Frightened, she curled into a ball wrapping her blankets tightly around her, and wept softly. “Oh Philip,” she wailed. “Oh, Bertha! What have I done?”
Chapter 5
The Cave
She stirred stiffly. Her muscles and bones ached from sleeping on a stone floor. Beneath her head, one of the blankets was rolled into a ball and used for a pillow. The blackness engulfed her in its inky emptiness. However, unlike earlier, she was warm.
Her eyes flew open in surprise. Warm! That was dangerous. Bertha had told her that people who had frozen spoke of being warm and sleepy just before they died. Was she going to die? Would they ever find her? She doubted it.
Sounds echoed around her occasionally, but Dove couldn’t tell if they originated inside or outside of the caves. She stretched, blinked, and sighed. It was so dark in the cave, and she was still so warm. She didn’t feel sleepy, however. Was that because she was only half-frozen?
Curiously, she crept toward the entrance again. The closer she drew to the storm outside, the more cold she noticed until near the mouth of the cave, she shivered. The entrance would be covered in hours if the storm didn’t abate soon.
She scooped a handful of snow and shoved some in her mouth. It melted quickly leaving her just as thirsty as ever. Several handfuls later, she felt quenched but cold. Despite her reservations, Dove crept back to the place where she’d slept and allowed her body to readjust to the warmth there. Odd noises echoed from inner chambers, terrifying her as her mind whirled with the idea of waking ferocious, hungry bears.
The small circle of light from the opening did nothing to light the cave. As time passed and the storm raged, the little circle of light dwindled to a minuscule point, and finally disappeared behind the wall of snow. To Dove it seemed as if she was plunged further into the depths of darkness when she saw that last bit of daylight erased by the storm.
Once warm again, she decided it was time to look outside. Dove’s hands grew numb with cold as she tried to dig herself out of the cave. The moment the air outside entered the opening she shivered. Her eyes tried to adjust to the brightness, but all she saw was a swirl of white. Dejected, she crawled back, feeling her way to the blanket on the cave floor, and curled up, wrapping her cape around her.
Seconds ticked by without benefit of the comforting rhythm of a pendulum. Minutes passed that seemed like hours. Even for a girl accustomed to long passages of time alone and thoughtful, this seemed exceptionally long— at first. Then, as she grew accustomed to the strange sounds around her, the darkness became more bearable, and the gnawing hunger in her stomach dulled, her mind wandered to more interesting pastures.
What would Philip do if he were here? Would he pray? What would he pray? The one about the Father in heaven? Was this part of “Thy will” that the prayer spoke of so ambiguously? If she asked for the bread, would she get it? Even as she wondered, her hand bumped the apple.
Is that what answered prayer really is? Showing you that things are provided before you even know to ask? Questions swirled in her mind as she bit into the apple, relishing the crisp, juicy fruit with each crunch of her teeth.
The cottage was cold when Bertha awoke the next morning. Shivering, she glanced at the fireplace and frowned. The child hadn’t kept the fire going during the night. That wasn’t like her. The foolish girl was probably ill from being out in the storm. She glanced at the girl’s bed, and her brow furrowed with concern. It was empty.
Exasperated, Bertha loaded the fireplace with logs and fought to find a few embers, but failed. The fireplace was stone cold. From the tinderbox, she pulled several pieces of birch bark, her flints, and began striking them to create a spark of fire. Her movements were awkward and ineffectual, at first, but once she controlled her anger enough to focus on her task, she managed to light the tinder. Within a few minutes, a blaze burned cheerily. It would take a long time to warm the cottage sufficiently, but that was the least of her concerns now.
The inside woodpile would only last for the day. With the snow covering the wood outside, it would never burn without smoking them out of the house. Dove kept these things done for them, and in her absence, Bertha realized how much she’d miss without the child. The baking needed to be done, the beans needed to be soaked, and one of the servants at the castle was due to deliver any day now.
