In The Grip Of Old Winter (38 page)

If he cast all of the spells
from all of the silver marks, then everything changed. Dad didn’t lose his leg,
Wulfwyn and Leonor lived. Granddad and Almina didn’t escape. His mother gave
birth to a different baby, perhaps two, or even three. His stomach fluttered at
such a weird thought. Might he still be one of them? Might he still exist? He
guessed that he must, for if he wasn’t born there’d be no point in witnessing
anything that had happened to him up to this point in his life.

He might use some of the
marks. The ones, as he thought, that made everything better - for him. Like a
talisman wielded by a hero in his computer games.

I can ignore
you
, but
I will help
you
.

It made for easy choices, but
the right ones, or just different ones? The barghest still killed Oswald;
perhaps Leonor was meant to die young. If dad didn’t lose his leg from the
fall, he might lose it in a car crash or from an infectious disease. Did some
invisible fate determine the course of every life? When he used the seal-amulet,
it confused those fates, for it muddied people’s lives by revealing so many new
possibilities.

In the end though, that
ultimate fate, whatever it might be, must still endure. Time’s strands weaved a
curious pattern as they passed through the Ages, yet a sure one and true.

Peter opened his eyes and shouted.
“I won’t change anything!”

***

He stood beside
Bear. The
seal-amulet’s bright crimson blush diminished and the silver marks disappeared.
A terrible weariness made his legs wobble and he staggered. Tears streamed down
his face and his heart thumped as if it might break.

Bear rested a hand on his
shoulder to keep him steady. “You have been wise.”

The skin-walkers, without the
fire-rope, stood above them and gazed down.

“The seal-amulet might alter
many events,” said Bear. “So many possibilities, too many, so that even the most
considered thought might invoke frantic choices that can expose the mind to
chaos. It is not easy for you. It never will be. There is sadness and
heartache. There will be many hours of doubt. How can one with so few years
know all?” Bear knelt. “The seal-amulet is yours now. It is fashioned in some
ancient past that passes beyond my understanding. It thrives on deep cold,
though the spae-wife’s will might have made it so, for such an old creation
doubtless has other choices and other ways to harness the charms. And those
ways are yet to be known and grasped. It might be beyond the scope of a human
life to know all or any of its secrets, but a curious and natural instinct
informs your will that may cast light in varied and unexpected ways.” He rose.
“It is time for us to part.”

Peter said, “Did the
spae-wife make granddad and Almina bad?”

Bear faced the ice house.
“She cast a glamour that guided them in ways that blossomed as they travelled
down their chosen road. Those ways lay dormant within them and the spae-wife
gave them the life to thrive. It also gave her the chance to conceal her true
form.”

Peter said. “She cast a
spell?” Bear nodded.

“Where did they go?”

“I do not know.” Bear climbed
out of the hollow.

Peter scrambled after and
stood in a drift that reached up to his thighs. It stopped snowing. “Will I
ever see you again?”

The skin-walkers returned to
the house. “I am certain that you will,” said Bear. “When your need is great.
The charred branch brought you to us, but that way is gone. You will find other
ways, for they are many.”

Peter wanted to ask where,
though he guessed that Bear might not tell him if he didn’t need the skin-walkers
help. So many questions jumbled up inside his head. He didn’t know which one to
ask first and so he didn’t ask any.

In The Hall, the skin-walkers
circled the bonfire. Bear joined last, but before he did, he said, “Farewell
Peter. Give thought to what has passed, but do not dwell long on what is lost.
There is hope and joy in life too.”

The skin-walkers raised their
arms and sang a long high note which rang in Peter’s ears. He stared for many
minutes at the flagstones where they stood, but nothing showed, no scorch mark
from the bonfire, no ash, or scent that lingered.

He took off the seal-amulet
and thrust it into his anorak pocket. Then he dropped onto the sofa, lay down
and fell fast asleep.

