In The Grip Of Old Winter (9 page)

His legs trembled and he
leaned against a tree. Perhaps if he stayed here and waited for day? That might
be hours away if the night was young.

A flash of light erupted like
the brightest firework and Peter covered his face and recoiled. The hiss and
crackle of a great burning sounded close and he dared to peep through his
fingers.

Before him, in an open space
where the house and the manor once stood, roared an enormous bonfire.

***

His eyes blurred at the
sudden brightness. Sparks shot into the night sky and burning wood showed black
through the orange and red flames.

There stood, in silhouette
against the flames, figures. Men or women, Peter didn’t know, for loose robes
fell in folds around their bodies and hoods covered their heads. Each one
occupied a space an equal distance from the next. They neither moved nor spoke,
yet Peter suspected, though he didn’t know how, that they knew of his presence.
They faced inward, intent on the fire’s ferocity.

He waited, uncertain what to
do. If one of these figures called, then to run or stay must be his decision.
The chances of finding the charred branch increased, for the fire’s light lit
the forest. Now though, curiosity overrode any sense of immediate danger. What happened
to the house? To the manor? Why did these people stand in silence in front of
such a huge fire?

He crouched behind the trees
as he moved closer. The fire’s roar deepened and its heat catapulted the sparks
high into the night sky and Peter watched them climb and, through a break in
the trees, saw the stars scattered across a black universe and wondered at how
much brighter they shone and how much sharper they glittered than the stars in
his time.

“Welcome.”

Peter tensed and gripped the
tree behind which he hid.

The deep male voice carried
above the fire’s noise, though it didn’t strain to be heard. “Come closer.”

As he guessed, these people
knew that he watched. How soon might he reach the charred branch - so
stupid
to have wandered away just to look at the fire?

“We are waiting.”

No chance to escape, but
though deep, the voice didn’t frighten with any menace. If he stayed amongst
the trees, then he might still be able to make a run for it. He took a deep
breath and stepped out from his hiding place.

The figures faced him now. They
must have turned when he gazed at the stars, though their hoods still hid their
faces.

“Welcome.” Every figure spoke
and the harmony of their voices reminded him of a peal of bells, where the note
of one chime lingers as the next compliments it and then alters the tone just
enough to make the sound its own.

One figure took a step
forward and raised their hand as if in greeting. “Come and join us,” said the
man.

Peter’s mouth went dry and
when he spoke his voice squeaked. “Can I stay where I am?”

A murmur, that might have
been laughter or an exclamation of surprise, rippled through the trees.

The man’s voice cut through
the strange sound. “It is you that have come to us. We did not call you here.”

Peter swallowed, confused. “I
- I didn’t mean to come here. I thought I’d go back to Leonor’s time - in the
house, the manor, where she lived with Oswald, the house that grandma and
granddad live in - in my time ...” What he said must sound stupid. “The house
that - that used to be here. Where’s it gone?”

The man said, “That existence
is in a time beyond ours. It is in an Age still to come.”

Peter’s mouth hung open. “It
hasn’t been built yet?” He’d appeared in a place that didn’t feature anything
familiar and that made him feel sick. “I don’t want to stay here,” and he
stumbled backwards.

“Do not leave us. You have
come for a reason and we are curious.” The man’s voice echoed off the closest
trees so that he sounded near, though he stood as before with his hand raised
in greeting.

Peter faltered. “I didn’t
come here on purpose, there isn’t a reason, it just - happened.”

“It must be,” the man replied
and a murmur rose from the other figures. “Come closer to the fire.” He lowered
his hand and faced the flames. “The reason may be apparent when we talk, for I
cannot see your thoughts.”

Peter glanced behind him. The
charred branch appeared as a darker shadow against the surrounding trees, no
more than a few metres away and off to his right. A quick sprint and he’d reach
it in seconds, but too many questions crowded his head. What purpose did these
strange people think he might have and might he learn something if he stayed?
Did
the charred branch bring him to this place for a reason? He might regret his
decision if he left.