“She does earn her keep,” Bertha muttered to herself as she measured handfuls of beans into the iron pot that would hang over the fire. There was a certain satisfaction in her tone. She’d trained the girl well. A nearly empty water bucket brought a frown to her face. They’d be melting snow for water now.
She heaped snow in the top of the pot, but it took several trips to get enough to cover the beans once it melted. Each time she opened the door, the wind swirled more snow into the cottage cooling any warmth that the fire created. “Foolish girl. She’s probably frozen to death out there.” Though she muttered the words, Bertha didn’t really believe it. Dove wasn’t usually foolhardy.
She spent her morning doing all the things that Dove usually did. She shook out the blankets— Bertha was convinced disease grew in dank, unaired blankets. After she swept the cottage, she dumped the debris in the “necessary bucket” and went to take it to the discard pit. Five steps from the door, Bertha knew she’d never make it. The blinding whiteness around her made it impossible to see where she went and would prevent her return. She turned into the general direction of the wind, and tossed the contents of the bucket.
A glance at the breadbasket told her they needed more bread. All through the long day, Bertha looked for what Dove usually did, and did it. What started as an annoyance became a real concern. Where was the girl? Why wasn’t she home? Was she alive? Was she half-dead and frostbitten? The child was her responsibility. Life without the girl would be easier, it was true, but if the child was alive, it was her duty to preserve that life.
The day dragged, but Dove, aside from hunger, wasn’t too uncomfortable. Protected by the darkness, the Ge-sceaft of Wynnewood threw back her hood and reveled in the freedom of an uncovered face. As usual, her hair was wild around her, but no one could see it in the inky blackness of the cave.
At semi-regular intervals, she stumbled through the cavern to the snow-packed opening, and scooped enough snow to keep her thirst quenched. After one such interval, she decided to explore deeper into the cave. The difference in temperature between the cave opening and where she’d slept left her curious. She wanted to know what it meant.
The warmth grew with each step. There was something familiar about it, but Dove couldn’t remember why. Exhaustion, hunger, and frustration for getting herself into the situation at all assaulted her senses, making it impossible to think clearly. She followed the curve and felt the warmth grow even stronger. Dragon. She recognized the scent. It was a dragon’s cave.
Stumbling backward toward the cave opening, Dove sat on the pile of blankets, drew her knees up to her chest, and laid her head on them. She had to get out of there. Where could she go? Was it better to be cold in a cave unfrequented by a dragon or warm? Could she find another cave before she froze? How could she find it with walls of snow covering all of the openings?
Confusion overtook her as she sat there wondering. Would the dragon see the blizzard as a reason to go feed his mate or would it know, instinctively, that it wasn’t safe to try to fly in such a blinding storm. The restless sounds from deep within the cave grew more frenetic and finally, stopped all together. She listened, fear growing in her belly until she thought she’d go crazy with fright and worry.
She shivered. Each minute she hesitated, she grew colder and colder until she finally felt driven deeper into the cave to seek more of the dragon’s warmth. It was gone, and as she realized it, she understood that the dragon was gone too. It had flown out into the storm.
Curious, she scrambled through the unfamiliar darkness to the wall of snow at the opening of the cave. Thankful for her gloves, she dug out a fresh hole to peer out into the whitene
ss. The storm still raged, snow swirling everywhere, obscuring the time of day from Dove’s view. She thought she saw a darker spot in the sky in front of her, but couldn’t be sure.
Two eyes peering into her hole obscured her view. Screams echoed through the caverns and out into the coldness. Dove couldn’t be certain if the screams were hers or if they belonged to those eyes. When she looked out again, they were gone. They weren’t the eyes of the dragon or an animal. The features around them were human, or close to it. Something didn’t seem right, but it had been so brief, she wasn’t sure what she’d seen anymore.
A sound outside sent her peeking again. It was the dragon. She saw the outline of the great beast as he flew over the top of the cliffs and disappeared. Minutes later, the odd scraping and scratching sounds returned and with them, the warmth that had once filled the caves. For some reason, he didn’t come her way, a thought that both comforted and confused her. However, thanks to him, she wouldn’t freeze. She might starve, but she wouldn’t freeze.
