Glass Winter | Chapter XXV

They had been robbed in the night, Havel claimed, when the day’s rations came up short. Aurora had seen these desperate straits before, and as before Bair’s accomplices were the first to respond. Bair himself was not present to witness the soliloquy nor the scuffle that followed, but a man called Lassiter led both before his comrades intervened, pulling him and Havel apart, the latter the worse for it.

“Who should we blame?” Lassiter asked, “The chief who turned four unsavoury souls away, the strangers themselves, or the man in charge of our stock?”

“Do you accuse me of withholding your share, or wanting more for myself?” Said Havel.

“I do not believe either are likely,” Sevt arrived, with the ragged Gar Darron at his side.

“The man’s missing a lung,” Wilbur had told her, “Had it punctured during the slaughter at the commune, that’s why his side is always bleeding. If Sevt was wise, he wouldn’t keep a scout, first of all, who can breathe only half as well, as his personal guard.”

“I wouldn’t be so quick to judge. Sevt claims that Gar Darron saved his life.”

Wilbur shrugged, “And he’s still bleeding. Whatever job he did, it’s done already. Sevt must be realistic if he hopes to survive, and to help the rest of us.”

The chief slammed his staff against the icy ground; clink, clink, clink, clink until the racket died down.

“I do not believe either are likely,” he repeated, “and under my watch we will not see the mistakes of the commune repeated. Everybody, disperse. We will call you back once I have personally taken stock of what supplies remain to us.”

Nobody protested, but everyone walked away despondent.

These dire straits were what created Sowne. And Little Mal.

And what led to his death.

“Everybody,” Aurora found herself announcing, “I have something to say. May I suggest that we make the most of the wait, meanwhile, while we’re all gathered together?”

“What are you doing?” Wilbur held her back by her arm.

“I cannot say. But you don’t have to hold me back if you’re embarrassed.”

“I’m not embarrassed…”

But somebody else spoke for him.

“Are you going to suggest that we pray, Aurora?”

She recognised the small woman, Ruth, one of the commune’s anglers.

“Why yes, that is exactly what I—”

“With all due respect, girl, it’s time to let the grownups talk, alright?”

Despite her young age, Aurora had not been spoken down to since losing her family at the hamlet. Everyone would always acknowledge the mayoral daughter back then, the heir to a prudent, sensible man, who had helped raise half a dozen homesteads when the survivors were only few in number, and further oversaw the establishment of a functioning society of hundreds when all that everyone had was darkness. But he even he, and mother, and Aurora’s sister, succumbed to despair in the end. No matter their strength. And she must have been a reminder of that fact.

I’ve spent so long surviving that I’d forgotten the obsolescence of my title.

Nobody objected to Ruth, as people retreated to their bedrolls and fading fires.

“Come on, Aurora,” Wilbur indicated to the foresters heading towards a log deck. “Leave these sods be. We promised to help the others finish the new sleds—”

“Did you all not witness God whisk Malcolm away? Did you all not see his Rapture, and what his sacrifice did for us?”

“Girl, we don’t know what we saw.” Somebody said in a weary voice.

“Move along, Aurora,” she heard Sevt say, “we’ll call everyone back when it’s done.”

She wanted to respond, but saw that he was occupied with the count, speaking hushed with Havel and Bair. And Wilbur kept mentioning the new sleds, the surrogate older brother that he was.

The sleds were a fruitless addition, if only to carry more firewood and to share the load of the few survivors still hauling their rescued chattels. The forest’s rugged terrain made their traversal all the more challenging, as it did for Sevt’s sled at the head of the column. Two men had volunteered as lookout scouts, scaling the valley and following its ridgeline ahead of the survivors, reporting back to the chief at the end of each day.

The forest sheltered them for most of the vale, vanishing completely when they reached a mountain pass, through which a torrential draft hindered their crossing, though, fortunately, this time it could not tear through their skin.

Palina…

Aurora feared the worst whenever the memory of the ashen woman returned. She pictured Palina, lifeless, always seated on the ground, being slowly buried by falling snow, as pale as her surroundings. An echo of who she used to be, preserved only as a silent thought. Yet, when her glassy look landed on Aurora she experienced no shame or fear, but the healing warmth of gratitude.

She saved us after all.

Day did not break in Hell, but they still referred to it in their waking hours. They walked in the dark, when they fell asleep and when they awoke it was still dark. Through every valley and forest that the survivors traversed the darkness pressed overhead. Aurora expected the twinkling spires of the glass castle to rise above every mountain range that they crossed, only to be faced with another sylvan valley and a bejewelled night sky. There was beauty to be found in the terror, like the tragedy of a dying flame when the cold warms just as well.

Their supplies continued to dwindle, and when the rations were shortened yet again, they soon resorted to fasting. Every valley had to be crossed in a day, and the scouts were now tasked with seeking out game and bodies of water; but everywhere they looked only death was discovered, and the sleeping trees.

Many of the survivors fell to sickness when the weight of their worries became too much, further slowing their progress. Wilbur was one of them; droopy-eyed, coughing and sniffling, too sluggish to keep up.

“We rest for a few days here,” said Sevt, when they encountered a quiet glade, wisps of snow running across its surface, “eat the bark if you must. Just do not die.”

“Just do not die.” How can something so bleak encourage us?

