by G R Jordan
And then she saw Ferrean’s hand reach behind him and grab his staff. In a fleeting moment, he had taken it in his left hand, stood up and begun to spin it. The edges of the staff became white, giving off a searing heat, and he leapt at the witch. Before the hag could react, he struck her across the face and followed that with a blow to her midriff. Falling backwards, the witch flailed out with her arms, but nothing stopped her as she fell amongst the roots and disappeared into the abyss.
Ferrean stood for a moment, watching the witch descend. Seeing him now, so towering and bold, her heart leapt, and she tried to move to his side. But her limbs failed her, and she merely rolled over slightly. Then Ferrean was there, helping her to her feet. As she stood resting on him, he cried out into the darkness beyond where they stood, calling aloud to the children they sought.
There was a whimper in the darkness, and Ferrean led the way towards it. Carefully, they jumped from root to root before seeing a mass of roots before them. Small hands began to appear though the gaps in the roots, and Calandra realised children were trapped behind. She pounded the roots with her bare hands, her weapons having been lost, but she could make no headway. Gently moving her aside, Ferrean attacked the roots with his flaming staff and battered a hole in the entanglement. A small head popped through and grimly looked at them.
It took over an hour to lead the children out of the tree. Whereas Calandra had deftly jumped from root to root, the children needed to be carried across—one at a time—and with thirty in the party, it was a long time spent at each crossing. As Calandra took them from the dark of the tree’s interior into the light outside, they covered their eyes. The sun was warm, and although the ground was still decayed, the air already seemed to be much fresher.
Returning
Calandra almost wept as they walked into the village with the children in two lines holding hands. Traumatised, but all safe and well, the little ones had been remarkable in their tenacity to keep walking. Only twice had they stopped for a significant period of time when Ferrean had seen fleeing rabbits and had caught and cooked them. Fleeing rabbits were a good sign, animals returning to the previously decayed areas.
A mother stood in front of her child and simply stared into the young person’s eyes. Parent and child stood crying with just the merest touch of a hand between them. The elder of the town was shaking Ferrean’s hand profusely, and Calandra could see he was still in pain from the battle as he leaned heavily on his staff. Soon Ferrean was shown into a small wooden house, and a number of women followed him with food and water. Calandra saw smoke start to emerge from the dwelling, and then the women left. Ferrean’s face appeared at the window and he waved her over.
The interior was dimly lit, but the room was neatly, if plainly, decorated. In the corner was a small wooden bed large enough for one person. A wooden table was in the other corner with two chairs and the food and water resting on top. A fire was raging in a small hearth on her left and looking toward it, Calandra saw Ferrean in a tin bath. His naked form, whilst enticing, also showed severe bruising and cuts on his flesh.
“I’m not sure they gave enough water for two of us to bathe,” said Ferrean.
“You look battered,” replied Calandra, “I nearly lost you.”
“But you didn’t. You saved me. And now you need to rest yourself and get clean.”
“There’s no room.”
“Come here,” laughed Ferrean and then immediately swore as a pain shot through him.
“Don’t push it. Take it easy. Your back needs some work.” Calandra stepped in front of the bath and put her hand out to Ferrean. Stepping out of the bath, he took a towel from the floor and began to dry himself. He winced and Calandra took the towel from him and began to carefully dry him. She marvelled at his rapid change in breath as she dried every part of him before telling him to lie before the fire. Reluctantly he lay down, complaining he could not see her. She knelt down to his ear and told him to be quiet. She took delight in how his body shook when she lay down on top of him with nothing to separate their flesh.
It was dark in the room when she woke. The fire was still providing some heat, but it had died somewhat, and Calandra remembered there was a wood pile outside. Stepping quietly, she walked to the door and opening it, peered outside. There was no one there and she quickly grabbed a few logs from a nearby pile. The air had a cool edge to it and she drew a sharp breath as her bare skin goose bumped.
