Homecoming

The cold wind whipped though the air and bit at Miranda’s cheeks as she picked her way carefully through the underbrush of the woods. Each step she took, careful to remain on the narrow, lightly-worn path beneath her feet. She winced with each step, her bare feet accustomed to the dangers of the city streets and not to the multiple stabs and lacerations she now endured.

Her arms clutched her stomach as she stumbled, determined, forward. Overhead, the sky was a shade of orange as the death of day approached. Miranda had no illusions about her ability to survive the night in the woods. Her skin tingled and she fought the urge to look back; to head back. Where would she go?

A dreadful calm surrounded her, even the canopy above was devoid of sound and life. Was that normal? Even as the thought entered her mind, she noticed the only other living creature she had seen in the woods until this point: a large, black crow. The corvid watching her silently, not even blinking. With a shudder, she pushed on.

The only home she knew was hundreds of miles away. Her best promise of salvation was long gone. The only future she could cling to lay with her brother and she had only the hope that she was on the right path to find him. An ache within her belly began to rise and her sore muscles protested, yet she continued to walk.

Only this morning, she had been surrounded by others. Perhaps they didn’t share her experiences, exactly, but they empathized and understood her concerns. She was safe, or at least as safe as she could reasonably be, and headed to a new chapter in her life. The train would take her far, far away and anything could happen.

…But then her brother just got up and left. Miranda knew that it was unlikely that they would end up together in the end. Almost certainly, they would be separated, if not at some point in the trip then definitely at their destination. While that was to be expected, Miranda hoped that at least they would remain close enough that he could still be involved in her life. Didn’t he understand that taking matters into his own hand at this point in the trip ruined any chance they had?

Miranda stopped dead in her tracks. Lost in thought, she hasn’t noticed the path widening and the lessening of detritus beneath her feet. The trees were less numerous and further apart. She was suddenly in an open field and before her, bathed in the orange light of sunset, there was a small farming village.

Joy flooded her at the sight, the pain of her stomach and muscles momentarily forgotten. Immediately before her, a large field of corn dominated her view. Clearly, she had arrived before the ill-fated “starving time.” In the city, she had heard of such things, how during the winter these villages were often at the mercy of whatever gods they prayed to and starvation became a serious problem. Life in the city was hard, especially for orphan siblings, but as a young woman she had ways of getting by. There was never a lack of demand for flesh.

She approached the corn field hesitantly. While the threat of freezing to death, or worse, in the forest was becoming less of a possibility, farmers rarely tolerated strangers wandering into their fields and eating their food. Or, at least, Miranda assumed so. Never in her life did she expect to be in this manner of situation. Her clothes were torn and ragged before she tried wandering through the woods, and now they were a filthy mess. If she hadn’t layered so much cloth on herself before setting out, the worn and moth-eaten material would certainly have been incapable of warding off the cold.

Clutching her clothing close to her, Miranda moved cautiously towards the field and what appeared to be the gate into the small community. The village seemed surprisingly quiet as she approached. Was it always this silent at dusk? Not even a dog barked as she walked up to the gate.

The gate was low, barely tall enough to be considered a gate at all; really just an entrance in the fence that surrounded the village and separated it from the outlying fields. The fields themselves had gates of their own. The village seemed neatly laid out and clearly utilitarian.

Miranda’s blood froze and her heart pounded in her chest as a sudden howl erupted from the forest behind her. It was quickly joined by another, closer, howl. In a nearly blinding panic, Miranda could only focus on the gate, still several yards before her. A low, wooden building just beyond the gate promised shelter, and Miranda noticed for the first time a candle burning in the window.

A candle in the window. Surely, a sign. A welcome. In some bizarre way, this candle is what led her here; what led her brother here. The welcoming sight of the candle contrasted sharply with the howling behind her. Her face began to flush red as the blood pounded in her ears. Every instinct told her to run.

She too sharply recalled running from a stray dog back in the city. Running only caused it to instinctually run her down, even that dog sensed her fear. Certainly, whatever was watching her from the woods could sense her pounding heart and overwhelming fear. She took one measured step forward, only for a burst of rustling behind her.

DO NOT TURN AROUND, she admonished herself. DO NOT RUN.

But she couldn’t control the fear any longer. Sudden panic overtook her and she sprinted for the gate. She only fleetingly noticed the sign hanging on the gate as she got closer: “Welcome to Christmas.” Christmas, a point of joy in the midst of cold and starvation, several yards away. The muscles in her legs burned. Christmas, with the welcoming flame in the window, only a few more yards away. Her stomach ached and she clearly heard snapping twigs behind her. Christmas, her salvation, now only a stride before her…

The impact on her back came swift and hard and she fell to her knees with a sudden gasp. The still night was shattered as a scream filled the air when she was dragged to the ground. Mercifully, perhaps, her vision went black as consciousness left her and as it did, the last thing she saw was the flame of the candle in the window. Safety, warmth, hospitality. Miranda attributed so much to that foreign light… like a moth to the flame.