Wintermore (Aeon of Light Book 1)

by Sethlen, Aron

  “You mean this isn’t the first time?”

  “I connected to a horse a few days ago and killed the hen yesterday.”

  Yaz gives Preta a cautious nod and places his hand on her shoulder. “You know you better not do any of that crazy light shit to me.”

  Preta chuckles. “Of course not, but Yaz, please don’t tell anyone about this.”

  Yaz snorts and rolls his head in an exaggerated wide arc. “Tell anyone? Are you kidding me? I’ve got a reputation to uphold.”

  Preta giggles and glances at the bear. “I thought it had you.”

  “Me too, Sis, me too.” Yaz inspects his shoulder. His sweater torn and a small stream of blood seeps out and stains the grey wool.

  “Will that be all right?” Preta says, pointing at his arm.

  “It’s just a scratch, it’s nothing.” Yaz kneels next to the bear and sticks his blade into the fur, cutting deep into its chest. “We need to get our stories straight about this.” He cuts the length of the bear, then he points to its arm. “Lift it so I can get underneath.”

  Yaz stops cutting and with two hands yanks bear fur away from flesh and slides his blade underneath, sawing back and forth, removing the entire fur coat. He stands up straight and twirls the dagger in his hand. Yaz gives Preta the best scholarly look he can plausibly pull off. “How about this? The bear charged me, and you tossed me an arrow, and I caught it in midair taking the bear down.” Yaz rocks his head side to side in deep debate. “Which is sorta true because it was the arrow you shot that I grabbed.”

  Preta smiles, just happy Yaz is alive. “I don’t care, whatever you say is what I’ll go with.”

  “Good.” Yaz nods and points at the bamboo forest. “Grab my other blade, and cut six long bamboo stalks of similar length—of the six, cut four in half.”

  Preta chops the bamboo pieces to Yaz’s specifications, and she drags them back to him.

  Yaz turns to Preta as he stands next to the bearskin with the claws lying on top of it. “That’s what we need.” He fastens the bamboo with twine, making a litter with two long poles tied to the ends. Yaz butchers the rest of the bear into manageable pieces and tosses them on the litter. “Set your stuff on the bamboo, and grab a handle, Sis; it’s time to get home.”

  THE LONG NIGHT

  Roscoe meets Preta and Yaz at the fence bordering the Penter property, and he examines the litter. He noses the meat and licks the bloodstained bamboo.

  It’s dark and the barn lantern is already lit. Burning pine lingers in the air from the smoke rising from the cottage’s chimney.

  Preta and Yaz groan at the same time as they stop next to the barn and drop the litter handles.

  “Made it, good job,” Yaz says.

  Preta places her hands on hips. “That sure wasn’t what I expected.”

  “You’re telling me. Now go wash up. I’ll get Deet to help me finish with the meat. We’ve got a lot of work to do tonight.”

  Preta slings her pack and lights a torch.

  At the washhouse, she grabs two water buckets and goes inside. “Ouch, my hands.”

  Preta places the torch in a round notch in the wooden wall and strips off her clothes. Flickering light reveals Preta’s hands covered in blisters, dirt, and blood. The flapping skin on her palms stiffens her fingers. The pain stings deep into her bones.

  Preta submerges her hands in the cool water, and with a cringe she immediately snaps them out. Pins and needles shoot up her arms, making her head throb. Preta clinches her teeth, closes her eyes, and slowly dips her hands back into the bucket. In a meditative trance, she gently rubs her hands together.

  The pain subsides enough for Preta to move on to her other body parts. She bends over to wash her legs, and they cramp. She lets out a moan and washes the rest of her body in less than a minute, not caring about her cleanliness. Preta shakes the water off her body like a dog, slips on her clothes, and hobbles to the cottage. Inside, she slams the cottage door shut and tosses her dirty clothes into the corner.

  Grandpa leans forward in his rocker. “There she is, tangled with a bear, did yah?”

  “You can say that, Gramps.”

  Nala stands with hands on hips. “Are we gonna hear the real story or what? I mean, come on, catching an arrow in midair and jamming it into a bear’s eye, really?” Nala shakes her head in disbelief. “That boy’s gone too far this time.”

  “But that’s what happened,” Preta says. “It was impressive.”