Chapter 6
Missing
The second morning after Dove’s disappearance, the storm seemed harsher than ever. Biting winds, many feet of snow that swirled wildly before settling into drifts, and the occasional flying tree branch made for a very loud outdoors. Philip sat in the Fletchers’ cottage, watching every scrape of Tom’s knife, reworking the numbers on his tablet, and wishing they could join Broðor Clarke in the chapel for a worship service. This Lord’s Day would not find them chanting the familiar hymns. Occasionally, he peeked behind the thick blankets that covered the tiny window and looked out to see if there was any change, knowing that there wouldn’t be.
Eyes gritty with sleep, Philip yawned and forced open one eye. Una rocked contentedly in her chair, her midsection swollen to immense proportions. Bertha said the baby wouldn’t arrive before the new year, but he couldn’t imagine her body stretching any further. He listened for the sound of the wind battering the cottage but heard nothing. Maybe—
“Is the storm over?” Even as he spoke, Philip jumped from his bed and ran for the window.
“It stopped just before daybreak. I’m going to try to scoop us out.”
Philip nodded as Tom spoke. The door had been covered with blown snow the previous night. Unfortunately, there was nowhere to put the snow, so Philip and Tom worked as a team, scooping and dumping into a bucket, one after the other. It was a perfect relay after they found a rhythm. Una waddled to the fire and dumped the snow into the soup cauldron to melt. Even though the snow took up much less space when it melted, the cauldron threatened to boil over in a short while.
Tom went to gather Una’s other pots, but Philip had an idea. “Why can’t we throw the boiling water on the snow to make it melt? It’ll freeze into ice, but we can chip it away. At least that way we can get out.”
“That’s smart thinking, Philip.”
“But Tom, you can’t carry that big boiling thing. How would you lift it?” Una objected.
“We’ll fill the pans with the boiling water,” Philip suggested.
It took a long time, and the wood was getting low in the house after so many days of being cooped up indoors, but eventually, a path was cleared around the house— one that was quite slippery. Una bustled after them, trying to keep the stone floor dry. Philip swept woodchips from the wall next to the fireplace and from the floor. As swiftly as possible, he brought in wood, laid it out to dry in front of the fire, and then stacked it. The task took most of the morning, and he hardly stopped for his breakfast.
Una complained to Tom, but he just hushed her. “Let him be, Una. He’s been cooped up in here with nothing to do but work those letters and numbers on that tablet. The boy needs activity.”
Although Philip overheard them, he chose to ignore their speculation, and continued to dust snow from the wood and bring it inside to fill his little woodpile by the fire. As soon as wood felt dry to the touch, he moved it to the wall, until Tom put a stop to it. “That wood isn’t ready to stack yet, Philip. It’ll never get dry if you do it so soon. Just leave it and I’ll stack. I can’t do much of anything else today anyway.”
“Should I—”
“Get out of here for a few hours? Yes. Wrap up warm, and if it looks like it’s going to storm again, get home, or take shelter.”
“But—” Philip wanted to go more than anything, but his sense of duty made him hesitate.
“Do I have to take lessons from Hugh Armstrong on how to manage my apprentice? Be gone with you!” Were it not for the twinkle in Tom’s eyes, Philip would have been assured of his anger.
“Thanks Tom! I’ll be back to—”
“Sleep sometime around bedtime. Not a minute sooner unless you get hungry for your dinner.”
Unlike summertime, Philip couldn’t just race off into the streets of Wynnewood to see what damage the storm might have done. He stood at the corner of the Fletcher’s cottage, debating which way to go. Should he try to make it up the hill to the castle and see if Liam was doing better? Should he check in on his mother, or see if Dove and Bertha had made it through the storm? Even as he thought it, Philip turned toward Dove’s cottage. Bertha might have news of Liam, and he wouldn’t have to try to trudge through the snow and uphill both.
