Water and Wind

Chapter 1

Friday, August 13th, 1500:

The breeze shakes the leaves on the tree. A few more days and they'll be blown to the ground, floating in masses in the river's water. A woman sits on the bank of the river, her skirt over her knees, drawn up to her chin. The moon is full tonight, and stark against the inky black sky. Her hair is tossed back by the wind as she tilts her chin up to the starry expanse. She knows what they say. Full moon, danger soon.

She scoffs. They believe in witchcraft. She does not. They are sorcerers, practicers of the dark magic. She is not. Her hands find the grass beneath her, and she rubs at it absentmindedly. The scene is so peaceful, so perfect, that she finds her lids heavy, her body drowsy. Surely no one would mind a quick nap? She yawns, leaning back to spread eagle underneath the beautiful night.

It is the scream that gets to her first. It is a howl, a howl that speaks of pain and tears. She jerks her head up, glancing around. She is only the slightest bit worried. Her son has night terrors, surely this is just one of those?

The next thing that gets to her is when she turns around. Her head turns to see her worst nightmare. A blazing inferno has now taken the place of what was once called her house. The waves of heat roll across her face. Faster. Faster. Hotter. Hotter. They crash against her skin until she can no longer take it. Arms shielding her face, she stumbles backward, her feet catching on the back of her skirt.

It isn't until two steps that she remembers her children. Somewhere amongst the sounds of crackling wood and snapping infrastructure, she hears two thin cries. "Mama, Mama!" It doesn't take her two seconds to head back to the blaze.

But then, a queer thing happens. The fire opens. Like a mouth, there is one large gaping hole. The hole showcases her children, the fire parting in a circle around them. And then, the mouth begins to speak. The crackles die down, the snapping wood quiet.

"Your price, your penance."

And just before she can reach through the ring to pull her kids out, the fire closes the whole, yet turns sheer so she can see the inside. Her children, on the floor, sobbing. "Mama, Mama." The cries pierce her heart. She reaches into the flames. She has no care for burns right now. Burns can be nursed. Dead kids cannot.

The fire throws her back, until she is flat on the ground, watching her children through the fiery window. The fire begins to count again.

"One." Her girl melts to the floor, screaming. She turns to dark ash. Her beautiful child, a pile of ash on her bedroom floor.

"Two." Her boy follows, a second black mound on the smoldering wood.

"Three." The house caves in on itself, wood smashing wood, collapsing like a house of cards. Until there is nothing left. And then, the inferno dies down. The fire lowers. Before it leaves, it utters one last sentence.

"Your price, your penance." And then, it itself turns to nothing but a pile of ash. And the woman? Her head drops to her hands. The heat has died down. But now there is heat inside her body, eating away at her from the inside. She knows who is responsible. And they will pay.

She walks straight into the ruins. Leftover flames lick at her skirt hem greedily, but she is too focused to care. She makes straight for what used to be her bedroom, kneeling by the piles of ash. One in each hand, she scoops them into her palms. Her children now fit snugly in her clasped hands. She looks down at the black ash. The life of her bright children have been reduced to dark smoldering pieces. Neon turned dark. Beauty turned ugly. Lives gone to waste.

She stands up, fingers closed together to keep any piece from leaving her protective hands. The wind has died down. She is not letting them go to the air.

She walks down to the river, a silvery ribbon in the bright moonlight. Beauty holds power. And power holds danger. The river's currents run fast. They stop for no one. She knew a girl who'd drowned in them. And she'd been a competitive swimmer.

Yet she also knows what they say. The river held magic, made powerful by the presence of the full moon. Hadn't it been only a few minutes ago that she'd sworn she wouldn't ever believe in magic? She shakes her head slightly, careful not to stir up even the slightest breeze to blow her children from her fingers.

She has no other option. What could be done otherwise? Carefully, she kneels on the bank, swallowing her tears. She blows out a deep breath. Her children lie dead in her fingers. Her breath is gone to the river, bringing with it her tears, like a heavy fog over the river. It hangs slightly above the surface, then falls into the river. The current evaporates it, sending dark gray tendrils shooting across its silvery surface. Her mouth falls agape. Could they be telling the truth?

Carefully, she dips her hands in the rising water. The ashes fall from her fingers and are spread out, black bits stark against the pale water. She should swallow a sob. But there are none. Her sobs have gone to the river, and so have her children.

She rocks back onto her heels, staring up at the full moon. A hoarse, ungainly tremor comes from her throat. "Resurrect them."

And then it happens. Her head is thrown back to the moon, her chin tipped upward at an awkward angle. Her dress swirls around her, faster and faster, whipping her shins until there is a small windstorm around her.

She glances around, panicked. What is happening? Her heart beats faster and faster, the wind gets stronger and stronger. Then, out of nowhere, she hears a voice, a hiss in the back of her mind as her arms are yanked painfully upward by some invisible force, bringing her body with it, being controlled like a puppet. It goes until she is kneeling, facing the river. Her hair is flying in all directions like it's been electrified. She can feel the skin on her face shrinking in.

"Find them..." The voice hisses. Against her own will, she begins to spin around, until she is facing her burnt down cabin. "Find them..."

And then she is dropped. The puppeteer's strings have been cut. Her body is within her own control. The windstorm dies down. She is no longer the same.

Her hair is longer, darker. Or is her skin just paler? More shrunken? Her cheeks have hollowed, and so has her body. It is now a cloth of skin hanging on a frame of a skeleton covered by a dress that used to fit snugly on her. It now hangs loose like a flapping piece of cloth in the breeze.

She feels the fire inside her again. Her hair begins to fan out without her controlling it. There is no wind. The dark strands whip her face. A mist spews out of her hands, rolling clouds of dark gray. What is happening?

And then the heat rises to her face. And she disappears.