1. A Dark Wood #4
I broke through the tree line to face the twinkling lights of the village nestled in a valley of velvety white.
Light glowed from the many windows, and torches burned in sconces outside the meetinghouse where they would burn long into the night.
They never went out. The meetinghouse remained lit, a guard positioned high in the spire.
Someone stood on duty at all hours, looking out and ready to give alert at the first sight of soldiers or bandits.
The sight of me, if spotted, would be no cause for alarm.
I advanced on my house. Smoke wound from its chimney in a plume of gray against the inky sky. Typically, it was a welcome sight. Except tonight I felt no welcome in my heart.
I closed my fingers around the latch and pushed open the door. Stepping inside, I was greeted by a wave of warmth and the savory smell of stew.
I glanced to the table. Everyone sat around it still eating: my brothers, Meya, and Da. They ate and conversed easily, the rumble of voices revealing none of the strife from earlier. Apparently, my outburst had done nothing to sour their appetites or moods.
I closed the door behind me with deliberate force, making certain they heard my entrance.
I paused there a long moment, waiting expectantly. Meya, at least, would attend to me and encourage me to eat.
No one looked up.
With an annoyed sniff, I approached the stove and the simmering pot there. The appetizing aroma of meat and herbs wafted on the air, and my mouth watered in response. I could almost taste it. My stubbornness, however, won out.
I would not indulge in the simple pleasure of food and act like nothing was amiss.
I would not have them think all was forgiven or that I was at peace with being forced to remain in Isstad.
I shot another resentful glance at the pot, as though it were to blame for my unhappiness, and took a seat on the bench beside Jens, crossing my arms and ignoring my aching belly, and fighting a cringe as my brother slurped loudly, the rich brown broth dribbling down his bristly chin.
I waited, ready for my family to inquire why I wasn’t eating. Childish perhaps, but I wanted them to know I was not fine and would not be fine anytime soon. I would not be surrendering quietly to the fate they had decided for me.
Except . . . no one asked.
Henrik and Meya discussed their plans for moving west to the Borg in a week’s time as though I wasn’t even in the room.
Da remarked his concern for them to get on the road before the worst of winter struck.
Jens replied that it already felt as though the worst of winter had arrived.
I studied each of their faces, marveling that they would ignore me thusly.
A lull fell in the conversation, the only sounds that of the popping fire in the hearth and the stew bubbling in its pot.
The wind howled outside, banging against the windows like it wanted entrance, and Meya glanced to the walls of the house with a worried look as though fearing the relentless cold might find its way inside.
I didn’t understand why she had not yet remarked upon my arrival or lectured me for staying out so long in the cold—without a coat, no less. Whatever game or punishment they were playing at was unlike her.
“Should take the south road, then swing northwest.” Da scraped his spoon against the inside of his bowl. “Better path in winter.” Father spoke with his customary terseness. “Hopefully roads are passable enough and you don’t have to get out and shovel. Don’t know why you didn’t depart sooner.”
I snorted. Didn’t he? Even in the smithy, autumn was the busiest time of year.
With everyone hard at work on the harvest, it was the last big push to prepare for winter.
Henrik and Meya had stayed to help and make sure the family was well-fortified.
Now that winter was here and things had slowed, they would go.
“You promised to take me with you when you left,” I reminded sharply, glaring at Henrik. I had not yet given up.
He didn’t even flick an eye at the sound of my voice. It was maddening. Why was he pretending I wasn’t in the room? This wasn’t like him.
I pounded a fist on the table’s surface, hating the plea in my voice yet unable to stop it. “Henrik!”
Nothing. Not even the smallest flash of reaction.
“Can’t recall a night as bitter as this so early in the season. Coldest one in memory,” Da blithely continued. “Not the best weather to set off in.”
“Well, we can tarry no longer,” Meya offered.
Da nodded.
At the mention of the night’s weather, Henrik glanced toward the door, a line forming between his brows. “Should we fetch Arden? She’s been gone for a while now.”
I startled, jerking where I sat at the mention of my name.
“Yes,” Meya agreed. “I don’t like the thought of her out there this long in the cold, and she needs dinner. She’s just skin and bones.” She sent my father a significant look. “She is still a growing girl. She works too hard. You need to make sure she eats.”
My mouth moved, searching for words. Why were they pretending I wasn’t in the room? I pressed a hand to my chest. “I’m right here!”
“Don’t fret.” Da cleared his throat in that rattling way of his. “She is sturdier than she looks. That girl is built for the cold. Her thick skin is safe from this kind of weather.”
Meya shook her head, staring into her bowl. “She’s more fragile than you think.”
“I am here!” I knotted my hands into fists on top of the table, giving them a shake that rattled the crockery.
“I am right here!” No one reacted. Frustration burned through me at their continued rebuffs.
“This silent treatment is ridiculous. Very immature. I expect this from Jens, but not the rest of you.”
Jens loudly slurped his stew, unaffected at the mention of his name. He didn’t even look in my direction.
Da stood and returned to the stove to ladle himself another bowl as though I wasn’t even in the room.
Meya placed a hand on her husband’s arm and gave it an encouraging pat, nodding toward the door. “Maybe you should go fetch her home.”
“I am home.” I held my arms out wide at my sides, heat crawling up my face, incredulous that they would continue to ignore me this way.
Henrik nodded. Wiping his mouth with a napkin, he pushed up from the table and moved to the door where he began dressing himself for the outdoors, lifting his wool cloak from the hook, followed by his fur cowl and gloves. He shoved his feet into his heavy fur-lined boots.
I shook my head. They were taking this too far.
I jumped from the table and stood in front of the door, barring Henrik from leaving.
“Just stop it!” I cried, slicing a hand through the air, unable to understand why they were punishing me this way. I was the injured party here. “Stop it! I’m not invisible, so stop treating me like I am. Talk to me!”
They had never been this cruel before. Well, Jens had his moments, but Henrik, Meya, and Da never behaved this way. It was completely uncharacteristic.
I stood my ground, hands on my hips, glaring at Henrik. He had been my ally in all things and his rejection stung. What had gotten into him? Why was he doing this to me?
Henrik straightened.
I squared my stance before him, barring his path, willing him to look at me. He couldn’t ignore me forever.
And yet he did—he was.
A bewildered panic started a slow flutter in my stomach.
This couldn’t go on. He would have to confront me. I was directly in his path. I simply wouldn’t get out of his way.
Still, without looking at me, he reached for the door latch, stepping forward, straight into me.
I braced for the collision.
It never came.
It was incomprehensible.
There was no impact. His body did not encounter mine, and yet suddenly he was at the door, opening it.
He didn’t pass through me. It wasn’t like that. I wasn’t an obstacle in his way. It was as though I wasn’t there at all.
One moment he was before me and the next I was standing to the side as though some invisible force had plucked me off my feet and moved me out of the way. Gawking, I watched him step over the threshold and out into the bitter night to fetch me home.
I shook my head in bewilderment. My lips worked, unable to form words, unable to make sense of what just happened.
Henrik looked back into the house even as Jens called for him to hurry and shut the door. “You’re letting the cold in,” he complained between spoonfuls of stew.
Gawking at Henrik, I finally found my voice, but it came out only a cracking whisper. “Henrik. I—I’m right here.”
With his hand on the latch, Henrik’s gaze swept right over me and locked on Meya. “I’ll find her and be back soon.”
Of course . . . that never happened.
Henrik eventually returned, but he never found me. Not outside. Not in the house where I stood, begging to be seen and heard until my voice grew hoarse. Not anywhere.
He never found me. Not that cold night or the next. Or the next.
Or the next.
Or the next.