It did not. The despondent many established camp, built their fires, and huddled in muted voices, while Sevt reallocated the sentries and ordered the foresters to rest. They obeyed, taking some of the timber off the sled to peel its upper layer and eat it.

Olga asked for a pot from one of their neighbours and boiled snow inside, before unpacking some spare furs and blanketing them over Wilbur’s head, who placed it over the rising steam.

“This will run the sickness out through your nose,” she said while gently stroking his back, “give it time, you’ll feel better.”

He will not die, but will he, or any of us, feel better?

There was a clearing not far from where Aurora sat, and a little further still were the sleds full of timber. Without a second thought she stood up and headed towards them, pulling one towards the clearing to the surprise of many she passed.

It would require airflow, and for that an ordinary fire would not do. She picked out the smallest kindling that had settled at the bottom of the sledge and arranged them in a small pile on the ground, before surrounding it with slender sticks in a teepee formation, with enough room between them for plentiful airflow.

She did not expect to find Wilbur standing nearby.

“Help me.” Aurora asked him, and after a moment Wilbur responded by gathering up a bundle of dry kindling.

People closest to the campfire were watching their progress, both the good and the bad, when the teepee collapsed and when it finally held. Wilbur had the honour of lighting it after countless attempts, striking sparks over the tinder with rocks until the kindling breathed in an orange flame. They let it burn, before taking larger sticks and placing them in a larger teepee arrangement around the fire, quickly withdrawing their hands when the logs alighted.

More people gathered round, Olga was with them.

“What are you two doing? Who gave you permission to use the firewood?”

“The foresters,” said Aurora, “help me, please.”

She was dragging an even heavier log across the ground, and failing. Olga lifted the other end and helped the girl lean it against the raging flames, which roared in a volley of embers. One of the surrounding observers helped Wilbur carry a log that he was struggling with, as even more people came to watch.

Her skin felt seared by the heat. The camp must have looked like a ferocious red eye from above, with the bonfire and the dozens of extending shadows from its centre, an inverted pupil and iris. It did not remain an eye for long, as the iris began to dance. Aurora saw an old woman from the commune, the very same that had a spear go through her leg, invited to dance by a younger, albeit craggy, survivor. She winced from the pain, but whoever the man was he made her smile, and soon she was moving sprightly despite the injury.

Others followed, young and old, beaten and lively. One by one they were forgetting, however brief the moment was, and dancing, singing, some were even laughing.

Aurora felt an arm around her shoulder as Olga pulled her close.

“How did you think of this?”

“I didn’t,” Aurora replied, “I just couldn’t bear to cut timber anymore.”

~~~~~

Gar Darron rushed towards the camp’s centre, despite his affected breathing. Every effort to run, lift, or gather materials had become twice as cumbersome.

Stabbed by one of my own scouts, and I couldn’t even die for it.

He had failed in the eyes of Renoir and deserved to be mortally punished. But how could he have failed?

Because I am not a leader. That is the reason.

If he had stayed in the fight, defending Sowne, or even Sevt, from the onslaught, he may not have still been alive. Fleeing with Sevt had been taking a chance on a new chiefdom, leaving behind dozens of men and women to fend for themselves. And would it have been Renoir, or whatever waited for him after death in Hell, he would have suffered for it.

But he had been sentenced to Hell for murder, that much he suspected. And now, both Renoir and Sevt’s attackers were dead by his hand.

What judgement awaits an already condemned soul?

Those strangers prophesised the glass castle’s rejection, and Sevt rightly identified the prospect of a trial, one that Gar Darron anticipated he may not pass. He had been sent down here, presumably, for the sin of not just one murder, but many, and for the sin of revenge. If only he could recall the moments leading up to this death, not just the vendetta, perhaps he would have a better chance at passing the test that awaited them all.

All of them. The old and the young, and the children born in Hell. If God was truly real, as Malcolm had proven, was he truly merciful to those he condemned to the lowest spiritual depths of punishment? Why doom them to cold and starvation if they had a chance at redemption. It seemed cruel and unjust, and it made Gar Darron rage.

Which is exactly what got you into this mess. Don’t let it get to you.

There always seemed to be movement just outside the camp, where the light faded and the darkness encroached. Perhaps it was a force of habit to search that darkness for danger as they had done since the commune. He wanted to believe that to be true, though he suspected the evil that neighboured them in this plane would not pass on an opportunity to hunt their souls, which by comparison were purer than what they would ever achieve until judgement day.

A man hunched on the ground, dark against a raging bonfire drawing spindly, long shadows across the snow. While the survivors rested at a comfortable distance from the flames, supping or mending the furs on their person, Sevt, Bair, and Kyreth surrounded the stranger. The chief leaned on his staff until he noticed Gar Darron’s arrival.

“I trust you’ll recognise this face. Him and another are our thieves. This one didn’t manage to get away. Kyreth saw to his capture with a set of boleadoras.”

“Caught by a woman…” the stranger muttered, before hawking and spitting at Kyreth’s feet.

She struck him with the back of her hand.

I know that voice.

Gar Darron approached the captive, feeling the strengthening heat of the bonfire with every step, wondering if his flesh would melt like wax should he come any closer.

I’ve heard that voice many times; a knife coated in all that is dead and morose.

“Heya scout,” Sinner turned to look at him, scowling. “I thought you were dead. You and your mute.”