Midwinterblood

by Marcus Sedgwick

It is an old story, one of love—forbidden love! And tragedy.

  Once, there were two lovers. They were young, and each was beautiful in their own way. Their names were Merle and Erik. Merle was a delight; like some fresh and fast creature from the fields. She was slender, and her light brown hair streamed down her back.

  When Erik first saw her, he was mending his fishing nets, at the quayside. She had just arrived back from the mainland, with her father, after a trip to the big city. As she stepped onto the quayside from the boat, their eyes found each other.

  Neither smiled, but when Merle tipped her head on one side, still looking at Erik, he knew immediately that he had fallen in love. Merle’s father, who was ahead of her arranging some matters with his boatman, turned and saw the look that passed between them.

  Erik glanced away, down at his fishing nets, and Merle hurried after her father.

  “What were you doing?” Merle’s father said. He was the richest man for many miles around, and it would not do for his daughter to be seen even looking at a fisherman.

  He was a wealthy merchant from the city, but he owned a house on the island, too. That day they brought new items from the city with which to decorate their island retreat.

  “I meant nothing, Father,” said Merle, and her father grunted disapprovingly.

  They went home, but as they went, Erik straightened from mending his nets and watched Merle go. He noticed how light she was, how she moved, and he knew that what he felt was real, and true.

  And yet, he also knew that trouble would come, for a love like theirs, between two such people, would never be allowed.

  * * *

  Laura paused and looked at the children.

  “There are parts of this story,” she said, her voice dropping to a whisper, “that are a little bit scary. And there are parts of this story, of which your parents might disapprove.”

  She paused again. The children watched her, eyes shining. They had never conceived of such a thing before.

  “If I tell you this story,” Laura said, “it might be best if we agreed that you will not tell your parents. Is that a good idea?”

  Both children nodded furiously.

  “Good,” said Laura. “Then I’ll continue.”

  Three

  “What could Merle do?” Laura said. “Her father, who knew just how beautiful his daughter was, and what trouble that might bring, had always kept her locked up like a prisoner when they were in the city, and the island was like another prison.”

  * * *

  She had no friends, and there was so little to do. The house they had was the grandest on the island, but Merle quickly grew bored of its rooms, and its views. She longed to go outside and when she could, she would take long walks around the island, up to its highest point, looking across the western side, or to the meadows, empty and cool now that autumn had arrived. She would walk through the grass, and the hem of her long skirts would become wet.

  But her favorite thing was to walk by the sea, along the beaches, by the rock pools, through the woods that clung to the eastern shore. And the quayside.

  She loved to watch the boats come in and out, but there was one boat that she always longed to see, the one that belonged to Erik.

  Now it happened, that on a certain black day, though it was not yet raining on the island, Merle saw a violent storm raging far out to sea. She worried for the fishermen, and for Erik, and worried more when she could not see his boat among those that had already returned.

  She spoke to herself.

  “Erik?” she murmured, to the wind.

  Then, as she stood on the quayside, she heard a voice behind her.

  “Well, so it is,” said the voice. She turned to see Erik. He smiled, shyly. He did not know how to talk to this fine young lady, did not know what he should say, though he knew very well what he wanted to say.

  Merle tilted her head.

  “Say his name and his horns appear!” she said, laughing, relieved. “But where is your boat?”

  “We put in at the south,” Erik explained. “It was becoming too dangerous to make it farther.”

  Erik looked at Merle’s skirts.

  “But you are wet already,” he said, a question on his face.

  “I was walking in the meadow,” Merle said, “but it’s nothing. It will quickly dry by the fire when I come home.”

  She stopped, looked at the stones of the quayside. “I was worried about you.”

  Erik shrugged his shoulders.

  “It is what we do,” he said. “But a storm is coming. You ought to go home before it swings this way.”

  Erik hesitated, then plucked up his courage.

  “I could see you safely home.”

  “Thank you,” said Merle. “But I know the way, well.”

  “I know you do,” Erik said, and then there was a silence between them.

  Merle shook her head.

  “But you may not walk me home,” she said. “Father…”

  She stopped.

  “Goodbye,” she said. “I am glad you are safe.”

  She turned, and she walked back through the meadows, getting the hem of her skirt wetter still.

  She was about halfway across the meadow, when, feeling a pricking on her neck, she turned. There, a fair way behind her, walked Erik, following her like a specter.

  She turned and walked on, and then turned again. There was no doubt, he was following her, but at a distance.

  She pressed on, her feet starting to chill thoroughly from the damp.

  It grew dark with nightfall and thunderclouds as she approached the house, fingers of mist stroking her hair as she came out of the meadow. She hurried up the path to the front door, and was about to enter, when a low voice in the shadows spoke to her.

  It was Erik.

  She gasped.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked, but Erik didn’t answer this.

  “What did you mean? What you said at the quayside. ‘Say his name and his horns appear…’?”

  Merle smiled. “It’s just what people say. When they have been speaking of someone, and then they are there.”

