by J. L. Foster
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Amira Press
www.amirapress.com
Copyright ©
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Shaded Whisperings:
Playing St. Nick
Copyright © December 2007, J.L Foster
Cover art by J.L Foster© December 2007
Amira Press
Baltimore, MD 21216
www.amirapress.com
ISBN: 978-1-934475-32-4
No part of this e-book may be reproduced or shared by any electronic or mechanical means, including but not limited to printing, file sharing, and email, without prior written permission from Amira Press.
Dedication
Dedicated to the memory of Ira Levin, one of the greatest
novelists of all time and one of my heroes.
Ira Marvin Levin—August 27, 1929 to November 12, 2007
May you live forever.
Chapter One
November, Europe, 1492
"Ye best watch out for icy patches,” young Graedal Smit warned his smaller sister. “It be cold, but yon ice be thin."
"Aye,” she agreed softly, holding onto her brother's hand and staring all around her at the falling snow and the patches that glistened from the dead branches of the surrounding trees. Her eyes were everywhere but where they needed to be—below, at her feet.
It was nearing dark and the children had been lost in the woods outside of their village for hours. It had been their stepmother's idea to have a picnic near the woods in the dead of winter, and neither she nor the children's father had attended the event. They had, instead, sent a servant along with the siblings, who escorted them in a horse-driven carriage to the edge of the village, where he instructed them to pick a spot for the picnic while he tended to the horse. The children had not been thirty meters away before the carriage suddenly rode off in a frenzy—abandoning them in the cold, bitter woods.
"Fine then,” Graedal had protested, waving his ten year old fist in the air and stomping his foot into the thick of the snow. “Ye can leave us here if ye wish! We don’ need ye!"
"We don'?” eight year old Estella asked as she shivered against the cold.
"Bloody no!” her brother had cried. “Man done survived in this wilderness for centuries without servants or parents. We don’ need no one! Come on!"
Four hours ago, Graedal Smit had taken his sister's hand and led her into the cold, mysterious Exile Wood and he had not let go once. The further they walked, the deeper into the woods they became. Soon, the sun had set completely and darkness befell the woods around them. All was silent. A frosted blanket of winter had quieted most creatures into a restful and long hibernation. Aside from fear of wolves, Graedal felt that he and his sister were relatively safe.
Yet, there was no food for them to eat on this night. In the servant's hurry to rush them from the carriage, Graedal and Estella had forgotten to take the basket of food that the family cook had prepared for them. There was no vegetation around them to be eaten either. The ice and snow had killed away all greener until spring.
"I be hungry, Graedal,” Estella complained as they safely crossed the frozen creek and stepped back onto secure ground.
"Aye, yer hungry,” he agreed knowingly. “I be hungry too, sister, but we have a long way left to travel before we find us a bit to eat again."
"Why do yon villagers refer this wood as Exile Wood?” the sister asked, changing the conversation away from the talk of food. Perhaps it would help her stomach not feel so empty.
"Ye be too young to understand, Estie,” Graedal laughed, chuckling off the question without a second thought. Much to his discomfort however, his sister was now more curious than before.
"Tell me, Graedal,” she pleaded with sad eyes and pouting lips. “Please, oh, please tell me. After all, we be stuck out in the woods. We should talk about things of interest!"
"Ye be too curious for yer own good,” he grunted as he rolled his eyes at her. Still, he had to admit to himself that it was an excellent story and one he had enjoyed discussing with his mates many times before. Perhaps his sister had come of an age where he could tell her the tale—and truly make it enjoyable. “But alright,” he grinned, tightening the grip of his hand around hers as they walked. “If ye really wanna know, then I'll bloody tell ye."
The excitement in Estella's face was evident, but her grip on her brother's hand was fierce. Graedal had never known his sister to be so strong. It felt as if her nails were digging into his flesh, and perhaps they were. He stayed silent for a moment, wondering if the absence of words would build more anticipation for his story, but the pain being inflicted into his hand was enough to finally bring the story to his lips.
"Aye, lass, it began some time ago, with pillagers and murderers, thieves and rapists.” Glancing down, he could tell that Estella did not understand the meanings of all of the words that he spoke of, but she took them in with the knowledge that they were important to the story. “These evil fools were ruining the village, an’ so they had to be stopped. One by one, they were captured by the villagers and beaten with stones and sticks in the center of town. When they were so bloody and so weak that they could hardly move or breathe, they was taken by the villagers and tossed into the wood. None of the crooked souls could survive the wood in the condition that they was left here, and none of ‘em ever returned or was seen from again."
"Do ... do ye think they still be out here,” Estella asked with a lump in her throat. She tightened her grip on her brother's hand even more and stared around her at the wintry, black as night Exile Wood.
"Nay,” Graedal chortled humorously. “They was all eaten by wolves an’ the like, I be sure. Although—"
"Although what?” she asked, coming to a dead stop and refusing to budge further until her curiosities were settled.
