by Chris Ord
Winter was upon them, the cruelest for many years. Clean, crisp snow enveloped the village, a prison of ice. The snow had fallen for days with no let up. Sometimes it was gentle and delicate, would slow and threaten to end. Soon dark clouds would move in and the brutal blizzard would return. Every morning Gaia would wake hoping for a glimmer of warmth, the start of the thaw, but the thick white blanket remained. Sometimes shafts of sunlight would break through the clouds, smiling with golden rays of hope. They were a false dawn, severed by blades of ice, and the bitter arctic air sucking every fragment of heat.
It was a misty morning, Gaia the only glimmer of life in the white desolation. She sat on a wooden bench overlooking a stream, wrapped in layers of thick woollen clothing and a large ill fitting overcoat. Her body shivered in the icy air, as the cold nipped at her cheeks. Gaia loved it here. The spot was secluded, protected by trees and bushes. It was a place to be alone, and the bitter weather made her feel alive again. Gaia gazed into the frozen water, a thick sheet of ice encasing what trickled below. Icicles hung from bare branches that draped the stream, glistening in the light, daggers in the sky, poised to fall.
The gentle sound of the water comforted and soothed Gaia. In the days that had passed the capture she still dreamt of her ordeal, of the torture and drowning. There were visions of Kali in the dark, musty room, the smell of damp in Gaia’s nostrils. She could almost taste the kerosene from the lamp, mixed with her own blood. Gaia would wake in the night in cold sweats gasping for air, the image of Kali’s body in her head, covered in blood, clinging to life. There was Freya, being dragged from the room.
Freya and Kali were gone, both taken to the haven, one to face justice, the other clinging to life. Freya had tried to kill Kali and may have succeeded. The haven was Kali’s only hope of survival. There had been no news since they left. Aran remained in the village. Gaia caught occasional fleeting glimpses from the window of her bedroom. He had avoided Gaia since the capture, still hiding in the shadows with his betrayal and shame. The stream had become Gaia’s refuge, her attempt to cleanse herself, and clear her head. There were important decisions to be made. Gaia had to make them soon. She would stare at the water, imagining she was a single drop within its icy flow, invisible, but there, locked within the flurry of the stream. She would let herself drift away, silent and unseen, rushing towards the sea, forever free.
Gaia would be taken to the haven. The leaders were waiting for the moment. They would not tell Gaia when, but it would happen. Every part of Gaia’s life had been shaped by others, every part betrayed. For a moment, Gaia had believed the future was hers, she had escaped the island to find and make it. The truth was the future had belonged to the community, those that made her. Gaia was left with the ashes of her love for Aran, the feelings she thought were real, but had been used to trap her. All she felt was hatred, the desire for revenge. Ruth and Mary were lost, cast into the wilderness, given to strangers, roaming the hills. Freya was gone, the sister Gaia never knew she had. The sister who had saved Gaia’s life, but in doing so may have sacrificed her own. All is not what it seems. Seek the truth. Words once filled with so much hope.
Gaia heard footsteps behind, the crunching of boots on crisp, fresh snow. She turned, peering at the bushes draped in flecks of white. There was a rustle, the branches parted and one of the leaders appeared.
‘It’s time. Pack your things tonight. We leave at first light tomorrow.’
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I would like to thank family, friends, and my copy editor Victoria Watson. You all believed and gave me the wings.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Chris is a married father of four boys. After graduating in the early 90s he became an English language teacher living in Turkey, Portugal, India and traveling beyond. He returned to the UK to study an MA in International Politics and worked at Warwick University. He then moved into policy research and implementation.
Chris is a musician involved in a range of musical projects. He plays solo horn for Jayess Newbiggin Brass Band, the village where he grew up. Chris loves running and in addition to a couple of marathons has run many half marathons and 10Ks. He currently lives in Monkseaton, near Newcastle upon Tyne.
Chris’ dream was always to write a novel, and his writing journey began in August 2015 when he took voluntary redundancy from his role in education policy. 'Becoming' is his debut publication.
Chris is editing a mystery set in mid-nineteenth century Northumberland which he hopes to publish in 2017. He is also writing the follow-up to 'Becoming' which is titled 'Awakening.'
Further information on Chris and his work can be found at:
http://chrisord.wixsite.com/chrisord
or on Facebook at:
https://www.facebook.com/chrisordauthor/
