The Frost of Winter Solstice – by Alex Thornbury
Our village was the last to stand against the invasion of the godly folk from the southern kingdoms. With their strange magic of the cross and prayer, they had pushed back the Spirit’s Veil to our border and cleansed the lands of beings that visited humanity through ages past. And it fell to our warriors to hold back the godly folk from destroying the last of that which was sacred. The Veil was the only way our long-dead ancestors could return and bring their stories to our fireside. And it was through these stories that we kept the history of our lands alive.
The Winter Solstice of my twelfth year started like any other. Come sunset, the Veil would once again part, and would not close again until sunrise. It was to be a long night and the favourite with our family. We spent the day readying the cottage for visitors; sweeping, stocking the fire and keeping it bright and hot, as the visitors were prone to chills. Though they did not eat the food we offered, we still prepared a feast as much as we could in our poverty. Mother decorated everything to hide the meagre affair.
After sunset, my sister and I, scrubbed clean and dressed in our finest dresses, joined our parents by the fireplace. They stood side by side in front of Grandma’s favourite chair, holding hands and smiling.
‘Come children, look who is here,’ Mother exclaimed, forgetting in her excitement that we had not the adult eyes to see the beings from beyond the Veil.
‘It’s grandma,’ Father clarified.
So we went to stand beside our parents, looking down at the empty chair, feeling both chilled and yet secretly foolish. Only a handful of nights each year did the invisible visitors arrive. As I grew older, it was hard not to imagine this must be some game the adults played with their children, each solstice, Spring’s Rise and Eve of Souls.
‘Aye, they have grown since you saw them last summer,’ Mother said to the empty chair.
And we were made to sit on the floor by the fire, as mother and father took their seats at the feat-laden table. Grandma then told us stories, which our parents repeated, for we had not the adult ears to hear the voices of the beings from beyond the Veil.
As the night deepened, the fire flickered suddenly and turned icy blue and cold.
Our parents fell abruptly silent and stared at each other with a flash of fright. Then, with strained faces, they turned to me, and I knew what it meant. Only, I had never truly believed that this night would come for me. Surely this was just a game the adults played. We were meant to smile and eat the cakes and listen to the wise tales.
‘Frost has come,’ Father said gravely, looking at me.
I shook my head in denial. No, I never believed in Frost. That was his name, the changer who opened the eyes of children when they reached the cusp of adulthood. Except, not everyone survived the change. Else, some returned with Frost’s bite upon their toes and fingers. Like Ordur, the baker’s son, who now had only eight fingers left.
Both mother and father rose, for Frost was outside, waiting for me. They led me to the door, dressed as I was for the warm fireplace and not the snow-covered landscape beyond warm walls.
The cold hit me instantly, cutting and laced with threat.
‘Walk to the white tree where Frost is waiting,’ said Mother with a treble to her voice, and closed the door behind me.
Barefooted, I began the walk to the edge of the forest. It was dark, save for the moonlit snow, and the chill in the air was fierce. As I drew closer to the white tree, the air grew colder and colder, until my blood threatened to turn to ice. No one was around.
At the tree, I stopped. A part of me still denied that any of this was real. Surely, I just needed to turn around and return home, for I could no longer feel my legs or arms, and every breath I drew was shards of glass.
Sharp pain exploded in my eyes, and I cried out, closing them tight. Something warm trickled down my cheeks.
Another jarring pain hit my ears, and I fell to my knees.
I forced myself to open my eyes and saw drops of dark blood in the sparkling snow, and … large, furry paws. I followed the furry legs up and I saw him, beneath the tree, looming high above me. The creature was made of ice, with horns and fur and sharp, black teeth. In his thick hands, he clasped two needle-like icicles. Blood dripped from the tips.
He looked at me and I at him. Then he turned around and walked away into the forest.
I returned home, weeping tears and blood.
Mother wrapped me in a blanket and comforted me with kind words. But it was Grandma’s voice I recognised from long ago that soothed me. ‘Bring the wee lass to the fire and give her the hot apple wine with extra sugar. She’ll be right in no time.’
In the chair sat Grandma, her form faint and glowing.
‘Come over here, lass, and sit next to your sister where I can see you better. Now, where was I? Oh aye, I remember. I was a wee bit younger than you when Frost came for me. It was the winter after the great fire that swept through the forest when the old fool Baerran the Wise offended the Firelord …’
And the rest of the night I listened to my grandma’s old stories, whilst my parents repeated them for my younger sister. And I hoped our warriors would keep the godly folk away from our lands.
There was a time before the bridge was forged, but those stories had been mostly forgotten. The dark history of that bygone age was now buried in the archives of the priests. Only the echoes of it remained on the tongues of minstrels and drunks. Elika had heard them all and each tale seemed more terrible and unimaginable than the other.
Those were dismal times of endless wars—men against magic, magic against men. The time when even the storms and rains were at the mercy of magic and its fickle moods. It might snow in the summer, or the hot winds might carry sand upon them, burying entire cities. Honest travelers feared to ride through the forest, lest the trees attacked them. A farmer might wake up to find his river flowing the wrong way or dried up altogether. Those days were gone and might have been forgotten, but for this stark reminder before Elika’s eyes.
And who had not stood before the dark bridge in their last moments, facing that choice they all must one day make?
Like that hoary, old codger in the ale-stained uniform of the city’s Blue Guard who had stood before the bridge for nigh on an hour; unsteady on his legs, his sour breath steaming in the crisp, winter night, drinking deeply of the cheap gin, which was as likely to kill him by morning as what he now faced. He took a long swig out of his bottle as he braced himself for the unknown fate ahead.
Elika sat huddled in the doorway of an abandoned house, watching him, needing to know whether he would reach the other side or die crossing. Her ears filled with the howling winds rising from the great chasm, and she did not need to imagine what he was thinking, staring as he did at the monstrous bridge and the lifeless bank beyond, for she was thinking the same—surely it is better than what remains at our back. Better than what approaches.
She clutched the cloak tighter around herself against the biting gust of wind trying to rip it from her. She had scavenged the woolen cloak some days ago from a dead beggar, and it still smelled of his mustiness. She pulled up her knees to her chest and clamped her icy hands under her arms.
The stone wall was cold at her back. Her breath steamed. She waited and watched the old guard take another wobbly step toward the bridge, seeking courage in his gin-dulled mind. He took another gulp, stared at the empty bottle in surprise, then threw it aside with a foul curse. The bottle hit the frozen ground and rolled off the edge of their world into the chasm, to fall for eternity in that endless darkness.
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