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A CHILL IN THE AIR
??
...in the present day...
Isabel Irasdaughter huffed a cloudy breath, crossing her arms over her woollen cloak and casting a keen glance about the clearing. The cabin appeared exactly as she had left it, three months ago: completely burnt out, but for a few blackened logs which were all that remained of the four walls, saved by a light rainfall. The modest stone fireplace rose from the ashes, dark with soot, a lingering sentinel over the cabin's resting place. Nature had already begun to reclaim it, her leafy fingers creeping in to scatter detritus and pitchy pine boughs upon charred earth where the floor had once been.
The only marked difference was the autumn frost, which cast everything in a sparkling sheen—a sign of summer's passing from the valley, a warning of the winter soon to follow. It was mid-autumn, and the forest was aglow with burnished copper and deep reds. Snow graced the twin peaks of the Sisters, Wilifrey had nearly finished his harvest, there were apples again in the market, and a fire roared in the tavern every night now.
It had become Isabel's habit to alter her usual walking path every so often, that she might find herself standing before the little ruins. At first she had come frequently, in an attempt to put things to rights as much as she could—for her own peace of mind. She kept the path along the bank from growing over, and occasionally pulled up weeds from the garden. His nets and river baskets which were in use at the time of the sacking had long since been taken away; Isabel had seen to it herself, as there was no one left to tend to them. But from the branches of the old oak tree, which leaned across the river, drifted the tattered remnants of a net. She had waded into the shallows that summer, curious, and touched the frayed rope; when she pulled her fingers away, a strange scent clung to them: floral and pungent, like river crocuses, and a hint of something else…
Something that set her spine tingling.
It had taken more than a single scrubbing in the river to wash that stench off her fingers, and—despite her determination to claim what she could and grant it new purpose—she had refused to touch the net again. There it would hang, until the branch grew burls around the ropes, or they were taken away piece by piece for bird's nests.
As summer had turned to fall, winter, and spring of the following year, Isabel's visits had become less frequent. This was the longest she had been away, and she had only returned that morning to assure herself that it remained untouched. Only one full turn of the seasons had passed since the villagers took it upon themselves to torch the place, after accusing its former occupant of fraternizing with the river folk and bringing a curse to their valley.
Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
Isabel doubted the veracity of any curse, but it could not be denied that the young fisherman had been fraternizing with something out of their half-forgotten history, something of the other; she had seen it for herself, strange as it seemed at the time. And though Ember Jarelsson was long gone, and she wished him well, these ruins remained a grim reminder of that night, and of the murderous fear which lay in the hearts of the villagers.
Fallen leaves and frost crunched under her boots as she walked the length of the cabin, tossing her single plait of dark brown hair over one shoulder. Her gaze drifted about the surrounding forest. The garden was wild and overgrown—that had been the first thing to return to its natural state, and there was little difference between the tall grasses which had grown up around it and the garden itself, excepting that some of the dense foliage could be deemed edible. She noticed among the thistles and weeds what appeared to be turnip greens, thriving despite the sudden cold snap. It would be a shame to waste them.
So Isabel took her basket from her arm—which was half full of the lingering wild blackberries which grew along the river path and the edge of Wilifrey's orchard—and swung over the ramshackle fence to see what might be salvaged.
Only three smallish turnips were nestled amidst the berries when a gust of wind rustled through the trees, sending leaves and bits of papery bark chasing each other along the overgrown path from which she had come.
Isabel stood, turning to the water's edge, which glittered silver through the grass.
A whispering dread came upon her, then…
The unshakeable sense that a presence lurked nearby, or perhaps watched from the shadows, for the back of her neck prickled as if a pair of eyes lay upon it. Malevolence hung in the air, stirred up in the rattling leaves—and she thought for a moment that she could taste both the coming of rain and the faint tang of crushed herbs upon her tongue.
Yet not a single cloud drifted overhead.
She looked sharply toward the deeper woods, hugging the basket to her chest. There was no sign of a deer or wandering badger. In fact, the woods had gone oddly silent aside from the breeze. Whatever was here—or whatever was coming—was entirely foreign to Isabel; only one thing was certain. It does not belong in this forest.
Another might have dismissed it as merely the autumn chill or the approach of a gathering storm, but Isabel had always been of a mind to heed such forebodings. It was a matter of practicality, for such feelings had never led her astray in the past. These days, she had no desire to question them, and no need to discover what might have aroused such alarm.
It was enough that she was alarmed.
So she slung the basket of berries and sparse greens over her elbow, and—bracing one boot on the fence—deftly hopped over it and returned to the narrow trail beside the river. From there she set off at a brisk pace, glancing back often as she walked the path to town.
Only the flicker of crisp morning light shone through the trees.
She shivered, and pulled her cloak more tightly around her shoulders.
Better to be away, than sorry.
, , , , and for your kind remarks on the prologue!