He took a deep breath and
strode through the trees towards the fire. The heat warmed his face and the air
smelt sweet so that the tingle that jarred his nerves diminished.

As he approached, the man
stepped away from the fire and though the hood angled towards Peter, the face
stayed hidden behind its many folds.

“You are welcome.” He pointed
towards a fallen tree to the right of the fire. “You may sit if you wish.”

Peter took a moment to guess
the general direction of the charred branch, now hidden by the trees, before he
hurried over and sat upon the trunk.

Seven figures, including the
one who spoke, stood before the fire and from its light he saw that each wore a
different coloured robe. As they moved, the material shimmered, like the
iridescent feathers that circle a pigeon’s neck. The figures gathered closer,
though not so close as to intimidate.

The man did come close and
Peter noticed for the first time how tall he stood - how tall they all stood -
and the dead leaves rustled as his robe swept them aside. He sat upon the trunk
next to Peter.

For a long moment the fire
filled the air with its roar and sap hissed as it dripped from the hot
branches.

Peter squirmed, uncomfortable
in the silence, though the figures didn’t frighten him as much as before. Their
height, the way they moved, the soft flow of their robes, gave them a majesty
that demanded respect, but not the fear that sometimes came from those in authority.

The man spoke. “We are
skin-walkers.”

Peter gripped the tree’s
rough bark. Images flickered through his mind of zombies and rattling skeletons
from his computer games. Skin-walkers sounded scary and he wanted to run.

“Fear fills you with an
inability to speak,” the man intoned. “We are strange to you, but once menfolk
revered our wisdom and our craft. Our skills have long since passed out of
men’s memories, yet we did not diminish or turn away. It is the sadness at the
passing of long Ages that we are now forgotten.”

Peter didn’t know what to
say. He thought, without being able to express it, that he understood, that
somewhere deep within his memory the meaning of what he heard must be true, but
it proved impossible to attempt to apply it to his knowledge.

“It is seasons beyond count
since menfolk have sought us out,” the skin-walker said. “And we wonder that
you have come.”

They kept so still that they
might be stone. Peter peered into the shadows cast by their hoods. Just a
glimpse of what they looked like might stop the tingling shudder that ran up and
down his spine, or confirm his resolve to run. What did they mean by menfolk?
Weren’t
they
human too?

“What is your need?” the
skin-walker asked.

Different fantasy races
battled against each other in his computer games. Dwarves and orcs and the
undead and ... “Are you, elves?”

A murmur rose from the
skin-walkers and the one beside him sat straight and tall and his robes
glistened with a purple shimmer.

“The elves left these shores
many moons ago. I wonder that the memory of their name is known. The elves that
joined with menfolk stayed, but each generation that followed weakened the ways
and customs that existed with their forefathers, until no remnant or will of
that noble race remained. No, we are not elves.” He laid his hands in his lap.
“I do not think that is the need for which you came.”

Peter’s thrill that these
strange people might be elves, evaporated. He liked the elves best in his games,
their skill with bows, their ability to melt into the forests and disappear. If
they had been elves he would have known what questions to ask, but now he sat
tongue-tied and nervous that he might say something to cause offence. He pushed
his hands into his pockets, scared and frustrated.

The fingers of his right hand
brushed against the seal-amulet. His heart thumped. ‘For the one who is
waiting.’ Peter pulled it out and held it up by the chain. “Are you waiting for
this?”

***

A stillness, so tense and
alert that Peter wondered if time slowed, flowed across the skin-walkers. Even
the fire lost its ferocity and dimmed.

The skin-walkers murmured.
Peter didn’t hear specific words, though the tone of their murmurings suggested
concern, even fear.

A flame flicked sparks into
the night and the fire resumed its roar.

The skin-walker who sat
beside him spoke. “This is a strange sight. I wonder that it is revealed once
more. Did you search for it, or was it found?”