Once back inside, she threw the new wood on the fire and listened to it spit and crackle. There was something in the burning smell, the pungent rasp of smoke as it filled her nostrils. Looking down at her lover, she studied his form which was half uncovered. It had been so long, wanting this without a hope of it. And now it was hers. Here in this land far from all Ferrean’s responsibilities and nosey officials, they were two souls, just entwining and enjoying. This was bliss, and it was unlike any she had realised before.
Ferrean was in a deep slumber, so Calandra let him lie and walked to the shutters of the far window. Throwing them open, she suddenly realised that anyone standing outside would have seen her in a state of undress. But there was no one there, and she smiled as the rush of cool air went over her. The night was unusually cool for this time of year, and she looked up at the clouds in the sky which seemed to be gathering. The moons were still lighting up the lower clouds, but the open spaces were retreating. Soon the sky would be overcast.
Strange for this time of year, thought Calandra.
Then she saw it begin to fall. Little flakes of white, not tumbling, not racing to the ground like a barrage from the archers, but instead gracefully swinging almost in a dance. And it felt even colder. There was no wind, and she watched the first pieces of white hit the ground and simply disappear. Calandra wasn’t sure if it was the chill or the sight of this wonder that caused her to draw her breath, but she also didn’t care. What was this magic? And then something spoke to her from the back of her mind. She had seen this before.
There had been a fire, outside. People sat drinking wooden cups of something hot. Steam was rising from cups and from people’s breath. There was laughter. There was fun and sharing. People in animal fur. The land here was harsh, boggy in places, and there were stone huts and thatching of a sort on the roof. And a woman smiling, staring, looking into her eyes. Just like that mother had been to her child.
Mother?
And then a wind, a wild wind and a white blur. And cold…
“What’s up?” asked Ferrean embracing her from behind. She felt his warm skin on her back and then he suddenly tensed. “What’s that?”
“It melts to water. I remember that. Every time it came, it would eventually just turn to water.”
“Remember it?” queried Ferrean, “From where?”
“From home. Before I came here. Back amongst my village, amongst my family. Before my parents were killed. It would act like a blanket, covering everything, cold but pure, clean.”
“What’s it called?”
“I don’t know, but it used to be high on the mountains nearly all year round.”
“There’s nothing like that on our mountains. I’ve been all across this land, and there’s nothing like this.”
“No there’s not.” Calandra reached a hand out into the cold air and let the white flakes fall onto her arm. She felt the chill run along her, and she shuddered slightly, causing Ferrean to squeeze her tight.
Doors began to open in the village and people stepped out into the white dance of the flakes. Calandra was lost in her wonder of it all, and it was Ferrean who grabbed a blanket and wrapped it around her to cover her decency.
As the people emerged, the white flakes now settling on the ground, they laughed and giggled as it began to crunch beneath their feet. Flicking it into the air, they would let it fall onto their heads. Gradually the wind began to pick up and the flakes swirled in the air in a tantalising dance. The flakes on the ground were now up to a person’s ankle and still falling fast.
Calandra stared into the centre of the blizzard which seemed to occupy the town square. Here the flakes were falling fastest, but they also seemed to be whipping round into a shape. As they came and went a picture was formed of a sort and Calandra was intrigued. She leaned further through the window causing Ferrean to have to readjust the blanket lest she expose herself. But Calandra wasn’t remotely aware.
I can see something, she thought. There’s a line there. Now it’s gone but it was like a curve of a chin. And that’s surely an eye…wasn’t it? And those lines that seem bedraggled almost like the wild hair of a…witch.
Calandra stumbled back into the room, and Ferrean fought to steady her. Her legs felt like jelly as a realisation came to her.
“Ferrean, get your staff.”
Ferrean’s shocked face looked at her as if she was mad. As her feet sprawled for purchase she implored him again. “Staff…get your staff.”