  Nala sneers and flicks her hair. “Seriously, come on, the bear was lying on the ground dead when he shoved an arrow in its eye, right?”

  “Nope, the bear was definitely alive—mean and aggressive too. I thought we were done for.”

  Nala’s face contorts even more than usual. “Fine, when you want to tell me the real story, and I mean the real story, I’d sure like to hear it. Otherwise we’ll be forced to relive the tale of Yaz the bear slayer every night from now on.”

  “All right, Nala. But really, it was impressive.”

  “Humph,” Nala says, turning away with another flick of her hair.

  Grandpa pounds his fist on the table. “Damn, girl, that must’ve been a right near-perfect toss to hit Yaz’s hand in motion with a bear charging him.”

  Preta sits in a chair across from Grandpa. “It was—I even impressed myself.”

  Nala tosses a log on the fire and glowing sparks shoot out the opening and land on the blackened stone floor. “Humph.”

  Deet, carrying a full meat bucket, kicks open the front door. “We gotta a lot of work to do tonight. Here’s the first load, Nala. Yaz is preparing the smokehouse now.”

  “Need any help?” Preta says.

  “When Nala finishes cleaning the first batch, bring it out for Yaz to hang.”

  Preta nods and smiles. “Okay.”

  “You both sure brought back a good haul today. Not sure about the whole Yaz the arrow-gouging bear slayer though.”

  Yaz pushes open the door. He stands in the open doorway until all eyes in the room fall upon him, a cocky smug grin plastered on his face. “Nothing better than the taste of bear, especially Filet de’ Baz.”

  “Whatever,” Nala says, rolling her eyes.

  Yaz moves to the table and leans on it with both hands. He sticks his face to within a foot of Nala’s. “Come on, give credit where credit’s due.”

  “Out of my face, slayer—before I slay you.”

  Preta heads for the front door. “I’ll bring the next bucket out for you, Yaz.”

  “Sounds good.” Yaz follows Preta outside and bumps the door with his hip. He glances back at Nala and winks. A bear claw and arrow dangle from a leather string around his neck.

  Nala sneers and flicks her hair. “Whatever, slayer my behind.”

  An hour later, Preta’s feet drag along the moonlit path as she carries meat buckets.

  Ahead, cherry wood smoke emanates from the small smokehouse perched on the hill.

  Preta opens the door, and Yaz hangs a meat strip on a wooden rack.

  “How many more, Sis?”

  “This is the last one.”

  “Finally,” Yaz says.

  Preta hangs the last of the meat strips while Yaz watches on.

  They stagger back to the cottage in a dazed silence.

  Preta strains to keep her sore eyes open, and they feel as if they’re going to close, and she will sleep for a week. Though she knows she can’t, the biggest day in her young career is tomorrow. She stares at the ground, imagining the task ahead, visualizing the lights and darks, carving shapes in the passing shadows. A bed creeps along the ground, floating in front of Preta, and her head twitches.

  A worrisome sensation befalls her, a feeling of the unknown, somewhere between excitement and fear. If I don’t finish the project tomorrow, it won’t be done for the town ceremony next week. She rubs her eyelids and sighs.

  Yaz shoves open the front door and climbs the ladder up to the loft. “Night, Sis.”

  Preta snaps
out of her drowsy mental exercise and closes the door behind her.

  Deet meets Preta halfway to her room. “Straight to bed with you. We leave in a few hours, so try to get as much sleep as you can.”

  Preta nods, staggers into her room, and falls onto her bed face-first with a bounce—asleep.

  WISDOM BROUGHT TO LIFE

  “Wake up,” Deet says, shaking Preta’s bed. “Time to go, get up. It’s time to move, we’re already late.”

  Preta rolls onto her side. “Mmm-mmm-mmm—I don’t want to.”

  “Get up, Preta, tea and breakfast are ready. We’ll eat on the way to town. Move, young lady, it’s time to go.”

  Groggy, Preta sits up in her bed while staring at the far wall, unable to keep her stiff eyes open for more than a few seconds.

  “Get out of bed, move.” Deet slams the door leaving Preta’s room.

