to a hairbreadth of Death’s maws.

  It disappears among the trees, heading west where the forest gives way to great moorlands, and a stronghold as broad and black as a rotten molar. The hold, once called The Castle of Moon, belonged to the kingdom of Arhyst. It still does. And yet doesn’t. A complicated tale. Death used to know the whys and hows and whens. A dull pain is stuck to these memories. He keeps them locked up, unreachable.

  The wind carries the raven to the fortress. The bird spots a window that seems a little more inviting than all other holes leading into the blackness behind the stone walls. It plummets, folds its wings, and turns its body, surging through the metal bars without ever touching them. With a click of talons and a ruffling of feathers, the raven lands on the stone floor. It lifts a leg and pecks at the bottom of a clawed foot, then curls it into the plumage of its belly, and waits.

  A raven is a patient bird. It could wait here without moving until sunrise. But it will not need to. The mistress said she would be coming soon.

  She hasn’t lied. Never does. Already, the bird feels her coldness creeping through the flagstones. Frost begins to form in the cracks. The raven sets down one foot and curls the other against its belly. It senses a vague crackling of ice, approaching along one corridor, then slowly fading through another. The bird walks across the room, and peeks into the darkness. Bluish light disappears at the far end of a hallway.

  Silently, the raven opens its wings and follows the cold, down and farther down into the dungeons.

  Frost creeps through a barred door. The black metal turns grey, then silver, then white. Ice flowers form on stone walls, curling, worming their way farther into the cell.

  Daughter watches the silent spectacle as her stomach drops to her toes. Mother told her it would be soon, but she didn’t believe it. Didn’t want to.

  A sudden stillness descends over the dungeons, a stillness so complete that she hears the blood holler in her ears.

  She grips Mother’s hand and feels an answering squeeze. Gentle and reassuring.

  Dau
ghter wants to tell her how terrified she is, but the words die in her mouth. Her flesh pulls tight over her bones. The tiny hairs on her skin rise — an army of sentinels.

  Light seeps through the metal bars. Thick as curdled milk. Blue, like the centre of a hot flame. It falls heavily to the floor, and rises, taking shape.

  A white cloak, gleaming white skin, long hair, a billowing dress. And everywhere the bluish glow. It holds out a hand. Daughter steps forward, trying to shield Mother, but the frail woman gives a sharp shake of her head.

  Daughter’s feet freeze to the flagstones as the creature lays its eyes on her. She feels a sob inch up her throat and fights it back down. ‘You will not take her!’ she cries out, knowing full well the futility of her protest. Still, she tugs at Mother’s hand, grabs her waist, and tries to tear her away from the apparition.

  The creature’s face ripples and takes on the countenance of a woman. It smiles — perhaps sad, perhaps disappointed.

  And leave her here instead? the creature’s voice echoes in Daughter’s mind. The beauty of that cruel voice!

  The flood of images the creature forces on her brings her to her knees. Images of Mother, stretched out on a board of nails, a wall of hooded men surrounding her, flogging her. Of Mother forced to ingest water until her stomach is fiercely bloated, and then beaten with a stick until all the water gushes from her mouth and nose — the procedure on endless repeat. And the men shouting two words, over and over: ‘Summon them!’

  With a wail, Daughter digs her fingers into her face to stop the onslaught. She knows what has been done to Mother, and that she should be grateful for the offered mercy. ‘What about—’ She clamps her mouth shut.

  What about you? But this is all about you. How can you not know? The creature smiles, turns her attention to Mother, and nods once. It is time.

  Daughter watches with dread as Mother’s bony, scarred hand reaches out and white, cold-looking fingers curl around it.

  Mother gifts Daughter a smile, eyes wet with tears. Daughter doesn’t have time to wonder if these are tears of sadness or relief. The creature tugs at Mother’s hand, her eyes roll back in their sockets, and she drops to the floor. Loose and limp. The heavy thud seems much too loud.

  Daughter throws herself onto the body and notices with shock that it is cold already.

  Do not waste your time, the creature whispers.

  She looks up. Mother still stands there — a blinding, brilliant shape, her face and posture that of a young woman, younger than Daughter has ever known her. Happier, even.

  Mother opens her mouth, and as she speaks, her lips seem to move in a different rhythm than her words. Do not forget what I asked of you, beloved Daughter. Her iridescent eyes flicker to the crumbled fireplace with its small opening to the flue.

  ‘No! Take me with you! Please.’ She reaches out to Mother, her fingers trembling. Through wet lashes she eyes the creature guarding her mother’s ethereal shape, imploring her — or it? — to have mercy on her, too. Both figures are real and unreal, invisible and visible, light and dark. Beautiful and terrifying.

  Not for a while, dear, the creature answers. Hurry now. The castle will be quiet for another seven-hundred heartbeats. Hurry.

  Daughter’s shoulders sag as she whispers, ‘I don’t want to be alone.’

  The light begins to fade, and the ice flowers recede, leaving drops of condensation behind. From afar an echo sounds, You will not be alone for long. I will send someone. Remember the seven-hundred heartbeats. Be quick now, Daughter!

  This isn’t the voice of her mother. How dare the monster call her by her name! That thing is no kin of hers.