*

The distant throb and rattle
of a large engine invaded his sleep and pulled him back to consciousness.
Daylight, dimmed now to twilight, left deep shadows in The Hall’s farthest
corners and the fire in the hearth cast little more than an orange glow.

Fuzzy-headed, he sat up and
listened. Distant voices came closer and the engine’s noise diminished to an
idle beat. The rattle of the latch as the kitchen door opened.

“Where is everyone?” Grandma,
and then, “Oh! The sideboard… and... what’s this?”

A deeper voice, a man’s, the
words too low to catch and then silence for a long time. Peter stared straight
ahead. He imagined grandma finding granddad’s letter and reading the horrible
words that he wrote. He imagined grandma’s hands as they trembled, which made
the paper flutter.

And then a cry, that, as it
rose in anguish, filled the house with its pain and anger and fear and loss.

The man’s voice, Farmer
Brunt’s, brusque, confused, flashed with bursts of temper, then countered by
concern, that suggested, cajoled, ordered.

Peter waited. Grandma’s grief
scared and upset him with its intensity. He didn’t want to see her so sad. This
didn’t need to happen if he’d used the seal-amulet, if he’d stopped granddad’s
and Almina’s escape. So much pain still to come, because he’d chosen it to be
this way. Yet, Bear said he’d been wise. He wished that he might cry too, to
share grandma’s grief, to express his own upset at dad’s accident, yet his eyes
stayed dry and he wondered at the numbness in his mind and body.

“The boy! Where’s Peter?”
Grandma’s tearful voice cracked. The scrape of a kitchen chair and then her
footsteps as she hurried down the passage. Her hand went to her chest. “Oh!
There you are.” She sat and took him in her arms. “There you are, oh, there you
are...”

Her tears wet his neck. He
didn’t know what to say, didn’t know the right words that might help. Nor did
he know how much grief came from her shock at granddad’s letter and her need to
comfort him for dad’s injury.

Not my dad. I loved him as
my dad.

Farmer Brunt appeared. He
held his cap in his hands and twisted it as anyone might in an uncomfortable
situation. “I’ll go and fetch the wife. She’ll help. I’ll not be long.”

He hurried away and a minute
later the tractor’s engine revved and as he drove off, its roar diminished.

Grandma held him for a long
time and then she wiped away her tears. “Peter, something terrible has
happened.” She took hold of his shoulders. “It’s your dad.”

Peter glanced at the embers
in the hearth, grandma’s floral dress under her green coat, at his boots. If he
admitted that he already knew about dad, she’d think him mad. It worried him
too about how to react. She’d know if he pretended, for such serious news
always came as a shock.

Grandma shook her head and
took a deep breath. “He cut his leg badly when he fell off the ladder. It took
a long time to reach hospital...” She wiped away her tears. “The doctors did
everything they could, but... he’d lost so much blood and... and, oh Peter, the
cut was infected and the poison was too strong and in the end they had no
choice but to amputate. It’s terrible.” She hugged him again. “So terrible and
now... and now this...” She burst into tears.

Peter didn’t need to pretend
to be upset, for she cried into his shoulder and didn’t see his face.

She pulled back. “You’re in
shock. We’re all in shock. Your poor mum’s still at the hospital. They might
need to keep her in for a bit, you know how worried she gets when there’s a
crisis... oh dear, let’s get you to bed. I’ll heat some soup for both of us and
bring it up. Come along, there’s a good boy.” She rose and held his hand as he
stood. “A good rest will help both of us.” Her brow creased. “Did you... did
you see granddad or... or Almina?”

He shook his head.

“No,” she said. “No... well,
let’s talk about that tomorrow. I’ll fetch you a candle and then up you pop to
bed and I’ll bring the soup.”

The stairs creaked as Peter
climbed to his bedroom. The old house brooded and watched, but it didn’t frighten
him now. An old house that stood on such old ground might know much to brood
about.

He washed, changed into his
pyjamas and climbed into bed. As if a switch flicked in his head, he fell into
a deep sleep.