“What on the sacred earth is the matter?” She saw his bemused demeanour as he held his bare lover upright.
“Out there! In the white… I saw the face of the witch.”
The Mother of All Storms
Calandra could see the disbelief on Ferrean’s face, and her heart sunk. Surely, after all they shared, he could simply believe her. But as he looked on in pity, she found the strength again in her legs and brushed him aside as she stood. Quickly, she grabbed her leggings and top, throwing them on while Ferrean looked on, asking her to stop. Calandra didn’t dare look at him as she grabbed a spear in the room and leapt out the open window.
The people of the village were now all outside laughing at this mysterious new white substance that was taking over their grass and buildings. Despite it being night and the clouds having covered over the moon, there was a positive brightness from the mass of white flakes as if it were alive. Calandra strode to the central square where the wind was at its strongest. As she stared into the swirling mass, it took on a shape she recognised. The witch’s image came and went in the manic action of the flakes, and Calandra felt something in her soul that was more than the touch of the cold.
“Where is she?”
The voice was guttural and violent. At first the people stopped in their tracks, shocked at the mere publication of the sound, but as soon as their brains had processed what had occurred, they began to run inside. Mothers grabbed children, and fathers ushered their families. But Calandra stood facing the projection of the witch.
“And who are you that we should speak to you?” She had faced many a verbal challenge on the battlefield, and she was girding herself for another.
“You! I know you. I remember you,” the voice hissed. “A long way from home, young one. Tell me, my dear, where is my child?”
“If you mean the witch that took these children from their families and sought to use them as a sacrifice, then I tell you that she has paid for her sins. And I, the little one before you, made her pay.”
Calandra banged her spear on the ground inviting the voice to challenge her. She felt the wind pick up and begin to blow hard at her, the white flakes now sharp pieces of ice that stung her eyes.
“You dared to kill my child? If it hadn’t been for that holy man, I would have dispatched you with your parents…but this shall be better. I sense a lover nearby, one who adores you. Let’s see if he can love a monster!”
Finding her feet whipped out from under her, Calandra sought for purchase without success. She was dragged up into the air and felt her shirt ripped from her. Down her back came an unholy pain as if her very flesh was being ripped apart. And then she felt something new in her.
I have something else, she thought.
With effort, she concentrated on what was growing out of her back. There were tendons and muscles she had never known and then a sound horrified her. There was a beating of wings. Large, almighty wings. Not flapping independently, but at her will. She clattered to the ground and fought to raise her head.
Ferrean’s face was drained white as he stared at her. Having now followed her onto the battlefield, she could see him struggling to understand the creature before him: part his lover, and now part something else.
“I don’t think he likes you,” laughed the voice. Calandra felt so cold, and on instinct, wrapped herself in her wings. She could see them now, hated them and yet felt moulded to them too. She tilted her head up towards Ferrean hoping for a smile, or some indication of acceptance. But none came.
“And as for you,” laughed the voice, “lord in this land, indeed. You shall pay for what has been done here. The people shall understand what it means to transgress against me.”
“And you shall understand there is no fear of you!” Ferrean began to whirl his staff around, the ends gleaming white and raced into the maelstrom in front of him. A blast of icy air erupted from the storm and knocked him off his feet, his staff clattering on the ground some distance away. Before he could rise, Calandra saw him begin a slow progress towards the storm’s centre, involuntarily dragged by an unseen presence.
Spurred on by this horror, Calandra picked herself up and let her wings unfold before running in front of Ferrean and making a blockage to his progress.
“You shall not have him. He’s mine. We are one, and you shall not have him!”
A cackle erupted that nearly split Calandra’s ear drums, and she began to see a figure step out of the storm. It was a woman, some seven feet tall, but she looked as if she was made of glass. A clear robe adorned her, again glass-like, and her hair was affixed in a permanent flowing wave as if she was caught in a freezing wind. But her eyes had a blue fire burning in them.