  Fury snaps her body upright. Her gaze sweeps the cell. Cold walls that chafed their backs whenever they leant on them. Damp, mouldy straw. Shifting her weight, she wipes her wet eyes and nose. Her other hand still clasps her mother’s cold fingers. She wraps her arms around the corpse, and allows her tears to fall freely.

  A moment, or perhaps an eternity, later, her own heartbeat reminds her of the little time she has left. Seven-hundred heartbeats, the creature said. How many have elapsed already?

  She stands and walks to the fireplace. It has never been used in her time. How much time has that been, anyway? How many heartbeats? How many turnings of the moon? She wishes yet again for a window to the outside world, to know what it means to measure time in turnings of the moon, or in seasons. Her gaze drops to the floor as she thinks of all the creatures her mother has drawn for her in the dirt. Will she see them once she escapes? Can she even escape?

  The flue swallows all light. If only she could reach the torch on the other side of the barred door, so she could at least take a brief look at the blackness she is about to give herself into. But the light source is, and has always been, out of her reach. She takes one more step and crawls into the fireplace. The remains of her mother beckon, her heart tells her to not leave behind what she holds dearest.

  She looks back at the still face, softly lit by the torch. The shut eyes, the slightly open mouth, the pale lashes. Lips that once kissed her are now as cold and grey as the walls. Hands that caressed her, soothed her, combed her hair, dried her tears.

  And the scars. The spiderweb of scars.

  She bites down on her cheek, and moves onto the blackened hearthstone. She digs her fingers into crumbling mortar and sharp stone, folds her legs and inches upward, pushing herself into the constricted space. A tight fit. Mother’s words ring clearly in her mind, You are growing so fast, dear.

  Until this moment, she has never understood Mother’s worry about her growing up, or why they had never attempted an escape through the flue. There wasn’t much flesh on their bones, they should have both fit. But it wasn’t so much the girth that would have hindered an escape, she realises. Her long-limbed mother couldn’t have bent her legs in this tiny space, and couldn’t have pushed herself through the chimney. And soon, she knows now, I won’t be able, either.

  You are coming of age, dear.

  She inhales a sigh at the memory of her mother’s voice. Soot crawls into her airways, making her cough and retch. Panic and pain shorten her breath. How far up is she? How far might she fall?

  She squeezes her eyes shut, trying to slow her breathing and control the burning in her throat. And then she pushes onward. Blood oozes from cuts on her wrists and elbows, making her hands slippery. Her feet offer little more grip.

  The pain makes her think of Mother’s injuries. The fresh lacerations when the guards would throw her back into their cell. It was how she had measured time: the time from when they took Mother away to when they brought her back, broken and bleeding, was three to four meals. Lacking clean water, she would wash Mother’s wounds with her tongue, just as Mother always washed her. Mother’s fever would develop in the time it took to receive one or two bowls of gruel, then it would break after another five to seven, or at bad times, up to thirty bowls of it. After a respite from fever of precisely three meals, the cycle would begin anew.

  I should have asked the creature why it hadn’t come much earlier. Before I was born. Daughter swallows and throws her head against the wall. The pain in her brow sharpens her mind.

  She doesn’t know how deep the dungeons are burrowed, and how far the chimney extends, how high up the roofs are. To her, it feels as though she’s spent half of forever in this flue, all good thoughts blackened out by darkness, all terrifying thoughts amplified. She feels her throat close with desolation, her arms and legs quiver with fatigue.

  Seven-hundred heartbeats. Mustn’t they be over soon? She listens in the darkness, but all she can hear are her own heartbeat and the rattling of her windpipe. Isn’t everyone’s pulse different? Is it her own heart the creature meant? Perhaps she should have counted her heartbeats.

  The smell of soot grows stronger. The air is thick with it now. Her eyes water. She squints up, but there’s only blackness. She gazes down between her knees, trying to glimpse the bottom of her tiny prison. She frowns. She hasn’t noti
ced before that the torchlight is visible down the flue. A faint and impossibly far away speck of light.

  She grows lightheaded. Heat creeps up her legs. And then she knows: The seven-hundred heartbeats are up. The guards have found her mother’s body. Now they are smoking her out.

  Or burning her.

  Holding her breath, she shimmies up the flue. Her chest aches in need for air. Her hands keep slipping and her vision flickers. She gulps a lungful of air — no, smoke! — and pushes herself to the brink of fainting.

  Cold air hits her neck and face as she elbows her way out. Her hands grasp the edge of the chimney and she fills her burning lungs. Leaning over the blackened rim, she begins to weep.

  The wind beckons for her attention. A gentle breeze to all other creatures, it feels like a slap to her. She’s afraid she’ll fall. The drop to the roof seems impossibly far. She can’t even see the ground. From up here, her cell seems much safer than freedom.

  ‘No,’ she growls and throws one leg over the chimney top, and then the other.

  The wind gives her a nudge, and she loses her balance. With a cry she topples down onto the roof, breaking tiles loose, sliding, sliding, gaining speed. An iron post stops her fall as she slams against it. A crunch sounds from her ribcage. She barely holds on to the rusty thing. Her trembling is so hard, her breathing so out of control that she’s about to let go.

  Everything terrifies her. Faraway noises tell her how high above the ground she is, how vast the world is — far larger than the cell, its four walls and one barred door. She squeezes her eyes shut, and in her mind she curls up against those walls, the familiar mouldy scent in her nose, her head in Mother’s warm lap. Home.