  Preta swats the air. “I’m up, I’m up.” She sneers and glares at the door. “All right.” Preta pushes off the bed and hobbles to the corner and gets dressed. After grabbing her backpack, she heads to the main room where Nala hands her a cup of tea and a warm bundle of glazed bread.

  Nala points at the front door. “Deet’s in the cart and don’t forget your tools.”

  “Yeah, yeah, in the barn, I know.”

  The chilly air hits Preta hard as she steps outside. Her eyes snap open from the shock, and her skin shivers.

  “Let’s go, move!” Deet says.

  “Jeez, what the heck already.” Preta sways and scurries across the yard. At the barn, she stuffs bread into her mouth and snatches her tool bucket off a bench.

  “Got everything?” Deet says.

  Preta throws her things into the cart. “Yeah.”

  “You sure?”

  “Ready,” Preta says.

  Deet raises his eyebrows in disbelief. “You sure?”

  “Yup, let’s go.”

  Deet hands Preta a wool blanket. “Put this around you.” He cracks the reins. “And we’re off.”

  Preta wraps her body with the blanket so only her face and fingers poke out.

  The cart passes through the fence gate and Deet shivers as he stares at the glistening frost built up on the limp long grass. “When the frost tingles and the winds bite, the ghosts of Wintermore—”

  Preta flings open her blanket and backhands Deet’s shoulder. “Stop it, you know that poem freaks me out.”

  Deet chuckles. “Sorry, couldn’t help myself, but you know what they say if it frosts before mid autumn.”

  Preta rolls her eyes. “Those are just bedtime stories grandmothers tell children to scare them.”

  “Then they shouldn’t bother you.”

  “Whatever, no one’s going to die,” and Preta snaps her blanket shut. Only Preta’s face peeks through a small hole as she eyes the warm bread calling her. She raises her hands and lowers her head, meeting her breakfast halfway, biting into the sweet glazed crust.

  The sun pokes above the horizon, though it’s not getting any warmer, and Preta wraps the blanket over her eyes, which makes her sleepy again, and she dozes off.

  Deet shakes Preta’s arm. “Wake up, we’re here.”

  “Already?” Preta says.

  “Yes, time to work.”

  Preta unwraps the blanket and yawns. “I’m up.”

  Deet shoves a water pouch into her chest. “Drink.”

  Ahead, walking toward the cart, Lurrus is carrying a small four-legged stool. She smiles at them and waves.

  Deet smiles and hops off the cart. “My darling.”

  Lurrus holds out her hand with a seductive wrist tilt. “Good morning, my love.”

  Deet bends over and kisses her hand, leaving his lips on her skin a few seconds longer than normal.

  Lurrus nods at Preta. “How’s our favorite artist doing this morning?”

  Preta grumbles and struggles to get down from the cart.

  “That good?” Lurrus chuckles.

  “The artist had a long night,” Deet says, “long story. I’ll tell you about it later, but right now I think it’s best to get her moving and keep her that way, or she may find a corner and fall asleep on you.”

  Lurrus’s eyes narrow as she scans Preta. “Oh she’ll move all right, there’s too much work to get done today. Wouldn’t want to disappoint the people, right?”

  Preta rubs her sore eyes and sucks in a deep breath. “Right, no disappointment, got it.” She stretches her arms high above her head as she lets out a groan.

  Deet blows Lurrus a kiss. “All right, love, I’m off to work. And Preta, we know you’ll do great. I’ll be at the Meezer’s the rest of the day. Just make sure you meet me back here before dusk.”

  Preta blinks and gives Deet a tired smile.

  Lurrus snatches Preta’s hand. “No time for sleep, off we go.” Lurrus shuffles forward and jerks Preta’s arm with a quick tug.

  Preta flinches in pain. “Dang it, I guess that’s one way to wake me up.”

  “It seems to work most of the time,” Lurrus says. “Now, have you thought anymore on what we talked about last time?”

  “Focus on the darks first and view everything in shapes and not specific things. Keep my hands moving around the entire workspace and visualize the end before I start. Don’t deny the mistake, make it my own and better.”

  Lurrus lets go of Preta’s wrist and places her arm around Preta’s shoulder. “The Academy of Arts and Science will be more than pleased to have you as their student.”

  Preta’s eyes open wider. “You really think it’s possible?”

