Winter’s Children

Senator Fall’s horse stumbled on the smooth icy rocks by the river’s edge. She was young, recently broken in, and required a rider with a tender heart. Or at the very least, a high tolerance for frustration. Fall had neither. He grunted as he dismounted, permitting her a moment to rehydrate while he stretched his legs.

Despite the raging wind and rushing water he could still hear his men, Van and Laurent, bickering somewhere back a’ ways in the evergreen forest. They’d been at it since the group reunited months prior in their hometown of Cushcos, the crown jewel of the Southern Empire. Desperate for a chance to hear himself think for once Fall had ridden ahead of the group, ignoring the frantic protesting of Armond, a half-drunk drifter he’d hired to guide their journey north.

A full moon loomed overhead in the vast expanse of the dark northern sky. He craned his neck to get a better look at it. It seemed unnaturally large, like a blister or a pimple about to burst. The hair on his neck stood up. He shook his head. For a brief unsettling instant he thought he saw it breathing.

Fall followed the flow of the river with his eyes to the nearest bend, just before the water sloped down the other side of the hill they’d been climbing. There, almost completely covered in snow, was the faint outline of a figure laying prone on the ground.

“Have I found her already?”

Armond, who doubled as a tracker, had assured him that morning that the slave woman was still months ahead of them. As a contemplative exercise, he pulled at his beard. With his right hand he unsheathed an ornate silver cutlass. As he approached the shape he could see that it was without a doubt, female. She was facing in the opposite direction, her face obscured by a tangled mess of jet-black hair. Her skin was tan, indicating either northern or Kaste-Najee ancestry. The fur and animal hide she wore appeared to be untarnished.

Fall drew back the hood of his cloak and nudged her ribs with his leather boot. There was no response from the woman, although he did notice an awful indescribable odor that hadn't been there before. He stepped over her and crouched down as close to eye level as he could get.

Fall had only seen the slave woman once before, last spring, on a rare trip to visit his older brother’s country estate. He poured through his hazy memories for an image he could use for comparison. With a gloved hand he brushed the gnarled strands away from her lifeless visage.

An uncharacteristic pang of fear overcame him. Fall had seen plenty of corpses in his time, but nothing like this. A disturbing unnatural grin stretched from ear to ear across the woman’s face. Her milky eyes peered into his soul.

Moments later, Armond the guide emerged from the tree-line down below. He rode quickly, in a panic, searching for any sign of the old Senator. Spotting his horse, he waved and shouted the same warning he’d given the man before.

It made no difference. The Mahaha had noticed the men shortly after they’d wandered carelessly into it’s territory. It was already on top of them.

*  *  *

Alone in a dark, damp cave at the base of the Mun’uk mountains, Magritte sorted the ingredients she’d gathered to build a fire. Dry kindling was scarce in the north, like just about everything a human needs to survive, and an endless succession of snow storms ensured it was even more difficult find recently. Magritte had almost surrendered herself to yet another freezing cold night before she spotted some lichens hidden under a strange, crescent shaped rock formation just south of the cave’s entrance.

Magritte retrieved a silver hand axe from the burlap bag beside her and used it to carve a notch in the middle of a mid-sized log. She rummaged around for a sturdy enough stick, positioned it in the notch, surrounded it with kindling and rolled it between her palms. She started slow, gradually picking up speed until at long last she got a spark. Then she fanned the flames until it grew to an acceptable height. When she was done she sat back on her haunches, took down her hood and sighed.

As the cave warmed up, Magritte moved quickly to skin and prepare her dinner, an arctic hare. It was so small, she’d considered letting it go, but her empty stomach overrode her heart. She pierced what had been the creature’s torso with another stick and held it over the fire. Nearly an hour later, when the meat was roasted thoroughly, Magritte closed her eyes and took a bite. It was the first time she’d eaten in days. She was so mesmerized, that she failed to notice the wolf in her midst. By the time she did, there was only a few feet left between them.

The wolf bared it’s fangs and snarled. Foam crept over its lips and dripped onto the cave floor. Magritte kept still. It’s white fur was matted heavily, with splotches of dried blood on its neck and face. More than a few patches were missing, exposing the skin underneath.

“W-woah.” She stammered, attempting to steady herself.

Seemingly in response, the beast snarled again. In the same moment, Magritte observed as two more of its kind appeared at the mouth of the cave. They approached silently, like a pack of phantoms, and surrounded her.

She could only think of one thing to do. Well, maybe two. She doubted fighting with these things would end positively for her though. Cautiously, she tossed the rest of her food to the largest wolf. It landed in front of its left paw. She held her breath. Its hungry eyes darted from the rabbit to her and back again. Finally, it grabbed the sacrificial offering and retreated. The other two followed soon after.

Magritte used both of her hands to push her long, black hair behind her ears.

The fire crackled. She sat and watched it.

The next day began as they always have, ripped from the depths of slumber by a reoccurring nightmare. Magritte could never tell how long she’d been asleep for because the sun (as far as she knew) didn’t rise this far up north. For a time, she’d toyed with the notion that she’d just been sleeping through the day unknowingly. But that was more of a joke than a real theory, and since then she’d struggled with insomnia long enough to know it wasn’t true. Yet, as she pushed onward, farther and farther away from the country of her birth, she continued to consider new potential causes of this phenomenon to entertain herself. Lately, her favorite was: maybe the sun just doesn’t like it here.