***

He woke with a start. The
candle’s wick trailed a coil of white smoke. Someone must have drawn the
curtains, for a line of dim grey edged the window frame.

His eyes smarted as he stared
into the dark. “Leonor?” He climbed out of bed, hurried to the window and
pulled back the curtains.

The snow gleamed under a
clear sky where a thousand stars glittered. Opposite his bedroom window, where
the treeline marked the edge of the track as it went down to the lane, a flame,
yellow and orange, swung back and forth.

From under his window there
came another light. Not bright or yellow, this floated like a white mist across
a water’s still surface.

Leonor stood upon the snow
and raised her hand.

The yellow flame hung still
and brightened. Wulfwyn stepped out from between the trees and opened his arms.

Leonor swept across the snow
and into his embrace. They stood together, as lovers’ long-parted often do,
held tight as if for ever, fulfilled at last and content.

Together, they walked away through
the trees and Peter watched as the yellow flame faded from sight. Then it
stopped and rose, as if lifted high, and it flared once, a bright orange.

Peter’s candle flickered and bloomed
and the wick ignited, where a flame burned, steady and bright.

The End

About the
Author

Jonathan Broughton
. Authors love reviews for their books. A short review on the site where
you bought this book would be much appreciated. After you have left a review,
contact me on the email below and I will be happy to send you another book of
your choice as a thank you.

The inspiration for
In The Grip Of Old Winter
came from two very cold winters on the south coast of England, UK. Heavy snow
fell and not only settled, but stayed. The transformation of everyday landmarks
alters perspectives and sets the imagination, or at least mine, racing. When I
was young, I read and enjoyed the
Green Knowe
stories by Lucy Boston and
The Dark Is Rising
by Susan Cooper. The shifts in time that introduce
new characters, but keeps familiar locations more or less unchanged, fascinates,
because of the exciting and different possibilities that are revealed for the
hero or heroine to experience.

I have tried hard to make the MS as clean as possible.
Unfortunately, wicked gremlins often hide in dark corners and jump out to cause
mischief just when you thought it was safe to move on. Please let me know if
you come across any typing or spelling mistakes so that I can catch the
gremlins and release them into a safe and sustainable environment.

I started writing fiction in 2007. I embraced the e-book
revolution and published
Dark Reunion- Twenty Short Stories,
and
The
Russian White,
a Victorian thriller.
Running Before The Midnight Bell
is an urban thriller set in Hastings and St Leonards-on-Sea.

My email: [email protected]

You can join me on Twitter: @jb121jonathan

My Amazon page: amazon.com/author/jonathanbroughton

About the
Artist

Melvyn Grant
- is a well-known artist specialising in book and album sleeve illustrations.
His versatility spans from children’s art to the darkest adult horror, but he
tends to concentrate on fantasy and has produced covers and interior art for
leading writers and musicians. Among them are Terry Pratchett -
Where’s My
Cow.
Darren Shan -
The Demonata
series. Judas Priest -
Rocka
Rolla
and
Hero Hero
. Iron Maiden -
Fear of the Dark
,
Virtual
XI, The Reincarnation of Benjamin Breeg, Death on the Road, The Final Frontier
and
From Fear to Eternity.
He also produced the cover for the final book
in the Pan Book of Horror series.

In Mel’s paintings there has always been a hidden
tale. Now he’s stepped out with a pile of paper, a pen and a large pot of ink
and decided he’d write down the tales for all to read.

He’s started with
Pesky Baboon
on Kindle, suitable for all ages from twelve up.
‘The
Doings of that Pesky Baboon’
(Part One)
‘The Maggoty Man’
(Part Two)
‘The Bloodpainter’
(Part Three). The link to his Pesky Amazon page is
here:

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Doings-Pesky-Baboon-Maggoty-ebook/dp/B00BJ2MR0O/ref=pd_rhf_gw_p_img_1_PWQA