“Yours. You jest child. You shall die before him.”
The glass woman raised a hand and a jet of blue raced towards Calandra. The moment was brief, but her hands raised instinctively. And the view also went dark, and she realised her new wings had also responded. She was cocooned in them and heard the deadly blast pouring over them. Calandra breathed a sigh of relief but then realised that it was still continuing.
She began to feel cold, so cold, to a degree she had never known or experienced. As her eyes looked at her arms, she saw them beginning to look like glass too. A pain seared into her head and a voice mocked her. “Die woman, die for my child.” Slowly every part of her began to seize up.
And then it stopped. Behind her wings, she was oblivious to what had happened, but she heard Ferrean cursing the woman and then heard the strike of his staff. But this wasn’t the usual thwack or thud of battle but the dull rebounding the wood experienced when striking something immoveable.
With incredible effort, she forced her wings to part and saw Ferrean once again struck to the floor, his staff now gone. His body, face down and feet towards the woman, was again moving towards her. Fired by the horror of her lover’s situation, Calandra forced her feet to move and managed to dive forward catching his arms.
Ferrean looked up, his eyes dazed. Calandra saw the orbs that once burned with passion for her begin to widen in horror at her state. Quickly, and with a panic, he looked at her now glass hair, from her cold face to the sweet nape of her neck and chest that he had loved, now devoid of its tenderness. And she saw something die in him.
“No!” She gripped his arms tighter, pouring all her being into holding him. And for a moment his progress was halted. Calandra seemed to be matching the woman’s pull on Ferrean. But then she saw his face twist in anguish as he looked at his arms.
From Calandra’s touch, a blue poison was spreading along his arms. He was changing to match her, becoming one with her. His body shivered involuntarily, and he was shaking with fear. But more than that, he was becoming glass-like, just as she was. Calandra realised she was the source and desperately tried to break off contact. But she was stuck to his arms and he to her.
She looked inside his eyes, sought the man who had taken a chance on this outsider. A man who had fought with her and honoured her. A man who she had grown to love and to want. A man who was being ripped from her before her ve
ry eyes. In his depths, she saw he was gone and inside her mind a wicked voice cackled again.
Ferrean exploded. Shattered pieces of him struck her face, and she was blown backwards, landing on her back and left staring at the storm.
“You have my pain. Now live with it. May it see your heart rot.”
And the storm began to suck into itself, pulling all traces of the white flakes inward. Briefly, the air was wild with the gentle flakes again, then with a dull pop, every remnant of white had disappeared into the air.
Calandra looked for any sign of Ferrean but all that remained of him was gone. And she turned to the ground and began to wail. Her tears began but then froze onto her face. Inside she was cold and from the outside she radiated cold. She beat the ground with her fists, pounding large marks into the dirt, and her wings flapped wildly. She was alone with her curse.
Epilogue
“And that was it? He was just gone?”
Calandra sniffed and nodded. Kirkgordon felt her pull his arms even tighter around her. He sat holding her as she tried to weep but the tears froze as they ran down her face, small icicles cracking and her cheeks railed in and out. Her body juddered. Deciding it was not a good time to pursue other questions he had, Kirkgordon let her grieve.
The fire burned bright, casting dancing shadows around the room and warmed his cheek closest to it to a point where it was uncomfortable.
Blimey, he thought. She’s really messed up. How can you survive killing your lover?
Calandra turned to him and lay down, placing her head on his lap. He ran his hand through her hair in what he hoped was a comforting effort and not reminiscent of a master petting his dog. She seemed happy enough with it, but even after spending many days with Calandra, the coldness of her skin was still alarming.
After sitting in that pose for a half hour, she got up, and he watched her walk out of the room. Kirkgordon heard the shower go on, and some twenty minutes later, Calandra re-entered the room. She was in a black half t-shirt and jeans. Some time had been spent on brushing her hair, and her face showed little of the trauma it had endured an hour previous.