Wet Fire

Prologue

Thirty Years Earlier...

The woods were deep and dark that day. A fierce wind was blowing in from out of the mountains and weaving its way through the trees, making it bitterly cold and dry. With each passing gust, more needles dropped from the trees onto the forest floor, covering the ground in a prickly veil. The smell was of pine needles, snow, and chopped wood.

Yseult wrapped her small arms around her shoulders and trudged forward, minding the roots and fallen branches. She was weak, and every step felt like it was uphill (which it probably was). She buried her face in a woolen scarf and looked downward, watching her steps and trying to keep her face warm. A strand of curly grey hair fell in front of her eyes. Annoyed with herself, she blew at it until the strand floated back, out of her line of sight.

Today marked her third day in the woods alone. She had left, angry with her parents, and not thought in the slightest, about how she was going to survive. In her pervious life, she had grown familiar with a double-sided axe that her father had used to chop firewood out in woods by her house. Yseult had not thought to bring it along. She was trying to ration what she had brought along, which now consisted of two loaves of bread and a half-jug of water. There was no way she was going to survive out here unless she turned back.

Frustrated with the current state of her life, Yseult found herself crying and then stumbling as she walked. Her sobs became louder until tears filled her eyes and clouded her vision, forcing her to stop. She plopped down on the prickly needles and laid down against a nearby tree trunk. All of her life flashed before her eyes. Her parents, short and strong, from many forest winters, chopping wood; the kids in town, teasing her for her looks; the town woodcarver, sitting down with her and telling her stories about the world as it was before Cyclonus. More than anything she missed the woodcarver's stories.

When she was little, Yseult met the woodcarver every day in his workshop and sat down on a little wooden chair in the back. The woodcarver welcomed Yseult, telling her about how much she reminded him of his own daughter, Prudence, who had died when she was small. The woodcarver would fiddle with a block of pine wood and chip away as he told Yseult the stories of the wyrms, wyverns, rocs, and behemoths that roamed the primordial plains of the Strange Continent. The fire-breathing wyrms that laid waste to entire cities and the behemoths that quaked the earth with every step of their monstrous feet. The rocs were her favorite and the woodcarver told her that with each swoop of a roc's wing, a wind funnel appeared and tore away anything in its path. Some days, Yseult would spend hours out in the woods, imagining the wonders of the Old Land. How spectacular would it be to ride on the back of a feathery roc! She thought.

With the woodcarver's story book in hand, Yseult left home and hoped to venture deep into the mountains, looking for the legendary creatures from the tales. Her parents had told her that she was crazy and had sealed her in their house a few days before, but her spirit had to break free, and she was off.

The mountains were further than she had ever imagined. Yseult slept under the tree that night, with her cheeks cold and wet with tears.

She dreamt a familiar dream. Into the past she was transported, and she glimpsed the morning sky, which was alive with the light of a thousand glowing eyes. It was so beautiful that Yseult did not ever want to wake. 

In the morning, she found her grizzly grey hair sticky and wet with tree sap. She opened the book and peered at the woodcarver's familiar writing. The rough pages were worn with use and the binding was hand-done and almost falling apart, but the words were beautiful and read smoothly all the same. She read aloud each little story, just as the woodcarver had done.

Yseult didn't care about her appearance. Many of the other children in her town had made fun of her, calling her 'goat' or 'lion-eyes', but she had not taken any of that to heart. She knew who she was and there was no way of her changing how she looked. She was born with thick, matted, gray hair and ferocious golden eyes and she loved it. You are different in a good way her parents would say, and she believed it.

The piercing cold began to fade around mid-day and the sun peeked out from behind a passing cloud. Hawks flew from the tops of pines and landed on the ground, looking for prey and scattering any small animals into their burrows. Yseult mustered up enough energy to corner and catch a small rabbit. She, however, did not know how to prepare it, so she started by cracking its neck. The fluffy rabbit went limp in her arms and Yseult used a sharp rock to pierce its belly and dig around for its meat. She ate it raw, not having the slightest idea of how to cook it.

With her stomach cramping from eating the uncooked rabbit, Yseult's hopes soon dissipated and she started to drag her feet again. It was not long until the trees of the dense forest began to become sparse and far between. Soon she approached a clearing and saw what lay before her. From beyond the tops of the trees, Yseult could see the mountains, majestic and mighty, looming above her. Their peaks, far in the distance, were pointy and snow-capped, just as the woodcarver had described. The wind picked up and blew frozen, pine-scented air onto her face. Yseult stumbled onward onto a rocky slope and started to make her way through the pass.

Sometime around mid-afternoon, the wind picked up again and the sun became lost behind long grey cloud. Tiny white snowflakes began to fall, slowly at first, and then more heavily, making it hard for Yseult to see in front of her. By the look of the terrain, she was somewhere deep in the mountains by now. Her breathing became harder as she ascended, higher and higher, into the white gloom.

The cold had almost beaten her. Yseult was weak, tired, and bitterly cold, and even her thick sheepskin coat was beginning to become chilly on the inside. Her fingers were so cold that they hurt and her tears were frozen on her young face. This is the end she thought.

Just then, Yseult lost her footing and her boot slipped on the icy rock and she fell down into the darkness. She came down hard, tumbling over and over down the mountain face until she stopped, broken and tired on a ledge. Finally she made her decision: she wasn't going to try to get up again. Yseult lay on the ground and let the snow fall on her face. She imagined what it would be like to open her eyes and be in a different world, riding on the back of one her legendary creatures. She could see her perfect place--a warm mountain valley with tall grasses and vibrant, sweet-smelling flowers. Out of the distance flew a roc, with two broad feathered wings that beated wind past her with each flap. Its eyes gleamed a white-yellow, like her own. The roc landed a stone's throw away and beckoned her to climb on its back. Yseult ran with all her might and hopped on, and wrapped her arms around its neck, digging her fingers between it's soft grey feathers. She pressed her face into its neck and closed her eyes as the beast soared through the air.

As night approached on the mountain ledge, the snow blew even harder. Yselt lay there, paralyzed. Her face was icy and her breathing became shallow as the mountain cold entered her body. She lay there, barely conscious. Being in the shadow of the mountain made her feel small, like a wooden figurine in a person-sized house. She could almost swear that she saw a hawk circling her that was ten times normal size. Or maybe it was normal and she was just tiny, like the doll. It might be true, after all, she couldn't move her arms or legs.

The hawk was circling her--that much she knew. It glided easily in the strong wind and let out an occasional "kaw!" Yseult, tired and cold, knew why the hawk was circling her. It needed food just as much as her. Maybe it is just as hungry as me. It would be better if at least one of us gets food tonight. She thought. It was stupid of me to leave home. I should have stayed back in the villiage.

Time passed and the bird grew more daring. It swooped lower and lower, and then back up again, through the snow, using air gusts as propellants. Yseult could barely keep her eyes open. Make it quick.

The hawk then dove downwards, making it's final move. It bared its talons and glided towards the limp body on the side of the mountain. Yseult felt stabbing pain as the talons gripped around her torso and lower body, but they did not pierce her skin. The bird flew off, with Yseult in its grasp.

The bird soared high, into the clouds, coating Yseult's body in a layer of wetness. Somewhere above the clouds the moon shone down on Yseult's face and she awoke for a moment, feeling the chilly wind bite at her limbs and the warmth of the moonlight. Then she remembered she was flying. She lost consciousness for the last time.