"There was this one man—a horrible man—worst than any of the others. They say that he was pure evil with not a lick of good in his heart or soul.” He smiled a bit as he saw a flash of terror sparkle in his sister's eyes. “His name was Nicholas Von Barron, an’ his hobby was killin’ children."
Estella's eyes grew with panic and she took a quick step backwards, afraid of her brother's next words.
"For weeks, one by one, the children of the village began to disappear. At first, it was worried that they had wondered too close to the woods, an’ that the wolves had been eatin’ them. After several weeks of this, they learned that it wasn't no beast—not in the typical sense anyway. It had been a man—a hermit who had lived on the outskirts of the village, killin’ all those children. Some say he would eat them. Others say he just tortured ‘em an’ fed ‘em to the wolves."
Estella was paler than Graedal had ever seen, and she was trembled while she watched him. Graedal knew that she was not trembling from the cold. She was trembling from his tale.
"Nicholas was revealed when he attacked a group of children wanderin’ throughout the village streets at a late hour one winter's night—cold like this ‘un be. There had been five children. Two of ‘em managed to escape an’ tell ever'one ‘bout Nicholas an’ his ways. The other three, well—they weren't never seen again.
"The villagers hunted down Nicholas Von Barron, decidin’ that he was worthy of the worst beating of all—death, even. They dragged him from his home an’ to the villag
e square, where they tied him to a stake surrounded by straw. Aye, but the villagers were rampant. They each wanted a piece of the child killer, but t'was the village priest who took the first step toward the murderer's doom. Takin’ a torch from a peasant's hand, he lit the straw aflame, ignitin’ a bright light o'er all the village. But when the fire reached Nicholas, the flames dwindled out. Many blame the cold winds of the winter, but some claim that Nicholas was unearthly an’ that he used magic to calm the flames."
Estella was rendered speechless. Quietly, she remembered dreams that she had envisioned recently during her bedtime slumbers. She could plainly see the face—pale and round, covered in a thick, white beard and mustache. He wore a woolen red hat atop his head, and now she was more certain than she had been in her dreams that the hat was red because it was stained with blood—the blood of children. His eyes were cold and blue like ice, and his mouth opened to a pit of blackness as he laughed with the pitch of the devil.
He had merely frightened her in her nightmares, but now Nicholas scared her more than she could have imagined. Now, she knew this nightmare man was real.
"They beat him with the heaviest stones they could lift,” Graedal continued. “They clobbered him with large branches an’ even cut into his flesh with rusty blades. The story has it he fell unconscious from the pain an’ was led to an abandoned in Exile Wood. They left him for dead like all the others, but this time the killings did not cease. Ever’ time a child wandered too close to the woods, they were never seen again."
"But—we be lost in Exile Wood now, brother.” Estella spoke for the first time since Graedal's mention of Nicholas Von Barron.
"Aye,” he snickered, clenching tightly to her hand and leading her deeper into the black, cold woods. “But I be here with ye, an’ I shall defend ye with all me life!"
His heroic stance and tone of voice made Estella giggle, and for the moment, she forgot her fears of Nicholas, the child killer of Exile Wood.
"We haven't much to worry about, I assure ye,” Graedal continued. “We'll be safely out of these woods an’ into the next village by morn at the latest."
"I sure hope ye be right,” Estella commented weakly. “Me stomach be speakin’ again."
"Tell it to be patient. That's what I be doing with mine."
Now silent, they wandered deeper into the thick of the woods, taking little notice to the changes around them. The snow fell heavier here. The ice spread wider. The trees took on lives of their own, even though it was assumed that they were dead. They were taller and thicker than the trees at the edge of Exile Wood had been, and they were of a different breed as well. These were evergreens—dead, dried, and left for the insects of the world to feast upon. Yet, as the trees had died, they had not rotted. They still stood tall and mighty with snow covering areas that should have held vibrant, green needles.
Estella suddenly became aware of her surroundings when, from somewhere deeper into the woods, a dim light shone in the distance.
"Look,” she whispered, bewildered. “We must be nearin’ a village. There be a cottage just up the way."
"Maybe the blokes have food,” Graedal snorted hungrily.
As the pace of the children quickened, they felt the cool breeze pass them by. The cottage was maybe a hundred meters or so away, and they could smell the shelter. Then the children came to an abrupt stop, hearing the distinct sound of a branch snapping from somewhere behind them. This was not the first time they had heard this sound since journeying into the woods, but this was the first time it had alerted them. Before, it had sounded like nothing more than snow falling from branches onto the ground or icy patches crackling in the cold. This time the noise had been more distinct and sounded like someone stepping on and breaking a twig as they walked.
Turning around, the children stared into the black, snowy wonderland.
"Who be it?” Graedal called out—his voice no more than a shaded whispering over the sudden howl of the wind.
"I don't think anyone is there,” Estella commented as she tried to see through the black and white array of night.