He backtracked and went behind the cottage, around the other properties, and down the village road that led to places away from Wynnewood. The walk was tedious and exhausting. His legs burned from the force required to wade through the calf-high snow. Twice he stumbled in a drift that came up to his waist, soaking him with the cold wetness. As he climbed the stone wall that separated Bertha’s cottage from the road, he saw Bertha doing something very strange— almost eerie.
She carried a steaming pot, waving it in front of her as she walked around the front doorstep. It looked like a pagan ritual, but for what, he couldn’t imagine. After a moment, Bertha disappeared inside the cottage and reemerged carrying another pot. “I see you there, young Philip. What do you want?”
“I came to see Dove and ask about Liam.”
As he approached, he saw the contents of the pot and frowned, confused. Bertha noticed and laughed. “You thought I had some magic concoction in here; didn’t you?”
“What are you doing?”
“Melting the snow away from the door so I can shovel my way off the property.”
“We threw hot water onto ours.”
“Good, but then there’s more water to freeze into ice. This’ll be thin enough that I can break it with a shovel. That Tom’s a bright man.” Bertha waited, but Philip didn’t contradict her. “I’ll give you credit. Most boys would have assured me that it was their idea.”
“How do you know it was? It could easily have been Tom’s idea; why say it’s mine?”
“Because we both know that while a brilliant fletcher, Tom isn’t a very practical or intelligent man. You do him credit.”
Praise from Bertha’s lips was both unfamiliar and awkward. She didn’t like him, so why the change? It felt much too awkward, so Philip changed the subject. “How is Liam?”
“I’ve just extricated myself from my own house. How should I know?”
“Why isn’t Dove helping?”
“The girl is gone. Dead, most likely.” As cold as her words were, Bertha’s voice caught slightly on the word dead.
Fear clutched at Philip’s heart. “What!”
“She went off into the storm on Friday when I got back from the castle and hasn’t returned. She couldn’t have survived such cold with just her cloak and a blanket.”
“How could you let her go out like that? Have you no compassion at all?”
“She does what she does.” Bertha’s eyes narrowed. “As you should know by now.”
“I can’t believe how heartless—” Philip stared at Bertha’s hair streaked with gray and saw something in the woman’s eyes that stunned him more. “You’re relieved.”
“I am— in a way. It isn’t easy trying to make a living with the Ge-sceaft living in my h
ome.”
“You are living in hers now.”
She shrugged as if Philip’s correction was a mere trifle. “Think what you will.”
“You ungrateful old hag! That girl does everything for you, and your first thought when she goes missing is that you won’t be suspect in the minds of superstitious villagers. That’s despicable!”
“Watch yourself, boy. Tom Fletcher will not like to hear that his apprentice has been impertinent to the woman who will attend his wife in the next few weeks.”
Philip, trying to fight off the rising emotions that come with grief, grasped onto anger as if a lifeline. “Tell him what you will. You’re evil, hateful, and I can’t believe you’re just going to go on with your day without even trying to find her.” Fury blinding his steps, Philip pushed through the snow, across the yard, through the trees, and stopped just inside the tree line, panting. It was embarrassing how slow he’d had to go in his disgusted retreat. Had he looked behind him, he’d have been stunned to see Bertha standing with arms crossed— grinning.
Aimlessly, Philip wandered through Wyrm Forest until he found himself at the edge of the clearing. His lungs burned from the exertion, his body shivered with the cold and wetness that clung to him, and yet he didn’t notice these things at first. Instead, he stood and gazed across the little tree-encircled expanse of pure white snow and marveled at the beauty before him. He’d never seen that clearing after a heavy snow. Before that past spring, he hadn’t known it existed. Like most of Wynnewood, he’d believed the tales of dragons inhabiting Wyrm Forest, hence the name, “dragon forest.”
Rested, Philip tried to think of where Dove might have gone. They’d planned to meet to search for unicorns. Had she gone to the tree where they’d waited? Where would she have taken shelter? Could she have made it to the tunnel from Wynnewood Castle near Heolstor Forest, or would she have searched for something closer? He chose to go to the tunnels first. It seemed the most logical.
The Annals of Wynnewood Complete Series Page 23
