Chapter 11 #2
It was she who said in a broken, fearful whisper, “I was lonely too.”
The part of me that still echoed with cruel whispers, the part that thought it recognized in every glance the glint of scorn, reeled in panic.
As strange as a hag and twice as mad.
He would know. He would see the stain of madness I carried.
I cast these voices aside and rasped from my too-tight throat, “My mother heard the spirits. The villagers pronounced her mad. We lived too far in the forest to often go into town; when we did, the children avoided me. They knew of the madness.”
“Mad?” Adrik scrunched his face in anger.
“Small-minded, they are. More afraid of believing in the unseen than they are of the unseen itself; though they should be. The spirits do not take kindly to being forgotten.” He must have caught the terror on my face, for he softened.
“She must have been a wise woman, your mother.”
“There is a thin line between what is perceived as madness and wisdom. Had she been a man, they might have built her a castle and asked her to foretell the fortunes for good coin. But she was a woman, and a woman cannot be wise, and so she must be mad.”
“Fools,” he said hotly. “No wonder the spirits have retreated to the forgotten corners of the land. No wonder they are no longer willing to grant protection to those that mock them.”
“So it is true? They used to protect us from the faeries?”
“The spirits contained the faeries to the world beyond the veil. Who do you think began to sow mistrust in the village fields? Who do you think watered the seed of doubt and reaped its benefits? The faeries are powerless against the spirits, but they know well how to exploit human superstition. The spirits left, angered by the dwindling faith, and now the faeries are free to haunt the lands.”
“I was afraid to be met with the same scorn as my mother,” I said. “I convinced myself that the spirits did not exist.”
“They have existed for as long as the wind and the trees and the rivers. There is no life without them; they are life.” Adrik softened.
Perhaps he noticed my discomfort. “There are lies and truths about them, as there are about most things. There are lies and truths about those who can hear them, too.”
“I did not mean it when I called you mad,” I whispered. “I’d hoped for it, perhaps. I think it would be easier were you and my mother the mad ones and had there been truth to the villagers’ whispers. I can handle the injustice less than I could handle the shame.”
Shame, at least, had kept me quiet—but what to do with this anger?
“The injustice was there, whether she was mad or wise. To cast someone aside for such things is never just.”
I supposed it was true, but what good did that do? It did not ease the ache of times long past, and it would not stop villagefolk around the land from whispering about hags and mad women.
“As the winters passed,” I said, “my mother began to live in her head more than she lived in the house. I cannot tell if I began to believe the lies about her, or if she became as mad as they said. She died before I was old enough to understand the weight of my own bias.”
His hand tightened around mine. “After the war, I forgot for a while that there lived goodness. I sought to hear only those stories that confirmed my bleak view of the world. Perhaps, the same is true of your memories. Perhaps, when you look without shame at them, you can see your mother clearly again.”
“Perhaps.”
It was a question best left unanswered. There lurked forgotten darknesses within me, and to tread near them might stir them awake. I did not dare to rouse the past, lest it come back thrice to haunt me.
This town… The spirits still lived here. The people still honored them. Here, there would be no whispers and no scornful glances—
If I just found something to offer Adrik in exchange for a favor, I could stay in Wildemire beyond the thaw to learn about the world my mother had seen.
Oh, but how could I ever ask him for a bargain now that I knew how he’d suffered from them? He’d loathe me, and rightfully so.
I could not let it matter. I could not let my heart decide such things.
I untangled my hand carefully from Adrik, afraid he might notice my dampening palms. His gaze scorched me like a brand, and I was too cowardly to do anything but stare at the dancing flames.
There was a creak at the door. “I think the girl has it warm enough, boy,” grumbled Lorell as he passed. “Or are you quite determined to let an old man freeze to death?”
Adrik rose swiftly, but he lingered at the door, a twinkle in his eye. I realized too late that this particular twinkle meant mischief. “So, which of the socks are your favorite?”
“The ones with the bees,” I mumbled before he shut the door.
His laugh rang merrily through the house.
I woke at the darkest hour.
There was no moonlight, not a star in the skies.
The snowfall had ceased, and in the absence of flurries blurring the view, the scope of the storm drew a gasp from me.
The town had blended with the riverbed, the riverbed with the fields, and the fields with the forest—a soft, endless white.
My gaze slipped, as if pulled by a thread, between the pair of elms and into the snow-lit night.
The deep forest lay still as a beast in wait. No hooftracks or pawprints marred the snow. The animals remained close to the town. Only a little fox lingered, scurrying in search of food between frozen brambles.
It was going to the pond on the far hills, framed by three thin-stemmed birches. To the ancient oak.
I snickered as the snow swallowed my blackened boots. There was no sound but that of my own hurried steps and frantic breaths. The little fox vanished over the hillcrest, but I knew it would wait for me by the frozen pond.
I shredded my soot-stained apron as I chased past spikes of ice, growing long as claws and teeth on the trees. From the naked branches came a rain of sleet as the wind whipped past. In the bramble, frozen leaves tinkled like chimes.
I swung my hammer to carve a path. Quick, quick, quick. The fox was waiting but its patience lasted only so long and I had to ensure it was alright all alone in the snow—
I stumbled over the crest and into a gathering of chuckling, dancing reeds.
Let me see you, they snickered. Let me taste you.
I stepped into their midst, to the edge of the pond.
The world tilted. I rested in a bed of reeds and ice, staring up into the lightless skies.
The pond cackled and crackled and cracked.
The ice nibbled like a kitten at my fingers, turning my hands wondrous shades of blue and white.
It adorned my palms with frost-flowers—such delicateness against my grime-smeared hands.
Oh, what an honor to be kept forever safe in the ice.
To give life to something dead—