"Perhaps ye be right,” her brother agreed with hesitation. “Yon night be playin’ tricks on the ears, lass. Nothing more perhaps."
"Perhaps,” she whispered.
Turning their backs to the abrupt but seemingly harmless sound and the darkness that accompanied it, the children again faced the distant, blurry yellow light. With each step they took, the light grew greater and more vibrant until they finally noticed that it was not a single light but a cluster of colored lights put together. They saw the green and yellow colors first, and then the blue and red came into clear view. It was the first time that either of them had seen colored lights, and neither had ever known a light to come from anything but a flame. They wondered exactly what kind of flame this was.
"I cannot believe it be real,” Estella sighed in amazement as they neared the multi-colored light and the cottage that barely contained it. The cottage, actually, was a mixture of ice, snow, and wood, transformed into a sort of fairy tale wonderland home. When it came into clear view, neither child had ever seen anything quite like it. The snow sat atop the cottage in a roof-like fashion, but it appeared more like a sturdy white cloud or fresh cream turned solid. This same appearance of snow appeared on each of the window ledges and above the arched door. The wood of the house was light brown in color. Icicles hung above the door and each window, even holding strong to the lining of the snow-impacted roof. All in all, the cottage was bright, intriguing, and an inviting escape from the cold.
"I'll race ye to it,” Graedal challenged, releasing his hand from his sister's for the first time in hours and taking off over the snow-covered ground.
"That's no fair!” his sister pleaded as she chased after him, finding it difficult to maneuver through the snow at a decent pace. “Ye be bigger than me!"
When she finally caught up with him, he was at a standstill. Together, they stood before the cottage, staring through the window at the magnificent multi-colored light that glowed from the center of the room. From what they could see, there was no source to the light—no flame to ignite it and no object touching it in any way. It simply hovered there, like magic. The longer they stared at it, the more they found that they could stare through it, and it dazzled them with the mesmerizing colors of the rainbow.
"It cannot be real,” Graedal insisted, turning from the window and rushing over to the door. As he placed his hand on the knob, he stopped at the touch of his sister.
"Don’ ye think we should knock first?” she asked, finding it important to remember her manners when visiting a stranger's cottage.
"If no one be home, we could be out here forever,” he griped back, brushing away her thoughts of mannerisms and pushing open the door.
Inside was just as cold as out. In fact, the term cold barely described it. The cottage felt more like a hell—a cold, icy hell. Both children shivered instantly as if they had just stepped outside from within a warm, comforting shelter—not the opposite that had occurred. Looking down, they saw that the floor was, in fact, made of ice and it was as blue as a summer sky. The walls were still wooden, just as they had appeared outside, but as Graedal looked up, he saw that the roof actually was formed of pure snow.
"This be horrible,” Estella murmured as she tried to still her trembling body. “It be worse than outside."
"No one can live here,” her brother acknowledged through a chattering jaw. “No one could survive."
"What about the light?"
"Who cares about the light? We best go or we'll just make ourselves later getting to another village."
Silently, Estella agreed. As they hurried back outside, she did so more quietly than she had ever done anything before. Her mind was suddenly plagued with questions—questions not involving finding a neighboring village. She was curious as to why her father and stepmother had abandoned them in the woods ... possibly to die.
Had their new stepmother hated them so much that
she would have rather seen them suffer than to have seen them at all? It had only been five months since the death of their mother, and they had not imagined their father would have remarried so quickly. But their new stepmother had appeared humble and warm at first, and for all that Estella could remember, the siblings had not angered the woman once.
Outside, Graedal shut the heavy door and once again took his sister's hand. It definitely felt warmer outside than inside, but that would not help them survive the night. They had to continue walking.
"We shall go around the cottage,” he instructed as they moved, “and once we're behind it, we should find a path to a village. Whoever made this cottage must have gotten to and fro it somehow."
"Let us hurry,” Estella pleaded.
At the front left corner of the cottage, Graedal began to steer to his right to turn. There, he froze with deathly fright. As Estella came around to her brother's side, she joined him in the overwhelming fear.
At that moment, the siblings learned that the myths of Exile Wood and of Nicholas Von Barron were more than mere stories made up to frighten young children. They were, in fact, true.
Halfway between the children and the back of the cottage stood one of the tallest, plumpest men that they had ever seen. He looked exactly like he had in Estella's dreams, only now she could see his full frame. He stood well over six feet high and was as round as he was tall. His mighty frame was embraced in a long reddish brown coat made from animal skin that covered him from his wide shoulders to the black of his feet. His beard was even fuller than it had been in the dreams, and its locks curled and entangled with one another from years of no grooming. His eyes were just as cold as she remembered—blue like ice—and his skin was pale and bitter. Nicholas smiled widely for the children, but his smile was empty and filled with blackness, although a fang or three could be seen here and there. Atop his head, he wore the same blood-stained cap that he'd donned in Estella's dreams, and coming face-to-face with her nightmare man now rendered the child speechless.