Peter twisted the chain in
his fingers and the seal-amulet spun from side to side and the dull surface
gleamed in the firelight. “I didn’t find it. The carrier gave it to me and told
...”

The skin-walker interrupted.
“The carrier walks upon the land?”

Peter pointed into the
forest. “He... he gave it to me in Leonor’s time, by the charred branch. He
told me to give it to the one who is waiting, but I don’t know who that is.”

The skin-walker rose and the
others parted before him as he strode towards the fire and gazed into the
flames.

Peter said, “Don’t you want
it? Almina in my time wants it, but I don’t think she’s the one the carrier
means. She tried to take it off me when she showed me a painting of Eorl Bosa.
I saw him on a horse in Leonor’s time, but I didn’t ... I didn’t like him. Does
the carrier mean I should give it to him?”

The skin-walker’s voice rose
above the fire’s noise. “No, that is not the one the carrier means.” He took
long slow steps around the bonfire. “I did not think to see this again and I
wonder at the meaning that you hold it now. That the carrier walks abroad is a
sign that what was once brought low and sealed from sight, never to regain their
former shape or form, might be free.”

The skin-walkers cried as a
flock of birds might when startled. Peter clasped the seal-amulet in his lap,
alarmed by this sudden change in their quiet poise. He wished he didn’t have
it.

The skin-walker paced. “Like
mist that dissolves before the light’s advance and reveals the distant
hilltops, the long turning of Time shows the slow passing of the Ages.” He
halted. “The land stirs beneath our feet, seasons change and those yet to come
draw near, while those that are forgotten will be revisited. I fear the meaning
and cannot foretell the outcome, though the truth that this will be is upon
us,” and he faced Peter. “This - Almina, is not a name I know.”

Confused by what the
skin-walker meant, Peter stuttered. “She’s - she’s my aunt. She’s staying in
the house for Christmas.” The skin-walkers, their hooded heads faced to where
he sat, stayed silent. “She does acting - and has a lot of make-up - and wears
strange clothes ...” he faltered, for he guessed that the skin-walkers didn’t
want to know this, but what
did
they want to hear? “She’s my grandma’s
sister.”

The skin-walker by the fire
spoke. “She desires what you hold and she understands its purpose?”

Peter gazed at the
seal-amulet in his lap. “I don’t know. She just wants it. She thinks it’s
valuable.”

The fire crackled and sparks
burned as bright as shooting stars, then went out in a trail of white smoke.

The skin-walker came back to
where Peter sat. “Let me see it once more.”

Peter held up the seal-amulet
for him to take, but he made no move to grasp its iron links. He sat upon the
tree. “I cannot touch this,” he murmured. “It is as dangerous to me as fire is
to water that is trapped within a bowl.”

Peter peered into the shadows
cast by the skin-walker’s hood, but saw no sign of eyes or a nose or a mouth.

The skin-walker sat so close
and the others around the fire stood so still, that Peter’s legs went stiff
with tension. He wanted to shout and make a lot of noise to stop the silence.

At last, the skin-walker
said, “The marks are upon it, dormant but still ingrained.” He sat up straight.
“They wait for the commands that will release their charms.”

Peter peered hard at the
seal-amulet’s dull surface, but he didn’t see anything except small surface scratches.
“Where are the marks?”

“Do not search, for to see
them reveals their bearer’s allegiance.”

Peter frowned. “What do you
mean?”

The fire flared with a roar
and in the woods a branch splintered with a loud crack. The skin-walkers spun to
face the trees and their robes slipped to the ground. Peter cowered with terror
at the beasts now revealed by the fire’s light.

The skin-walker beside him
reared upon his hind legs as a huge bear. A fox, an eagle, a snake with diamond-patterned
markings, a big cat with two long fangs, an enormous pig with tusks that
dripped saliva and a rat, whose ribs protruded through the skin of its arched
back, rushed into the trees with terrible speed.

A figure raced towards him.
The
carrier!