Before Winter's End

XIII: DEAD STALKS

In all truth, as I ascended the porch and rapped upon the door, I had no idea what the consequences were of what I intended to do. Whether I was successful, or whether I failed, I did not know what would become of me. If I would change . . . or die . . . or only fall even more into the Shrouded One's servitude. Perhaps I was sending Mason and Cassidy to their deaths, perhaps I was dooming all of Tastrim.

But Danielle had been willing to try. I had to grasp to that same hope.

I knocked again upon the door. The time was nearing noon, though the sun was hidden behind thick clouds. Certainly my father was awake. I went around the side of the house, to the little shed, thinking that perhaps he was at work upon some carpentry. But the shed was empty, his tools neatly put away. Frowning, I returned to the door.

"Papa?" The door was unlocked, so I let myself in. The house was quiet, and felt strangely vacant. I knew, within seconds of stepping inside, that my father was not there. I had not seen him as I had walked through town, but I also had not been looking. Still, I usually got a little sense when he was near.

I wandered into the kitchen, where an unfinished plate of food was left upon the table. Dishes were piled in the washbasin, and dirtied pans upon the stove. My frown deepened. The door to his bedroom was ajar, so I peered within. The bed was disheveled, his clothes thrown about. A dark blanket had been nailed over the window, so the room was dark and dreary.

Had my father been ill without my knowledge? Surely someone would have come to help him. I mentally kicked myself for not having come to visit him sooner, for not even bothering to inquire after his well-being. Perhaps he had gone to the healer, or was staying with a neighbor.

Returning to the kitchen, I took a closer look at the plate he had left upon the table. It was fresh, still moist, certainly from that morning. But instead of discovering the usual breakfast of bacon and eggs, or grits and biscuits, the plate was covered in a peculiar purplish brown mass. I picked up the fork, and carefully plucked up a tubular, rubbery piece.

I flinched back, dropping the fork with a clatter as my stomach turned to ice.

Intestines. The plate was covered with intestines.

I tried not to show my panic as I hurried through the town. I went to neighbors, inquiring after my father. Mary Fletcher said she had seen him that morning collecting water from the pump. Several other folks said they had seen him walking, but no one could say with certainty where he had been heading or if he had appeared ill. I went to the healer, who said he had not been to her. My stomach was twisting tighter and tighter into knots.

My time was running out. I had to collect the Cauldron Caps, and be ready to go into the woods as soon as the sun began to set. I had only hours.

My father seemed to have vanished into the ether. I could not find him, nor could I even sense him.

I tried to reassure myself that perhaps he had been butchering a hog and had forgotten to throw out the offal. Perhaps he was indeed taken ill, feverish and not thinking clearly.

I had no other choice. I had to collect my supplies. As I took my small shovel and my leather bag, heading along the eastern cow path past the watch tower, I prayed only that my father would be waiting for me tomorrow when I returned.

If I returned.

In spring and summer, the eastern path wound past crop fields and quiet, isolated farmhouses. The soil was rich and crops grew well in the warm months. In winter, the fields were left as barren expanses of deep snow, skirted by the Pilgrim's Wood like a dark curtain.

Dogman's Creek ran out of the forest and cut between farms, a valued water resource to these outlying farmers. The soil around it was moist and fertile, shaded by low hanging trees and shrubs, ideal for fungi. I was hopeful that I could find Cauldron's Cap there.

The Creek lay beyond the Millers' fields, which were still filled with the long-dead corn stalks of autumn's harvest. The corn would come back in spring, when the old stalks would be cut down and new growth would sprout from the roots. But for now the stalks stood like weary sentinels in the snow. I doubted the Millers would mind me passing through them.

My boots crunched through the snow as I brushed aside corn stalks, powdery snow flicked from their crisp leaves as I passed. The cold sent chills through my jacket, and I paused to pull it tighter about myself, and pull the furry hood over my head. In the brief moment after I stopped walking, a footstep lingered. A solitary, unnatural sound that was not my own. Behind me.

I looked back, slowly. But I saw my own footsteps and nothing more. I reached out with my Sight, searching for wandering animals or perhaps one of the Millers.

Instead I encountered a disturbingly familiar vacancy. The air was still, with none of the simple energetic auras of earth and little creatures. It was like a dark mass had wound its way amongst the corn, smothering all life. It was much the same as I had encountered in the Fishers' barn.

I turned back around, only to catch a brief glimpse of a dark figure before it disappeared amongst the stalks. I stood frozen, my breath stilled in my chest. A soft wind rustled the corn stalks. Was it footsteps I heard beneath those rustles?

I walked to where I had seen the figure, and crouched down, my fingers brushing over the indents in the snow. Large boot tracks led deeper into the field, beyond my sight. Heavy and ridged, I knew them to be a working man's boots.

"Hello?" I called into the stalks. "Who's there?"

Certainly it was one of the Millers. Or a young man from the village playing a prank or . . . or . . .

I decided to keep heading for the creek. I turned away from the tracks, and walked on. But goosebumps marched a slow chill up my spine. I felt certain there were eyes on me. The closeness of the stalks made me feel as if I could not properly breath, and every rustle they made as I brushed against them made my heart lurch with adrenaline.

I hurried my pace. Surely the edge of the cornfield was close-

I stopped, abruptly. Someone was standing ahead: I could see just a bit of their back through the stalks. Something about the worn plaid design on the shirt and the old brown leather of the suspenders was familiar. So familiar, in fact, that it felt like a fist slowly pushing into my belly. I swallowed hard. The figure did not turn as I took a few cautious steps closer. I could hear its breathing: harsh and slow, a low whistle in every breath. I recognized the edges of a carefully trimmed beard, stained red.

I reached out a trembling hand.

"Papa?"