WHAT DEATH CANNOT TOUCH || ONC 2023

ix. the hunger of our dead

[Trigger Warning: violence, death, grief]

WHAT DEATH CANNOT TOUCH
ix. the hunger of our dead

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It was then, Khaya heard steps and the soft creak of the outer door. Majda's eyes twitched upwards, revealing she had heard it, too.

A feeling of uneasiness nesting between her ribs, Khaya paced towards the window and looked into the night's gaping hole. First, she saw nothing but darkness and snow, the shadowy skeletons of the trees. Then, beneath the bare branches, she thought to make out a figure. Small and slender and with glowing eyes. A starving wolf? The one that killed Daniil? But no—it stood on two legs.

"Khaya," Majda breathed in her ear, "it's mamma."

Khaya did not understand. Confused, her eyes wandered over the grey field.

And then she saw.

There, through the night, another person walked: A woman. The shank-high snow hampered her steps closer and closer to the woods. A violent wind drew on her headscarf until it tore the fabric away, revealing greying hair. She did not turn back to get it.

Khaya recognized her anyway. It was indeed Dorka.

"What is she do—"

But Majda stormed out of the room and to the front door already. She did not bother to close it again—thus allowing the cold air to pour into the house—nor grab her coat but ran off just as she was and vanished into the unwelcoming night.

One everlasting second, Khaya was unable to move. All she could do was stand there, staring at the door that moved with the rhythm of the wind. Then, as if something jolted her, she hurried after Majda.

Faster than a young horse, she thought. But as always not fast enough.

Beware tonight the dead are starving, the words flew through the air with something that could have been a wail, as well as scornful laughter.

"Who are you?" she dared to ask.

The one you called for.

"I certainly did not. What does all of that mean?"

No answer.

Khaya shivered and hurried forward, finding Majda and Dorka only steps away from the forest. Her cousin had seized her mother's clothes and urgently tried to stop her from moving forward. This picture itself was strange enough to grasp, but even more concerningly, Dorka fought back with such feverish force foreign to her.

"Mamma. Mamochka. Please!", Majda pleaded.

"Let go of me!" Strands of disheveled hair flung around her face as she tried to free herself from Majda's robust grip. "Let me go to her! Do you want your sister to freeze?"