  “Of course I do. Remember, hard work will get you where you want to go; talent and hard work will make you great.”

  Preta and Lurrus reach the town’s northern entrance. On each side of the road, in front of a stone wall, burlap wrapping covers two large objects.

  Preta unties the twine binding the burlap on one, and Lurrus unties the other.

  The burlap falls off in a whoosh, revealing two five-foot-high incomplete wooden figures.

  “Which one do you want to start with?”

  Preta glances between the two amorphous figures. “The woman.”

  Lurrus sets the four-legged stool on the ground and sits. “Scan the wood, Preta. Do you see what you want to create?”

  “I don’t see,” Preta says, squinting harder in deep concentration.

  “Pick up your tools, feel them, rub them, make them part of you, make the tools extensions of your hands and mind. Now, take in the wood, touch it, feel the texture, the grain, the bark, the smooth cuts, the sharp cuts. Do you see?”

  Preta sighs. “No.”

  “Close your eyes, visualize what you want to do—your movements. How does the woman appear to you when she’s complete? Now open your eyes and step back. Visualize her again and look deep inside her. Do you see?”

  “I see,” Preta says as her eyes slowly open.

  “Then begin. Flow with the wood grain, and free your hands. Keep moving and release them from their burden and your vision will come to life.”

  Preta presses tools to wood and chips away at the woodblock. She pauses and steps back then tilts her head staring at the marks.

  Lurrus leans forward. “Free your mind, just let it come out. Don’t step back, go with the flow and don’t stop.”

  Preta’s hands creep over the wood, some chips here, some scrapes there, a mallet strike, the chisel, the knife, the pick, the file, and over and over and over. She forces herself not to think, to not step back, she moves side to side circling the woodblock.

  Soon, Preta forgets everything and just moves; her mind and hands relax, fully in tune with the present. Her fluid body moves innately guided by another force.

  Slices and chunks of wood fly off the block at a quickened pace.

  Hours pass without Preta stepping away. Her hands suddenly stop, and she questions herself. Why am I stopping? Is it done? But Preta’s mind quickly shifts to her parched mouth, and she smacks her dry gums. She steps away and doesn’
t inspect her work. Instead, Preta grabs the water pouch and drinks the entire contents without coming up for air.

  Lurrus stands with hands clasped together. “Good, very good. No need to inspect her yet. Gather yourself for a minute, and rest. When you’re ready, move on to the other figure.”

  Preta stuffs a piece of meat and bread into her mouth and chews it as she eyes the incomplete man across the road. Preta visualizes every chop, carve, strike, and stroke. She swallows with an exaggerated gulp and tosses the water pouch to the ground.

  Lurrus grabs her stool and Preta’s tools and places them next to the unfinished figure.

  Preta takes a few deep breaths and strolls toward the sculpture.

  Lurrus hands Preta a chisel and hammer. “Remember, don’t think, be in the present and free yourself from everything. Let your hands complete what you’ve completed in your mind a thousand times over.”

  Preta lays chisel to wood and sculpts. She hesitates, one foot steps back with chisel inching off the block. Mistake. Preta shakes her head, keep moving. With hands up, she steps forward. Her mind lets go, freeing herself from the mistake. Preta relaxes. Her hands move with blinding speed and with a mind of their own.

  Wood chips fly off the block and litter the ground in a blanket of curly shavings.

  Preta drops the chisel and snatches a file.

  Hours pass and a sculpture of an old man takes form.

  Preta’s hands suddenly stop with no thought of doing so. She steps back, and exhausted, her butt collapses onto the stool.

  Lurrus hands Preta the water pouch. “Wonderful.”

  Preta gazes at the figures.

  An old man with nude torso stands before her. Proud, the figure appears mostly human though otherworldly. Every bone, muscle, fat, wrinkle, hair, and sinew is sculpted into the wood. The expression is welcoming but stern, wise but carefree. His hollow eyes peer back at Preta with the vision of many years past and lives long gone. He’s alive but worn, tired but awake, at the end though still at the beginning.

  Preta’s focus shifts to her other creation.

  The elderly woman, carved in a same manner as the old man, with a nude torso, is aged by time and hardship though radiant and beautiful, every bit as detailed and expressive as the old man.