  “But horns? Am I a beast? A goat, or a ram?”

  Merle looked at Erik. She noticed that the bottoms of his rough trousers were wet from the meadow grass, too.

  “But you’re wet,” she said. She took a step closer to him.

  “What kind of beast am I?” Erik asked again.

  Merle’s smile had gone.

  She stepped closer to Erik, and then he gently placed his hands on her hips, and they kissed, for a long, long time.

  When they broke away, Erik looked deep into Merle’s eyes once more.

  “You still didn’t answer my question,” he said. “What kind of beast am I…?”

  Merle laughed, too. She touched his forearm, very briefly.

  She whispered, a grin on her face, laughter in her eyes.

  “One that will be the death of me.”

  Four

  Laura stood and stretched her legs, setting the silver comb down on the chest of drawers in the twins’ room.

  They whispered to each other that it didn’t seem like a ghost story at all, it seemed like a love story. Neither of them liked love stories.

  And yet the full hunter’s moon shone in through the window, and there was something about Laura, in her black dress with its purple hem, that made the telling scary. And there was something about the words she used to tell the story that made them realize something bad was going to happen.

  Laura sat down again, pulling aside the skirts of the black dress, and continued.

  * * *

  The love that Merle and Erik had for each other grew, and grew, until it consumed them both.

  It was hard for them.

  Erik was always busy, either fishing or spending hours mending his nets. It was not an easy way to make a living, and left little time for pleasure.

  And Merle’s father watched her like a hawk watches a mouse in the mead
ow. He had sensed a change in her, and had sensed that something was going on. He was suspicious, and it became harder and harder for her to escape for even five minutes.

  But they say that love will find a way, and they are right.

  Love always finds a way.

  And so they continued to meet, in secret, mostly late at night, when Merle’s father believed she was safely shut away in bed, and when Erik should have been sleeping so he had the strength to sail his boat the following day.

  Very often they would meet at the top of the meadow, and, so as to avoid meeting anyone in the lanes, they would walk through the grass in the darkness, feeling their feet and the hems of their clothes getting soaked through.

  When their feet were numb, they knew it was time to go home again, and they would part for another night.

  One night, as they parted, Erik whispered something precious to Merle.

  “Say that you will never leave me,” he said, holding her hands.

  “I shall never leave you,” said Merle.

  “Is it so easy to say?” Erik asked, surprised.

  “It is, since it is you I speak of,” Merle answered. “I will never leave you. No matter what happens, or where you go, or what you do. I will never leave you.”

  “But it might not be so easy,” Erik said. “Our love is forbidden. It might become impossible for us to be together.”

  Merle shook her head.

  “I will find a way,” she said. “I will always find a way.”

  * * *

  That night, Merle slept deeply, but her dreams were strange and troubled.

  She slept late into the morning, and her father, growing worried about her, came into her room. She did not wake.

  He stood, looking down at his only child, and then his eyes fell upon her clothes, hanging over the back of a chair. He saw something and raised an eyebrow.

  The hems of her skirts were soaking wet, which was odd, because when she had said good night to him the night before, they had been dry.

  Five

  The next night, Merle went out, after dark, as usual.

  She had said good night to her father, as usual.

  She walked to the top of the meadow, as usual.

  She could not see Erik, so she waited.

  She waited, and when he still did not appear, she began to grow worried.

  Thinking there might have been some misunderstanding, she set off through the meadows by herself, the hem of her dress getting wet once again. She walked the entire length of the meadow, and back, and still she had not found Erik.

  Eventually, desperately worried, she decided there was nothing else she could do but to hurry home.

  A lonely figure was she, in the cold moonlight, the wind blowing the leaves from the trees in the dark, her wet skirts stroking the night grass.

  She stepped to the door of the house, and slipped in, in darkness, and had her foot on the first stair, when suddenly a voice called from the drawing room.

  “Daughter.”

  A light flickered, and there was her father, sitting in the armchair, by the dying fire.

  “What are you doing, daughter?”

  Merle came forward, forming some explanation in her head, but then her words fell away.

  She saw that her father was holding a pistol. He was pointing it at a figure who sat in the other armchair by the fire.

  It was Erik.

  Merle gasped. Erik looked at her sadly.

  “Tell me,” her father said coldly. “Tell me it isn’t true.”

  Merle shook her head.

  “I cannot!” she cried. “I cannot do that! I love him! I want to be with him forever.”

  Merle’s father stood.

  “On the contrary,” he said. “You will never see him again. Isn’t that right?”

  This remark he aimed at Erik, who stood also, miserably, looking at the floor.

  Merle cried, “No! Erik! What does he mean? Say it isn’t true!”

  But Erik shook his head. Yes, it might be true that love will always find a way, but so can hate.

  “Your father is right,” Erik said. “I’m sorry, Merle.”

  Erik headed for the door, and Merle ran to stop him, but her father stood between them, waving the pistol wildly.

  “Father! No!” Merle cried, but her father roared back in her face.

