Snow ✓

Cocoon

Mat awoke to sunlight dousing the kitchen in a soft glow. Neck stiff from falling asleep at the table, he raised his head but felt an immediate resistance. Groggy with sleep, it took him a moment to notice what was wrong—a sticky, white substance hung from his face and had fastened his left cheek to his arms. Horror dimly flitted through his brain, like catching sight of a stranger at the end of a dark corridor. His eyes roved over the table. Where the girl had been was something resembling a cocoon the size of a child, made of the same substance pulling at his skin.

"What the—"

The stickiness tugged on his lips and the lashes of his left eye. His horror swelled. Mat leapt from his chair, sending it clattering to the floor. The substance stretched, elastic-like, but lost its grip as he moved further away, grabbing at his face, wrestling it from his arms, which were beginning to burn. Curses streamed from his lips at the pain, confusion at what lay on the table, and worry that whatever it was had eaten the girl, but survival instincts won out. Mat dashed out the door, grabbed the nearest bucket of rainwater, and dumped it over his head, the cold dousing his face and arms in a fresh wave of pain. He seized another and hustled to the washroom, water slopping over the side as he went, flung open the door and thrust himself in front of the mirror. Wispy threads still hung from his face, and where it had laid thick, his flesh was pink and irritated. Fearing time played a factor in salvaging his skin, he removed his shirt and used a pumice stone to scrub until he had sloughed off the last bit of the offender. He blotted the irritated skin with a dry rag and left off his shirt, crusty with the stuff. Mind racing, he thought to run to Myst's well; the thought of how much water it'd take to wash away whatever laid on the table made his head spin. Instead, he tore back to the cottage. A single bucket of water remained. He picked it up, mind on the singular task of ridding the cottage of the alien substance, but when he swung through the door, he had second thoughts.

What if it's her? Not something apart. What if she needs it to heal?

Scrutinizing its shape, he could make out the curve of slim hips, the dip where a neck could be, arms resting in a pretzel shape against a chest, and bent knees, like she was resting on her side—or maybe she's dead and with her last breath, spun her own coffin. He leaned in close. No breathing. No movement. If there was any sign of life, it was imperceivable.

His body thrummed with indecision. It felt easiest to do nothing, so he slipped a sweater over his rubbed-raw skin, started a fire, poured the water into the cauldron and waited for it to boil, all the while chewing his lip into a bloody lump. He scrubbed the chair and edges around the table, feeling perversely like he was polishing an altar. Once finished, he sat back down in the chair, hard, wondering what he was going to tell Gran this time. He'd talked her down before, but this was different; like bleeding green goop, this wasn't some small cosmetic deviance.

Head in his hands—in the end, he never even heard her come in. Her sputtering brought his head up, right before she smashed back into the doorframe as her legs gave out. He leapt to her aid, hoisting her up as her eyes whirled like those of a startled animal.

"Your face."

"It doesn't hurt," he lied.

Mouth gaping, her gaze swiveled back to the cocoon. For lack of a better term, Mat had decided that's what it was—it sounded transformative, less final than a coffin.

"I need to sit down," she said.

Mat tried to help her to the nearest chair.

"No! Not there."

He helped her to her armchair, then stood beside her, balling up and loosening his fists, not wanting to be the first to speak, to betray himself. Gran kept her eyes trained over her shoulder, as if it would gobble her up if she dared to look away.