Rowan Nightshade's Short Stories

Winterwood

A lilting melody floated past the ancient trees of Winterwood Forest. It entranced a squirrel, scampering along the high branches of an oak tree, to have a peek at this strange sound. The squirrel leapt across a tiny trickle of water, into the branches of a maple tree. The rodent gazed down at the player.  

 A girl with wild, chestnut hair was contentedly blowing on the panpipes she held in her hand. Her eyes, first closed, opened suddenly at the sound of the squirrel. They were an amazing specimen of hazel, a rare eye color in those parts.

Her face was framed with tiny, twisted braids, and feathers hung on strings from her other curls. A green stone, among other necklaces, hung from her neck, and her ears were pierced in many places.

As for clothes, she wore short pants, likely resulting in the scars on her legs for lack of protection. A belt was fastened around her slim waist, and four knives hung neatly off it. A dark green cape was in a heap next to her, as well as a animal- skin bag.

A pile of fish scales lay next to the smoldering fire, and the smell of roasted fish was still heavy and rich in the air.

A woman's voice echoed through the trees suddenly, and the girl groaned as the squirrel fled to safety.

The girl rose, shouldering her bag and slipping into her cape. She smothered the fire and buried the leftovers as an afterthought. Following a small, but well worn path, she came to a cottage, right on the threshold if the forest, and beheld the woman standing on the porch almost guiltily.

As the girl miserably walked to the woman, she lowered her head as if to hide.

"Where have you been?" The woman demanded. "Dinner's colder than Jack Frost's fingers!"

"I'm sorry Mamee. I was out in the forest."

The woman sighed, and put her hand on the girls shoulder. Her eyes were filled with a surprising amount of gentleness. "Why do you go out into Winterwood at all?" She questioned as she led the girl through the low doorway. "There are horrible things in the forest."

"Like what, Mamee?" The girl argued. "I've never been hurt by the Myths, much less seen one."

"Do not contradict me. You're old enough to remember what happened, and by Hecate's Power, you will not speak of this more, else you shall be put into your place when your father arrives."

The girl eyes flashed. "He's not my father!" She ripped herself free of her mother's fingers and threw herself up the ladder to the attic in seconds, disappearing entirely into the dark shadows.

The woman stood there, dumbfounded, purely shocked at her daughter's outburst. The woman shook herself, and called her other children to reheat the food. She sagged into the rocking chair by the fire, and picked up her knotting from the basket by the chair.

She got an odd look on her face, and her hand found its way into her pocket. As if in a trance, she pulled a small object tenderly from the folds of her skirt.

"Oh, my darling Abroham. Why did you have to leave the fateful night?" she murmured mistily. "I can't control her anymore. I'm afraid...." Her voice broke. "I'm afraid she's going to leave, just like you did. I don't know what to do...."

"Mamee?" A young girl of about 6 was looking at her mother questioningly. "Are you alright? You look ill."

The woman let out a shaky breath, and smiled at her daughter. "You needn't worry about me, my pumpkin. I'm fine."

The little girl smiled back. "Charles is here, Mamee. He's waiting at the door."

"Let him in, pumpkin. I will be there in a minute." She kissed the top of her daughter's forehead, and the little girl smiled and went away.

The woman sighed. "Abroham, my heart, the man who is to replace you as a father is here." she breathed to her dead husband. "Please understand. The children need a father. Goodbye, my heart."

A small breeze stirred her hair, and she tidied her curls and straightened her skirt before greeting the man who strode into her home.

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The chestnut-haired girl gazed at get mother from the rafters, before swinging back to the solid attic.

It was a peculiar room, the attic. All human necessities were pushed in one corner of it, and the bed and table were piled high with collections. It was obvious the room belonged to a Finder.

All the walls were hidden by full shelves, and off the ceiling hung hundreds of dangling things. The most prominent features of the hung items were the cages. Quite nearly two- dozen bird cages, sporting animals themselves, swayed slightly from the draft coming in.

The girl went onto her tippy toes and gently pulled one of the cages open. She drew out a tiny chikbee. A clean white bandage spanned its little chest.

Holding its feet firmly, the girl unwound the bandage and threw it to the side. The chikbee's wings snapped open as it tried to fly away, but she was ready for it. She checked the bird's wound, now just a mere welt.

The bird's wings, flapping all the while, accidentally banged into the window sill before she could secure them. Regaining her control, the girl held its wings tight against the chikbee's body before she casually tossed it out the window.

It fluttered a few times, before plummeting to the ground. The girl fixed it glare, and her eyes flashed dark green, before the bird miraculously righted itself and flew away.