  “Go to your room!”

  He turned to Erik. “And you! Just go!”

  Merle ran upstairs sobbing.

  The door closed behind Erik.

  Her father was right; that was the last she ever saw of him.

  * * *

  The following day, early in the evening, word came to the village that there had been a death, a drowning.

  Erik had sailed as normal, with the other fishermen.

  A storm had blown up and they had run for cover at the southern end of Blest, but Erik’s boat had not returned.

  Another fisherman reported seeing him in trouble, some way behind the rest of the fleet, which he said was strange, because Erik was the best sailor of them all.

  * * *

  Two days later, Erik’s body washed up on the southern shore, nibbled by the fish that he once caught.

  A day after that, his boat was found, or the remains of it, in the shallows.

  There were signs that the bottom of the boat had been stoved in, from inside, which again everyone found odd, because it had been well enough the morning he set out to sea; everyone swore to that.

  Six

  The twins stared at each other and at Laura.

  “Do you mean, Erik drowned himself?”

  Laura nodded, slowly, and the twins’ eyes widened.

  * * *

  Erik knew their love could never be, and more than that, Merle’s father had threatened to put Erik’s whole family out of business. He was so powerful, he could have done it, just like that.

  Merle was inconsolable.

  Erik was buried in the tiny graveyard at the north of the island, and Merle went to the funeral.

  Now there was nothing Merle’s father could do to stop her, nothing with which he could threaten her. He had done the worst thing ever, and so Merle went to the funeral, unashamed of her forbidden love.

  The other mourners gossiped and whispered, and as the funeral finished and everyone left, one of them spat at the ground in front of Merle’s feet.

  That night, it was a bright full moon, a hunter’s moon, and Merle sat on Erik’s grave, sobbing.

  “I said I would never leave you,” she said, “and I won’t. I won’t break my promise.” She made a vow to herself, to Erik, there and then. “If I have to wait for a year and a day, if I have to move the mountains, if I have to cross the rivers of the underworld, I will find a way for us to be together again.”

  * * *

  Every night, at dusk, Merle would wander from her house, like a ghost, a mere shadow of her former beauty, and drift to the graveyard.

  Every night, she would sit at Erik’s grave, waiting, waiting for him to return. Eventually, she would fall asleep, her tears lost among the steady autumn rains that pattered onto the freshly turned grave soil.

  Every morning, she would stagger home to bed, a cold and fevered wretch.

  Her father tried to stop her, but no matter what he did or said, Merle took no notice of him.

  The days turned into weeks.

  The weeks turned into months.

  The months turned into a year.

  And still Merle spent every night weeping at her lover’s grave.

  As the year had passed however, something had happened to Merle, to her mind. It had grown tired, and been stretched beyond endurance, so that it tore, and so it was, a year and a day after Erik had been laid in the earth, that she went mad.

  * * *

  That night, as she slept on the grave, now well covered with grass, the gravestone softening gently with the turn of the days, she woke.

  The moon was bright, almost as bright as day.

&nb
sp; It was a clear, calm night, as still, indeed, as the grave, and she looked up to see a hare sitting on the grass, an arm’s length away.

  She knew immediately who it was, or rather, who she thought it was. In her delusion, she thought the creature was her lover.

  “Erik!” she cried, and when the hare did not run away in fright, the belief that she was right grew in her. “Erik!” she declared again, laughing, the tears streaming down her face.

  She put out her hand, and the hare hopped closer, and sniffed her fingers. She leaned closer, and the hare came right up to her face, to her lips. They kissed, lightly.

  “Erik!” she said. “How clever!”

  Then suddenly she realized something, and she sat up quickly. Now the hare bolted into the trees.

  “But how,” she cried. “How can I follow you? I must be with you, my love! How can I be with you?”

  Though even as she said the words, she knew what she had to do. The idea formed in her head, like an apple ripening, and she knew what she had to do, and who she needed to help her.

  On the hill, on the road out to the western isle, was an old woman, who knew the old ways.

  They said she was a witch, and they were right.

  Seven

  The witch’s house was the last on the right, going up the hill.

  Merle sat by her fire, almost all the light gone from her eyes, her face pale and hollow, unrecognizable from the girl Erik had once loved.

  The witch fussed around her, listening to her story, listening to what Merle asked of her.

  There was silence for a very long time, and finally Merle lifted her eyes to the witch’s.

  “Well,” she said, “can you do it?”

  The witch seemed to think for a very long time, and then nodded. Slowly. Once. “Yes, I can. Come back here, in a week.”

  “So long?” asked Merle.

  “The magic will take time to make.”

  * * *

  So Merle waited, another agonizing week.

  Every night, she sat on Erik’s grave, waiting for him to come back as the hare again, but she only saw him twice, in the distant dark trees.

  “Wait! Wait, my love!” she called. “I will be able to follow you soon!”

  And at the end of the week, she went back to the witch’s house, and sat again in the chair by the fire. “Well?”