The icy plains stretched on endlessly. After a while, Magritte stopped to rest under a dead tree. She was parched. The dull ache in her stomach had become a stabbing pain. She searched the area for tracks but found none. So she collected herself and walked for what she estimated was about an hour, and tried again.

Eventually, she caught another hare. This one was faster than any of the ones she’d already seen. She held it up to look at it and immediately saw why. It was just as small as the last, but its hind legs were much larger. It would take time to build another fire, so she would have to wait to eat it. Her stomach throbbed. She was considering the dangers of devouring the hare raw when she heard a familiar growling sound. Her heart sank as she turned to confirm her suspicions.

Somehow, the wolves from the previous night had found her again. There was no question about it. They were tracking her, intending to swoop in whenever her hunt was successful. “If I can’t find anything, what happens then?” Magritte thought, “They’ll probably get impatient, and that’ll be when they pounce on me.” It was a terrifying realization but she had to admit, their intelligence astounded her. The largest one howled. The others chimed in. Then it got real low to the ground and barked, sending frothy, white saliva in her direction. She reluctantly dropped the hare.

The intense anger she felt subsided when she spotted a weasel stuck in a snow drift a few hours later. This time, the wolves kept an eye on her but they didn’t approach. Magritte was surprised. She knew very little about the gods of the northern tribes. For this blessing though, she thanked them with her entire being. She slept for a while in a flimsy shelter made of sticks. In the morning, she massacred a family of lemmings for breakfast, but once more the wolves took it all, so she had to go hungry again.

The cycle continued. Soon enough, the days became weeks. For a while they wouldn’t let her eat a thing. Then, for no apparent reason, they would back off. Sometimes there was enough to share. Most of the time though, there was nothing at all. When that happened they starved together. After about a month and a half (she estimated) the wolves started to sleep where she could see them, although they kept their backs to her. When the nightmarish visions that plagued her became unbearable, she’d sit and listen to them howl at the moon.

One day when the pack leader came for his allotment, Magritte noticed his eyes looked softer and that he no longer showed her his fangs. On another occasion, while she rested, the littlest one broke ranks and snuggled up to her for warmth. She was starving and delirious, but she appreciated their company. She called the smallest wolf Victor. The female was Camille. She named their leader Roi Béto, or “King of Beasts” in her native tongue.

Then suddenly, after another few months she left her shelter and saw the wolves were gone. In their place she found the remains of an adult reindeer. She’d never seen one before, and considering how hard hunting had been, she was left in a state of befuddlement as to where they could’ve found it. Chunks were missing from the upper half of its body and most of its neck was missing. The rest, it seemed, was for her.

She ate until she was full for the first time in a long, long time. She saw no sign of them as she moved on, and soon she came upon a river at the base of a small hill. The water was extremely cold, but it was moving too fast to freeze over. She dunked her head in and drank as much as she could. She could see fish swimming freely down stream, so she reached in and tried to catch one. It took six tries, before she retrieved a shimmering, grey skinned trout. She dangled it by its tail in front of her face and licked her lips. Then she jumped, surprised by a low growl. She turned, expecting to see the wolves again. Instead, she was face to face with the largest bear she’d ever seen.

The bear stood up on its hind legs. Without a second thought, Magritte dropped her catch on the ground in front of it. It roared loudly.

Magritte covered her ears. Her axe was in her bag, just out of reach to the left. She knew there was no point in running. It was faster than her, and all it would take to end her life was one swipe of it’s massive paw.

Lost in a haze of uncertainty, she initially failed notice as a mess of white fur leapt onto the bear’s back. Startled and apparently in pain, the beast fell forward, landing heavily on all fours. Two more shapes appeared, barking and snarling on either side of it.

The wolves had returned.

Béto, still hanging from the bear’s back, bit into its neck. It roared and shook him off. Magritte ran, snatching her bag as she passed it. At the last second, she looked over her shoulder, but she didn’t stop. The bear swatted at Victor and Camille as they tried to advance. Béto, on his feet again, leapt forward at the wrong time and was hit, rolling for a second before landing on his side. The bear walked over and placed both its paws on top of his torso, positioning itself to crush him. Magritte watched. The others lunged forward, ravaging it with their fangs, but it didn’t stop.

The fingers on Magritte’s right hand wrapped around her axe. She wanted to run but she dropped her bag and charged, sinking the blade into the middle of its back. The bear roared and swung at her, but she dodged. Camille bit into its leg as Magritte went in for another strike. It landed just below its ribs. She tried to pull it back out, but to her horror, the axe was stuck. In a split second, the bear tore open her stomach. Victor leapt up at it, barking. It smacked him down. He didn’t move again.

Disorientated from the numerous injuries it had sustained, the bear began to stagger. Camille and Béto seized the moment, ripping into the flesh on its neck and stomach. It swatted at Camille, landing a powerful, killing blow. Béto held onto it’s neck. The bear emitted an almost human-like screech as he tore into an artery, drenching them both and everything around them in its blood. The monstrous bear pawed weakly for only a moment more, and then dropped to the ground, finally dead.

Magritte was on her back by river’s edge. She placed her right hand on her abdomen and the other over her eyes. She was in shock now, and couldn’t feel a thing. Béto trotted over and sat down beside her. As her vision blurred she could make out another figure, dressed in a long, black cloak, slowly gliding down the hill towards them.

“Death.” She muttered. “I think- I think you’re running late.”

Béto watched her silently. The snow gently fell all around them.

Then the darkness overtook her.