A GIRL WHO DREAMED OF SNOW^*

MCCORMICK TEMPLEMAN

Petals of snow fell on her shoulders as the girl hugged her mother good-bye. Jaw clenched, the woman looked down at her child with clear, dry eyes. There would be no weeping today. “It is time to go, Nara. Your father awaits and your duty calls. Your time is now.”

“Don’t go.” A small hand wrapped itself in her skirts. Nara’s sister stared up at her. Nara wanted to pull her close and tell her she would never leave. Instead, she kissed her softly on the head.

Turning, she looked out at the icy landscape, the soaring trees, branches dark and bitten blue with frost. And for a moment, she had something like a premonition, a feeling that something terrible was watching her, something hungry and sick. She could nearly hear it out there, panting between the trees, its breath ragged and spoiled.

Sins of a faraway people had sickened the earth, changing it. And now there were whispers of something coming, something catastrophic sweeping ever closer. Her people could hear it in the song of the birds and the creak of the ice. The earth held many secrets, some of them too terrible to tell.

× × ×

The first leg of her journey was to be the easiest, and yet Nara found herself queasy with fear. A shaman’s daughter, she’d learned the ways of the wind and snow as others might learn to speak and crawl, and she thought on wild things and night creatures as her brothers. Even the wolves howling in the frozen stillness didn’t frighten her. They sang their song, and she sang hers. But still, there was something in her bones that told her she was being followed. And as she fell asleep each night, hoping to see her father’s face in her dreams, she saw only snow.

Nara had been walking for seven days when she came to an outcropping of trees at the foot of a tilted mountain. Hunger gnawed at her bones. She built a fire, curled up next to it, and settled in to sleep.

Behind her closed lids, she could see the dancing of the firelight.

“Father,” she whispered. “Father, I’m coming.”

She could see him there now in her mind’s eye, tormented, broken, and her heart yearned to join him, to ease his pain. She recalled the shaman’s song he had taught her, and with an aching heart, she began to sing. Her small voice rose like a sparrow’s call, and as the night grew ever darker, the earth below her seemed to soften and receive.

Soon she drifted off. But had she not, she might have seen a change in the flames, an alteration in their trajectory as shadows gathered, as something cold and silent slipped out of the earth and circled her like the outward swelling of a maelstrom.

× × ×

Mowich stoked the fire and stared into the dark. She was out there somewhere. This girl his brother sought. The one he said would fetch them the highest price of all. Mowich didn’t like it, never had. But who was he to fight it?

It was five years now since the plague had come. A pestilence brought back from a plundered land, it sickened the girls and killed the women, quickly devastating the countryside. At first the healers prescribed witchgrass. Born of ice and snow, it grew wild on the hillsides near the outer edge of the land. But when the witchgrass was depleted, the skies dried up, no moisture fell, and the land grew stingy and bare.

Mowich’s mother had died soon after Izlette was born. He’d clung to the baby, to her sparkling eyes, to each sprout of chestnut hair on her newborn head. She’d shown no sign of the sickness until last spring, just before her fourth birthday. Then it came on fast and strong, sucking the flesh from her bones. It wouldn’t be long now until it carried her to the grave. Without the witchgrass, there was nothing to do but watch the women-folk die, and to fetch fresh ones from territories up north where the women were hearty and strong.

It was only his first trip, and already so much had gone wrong. Whatever had happened to the girls they tried to take in the village by the river, he was sure it hadn’t been wolves. Four girls, caged and ready to take back to market. Mowich had been sick in the snow over it. When dawn came, when he’d gone to check on them, to give them water and food, all four were laid out in the snow, their throats gouged, torn, their lifeless eyes staring up at the heavens.

“Night creatures,” his oldest brother, Sain, had proclaimed, and the others had believed him, but Mowich knew better. Sain, though small, had always had a wicked way about him, and something in him was turning, warping for the worse. Terrible things had happened to those girls. Something had gotten to them, something worse than any creature that lurked in the woods. He knew that at last Sain’s vile predilections had eclipsed even his greed.

It was the morning after that when Sain had his vision. He’d called them all together, all six of them—Mowich and his older brothers, fat-cheeked Ig and curly-haired Dairn, and the Fairlish twins, whose gold had procured the wagon, whose muscle drove the horses, and whose lack of brains made them useful as Sain’s thugs.

Sain had gathered them at dawn with a strange, wild light in his eyes, and he’d told him he’d had a vision of a girl with hair like moonlight and eyes as dark as coal, her blood newly upon her. She’d fetch a price like none other, he’d sworn. After her, they’d need not make another trip north. Though for now they would need to travel farther than their countrymen were wont to do—high to the icelands, into the land of ancient things.

They all knew the stories about the things that lived up there, where long ago men had gone mad, driven to consume the flesh of their brothers.

But gold was gold, and so it was decided.

They’d traveled on through the snow, so foreign to their southern blood, and all the while, Mowich’s heart had grown sicker and sicker. It had taken seven days to find her, to ferret out her camp, snug against the base of a tilted mountain, to find her sleeping by firelight. But when the time came to fetch her, Mowich was unable to move. He’d pleaded with his brothers, but to no avail. And so he’d stayed behind here at camp, earning Sain’s wrath.

Mowich stoked the fire again and stared off into the hills. They must be upon her by now. And yet he heard no screams. Shivering, he turned suddenly, peering into the darkness, the trees like sentries standing cold and still. Behind them, something seemed to linger.

“Hello?” he called.

Silence answered back. And something behind it, a distant throbbing, deep and heavy as a heartbeat.

He tightened his grip on the stick and peered deeper into the darkness until it seemed his eyes played tricks, until night itself seemed to undulate and pulse.

A distant scream cut across the sky and the movement was gone. A trick of his mind after all. He turned and stared toward the slanted whiteness of the distant mountains. They had her now, he knew. He sighed, an ache in his chest as he thought of his own small sister, of Izlette’s sunken cheeks, of the sharp demarcation of her wrist bone, of the monster eating her alive from within.

Another distant scream, muffled and strained, and he asked himself what he really knew of monsters.

× × ×

The Hunter moved with lash-quick precision. The call had been sounded. The time was now. His quarry was on the move. He’d heard it in the earth, below the ice, that darkness unfurling. Most Hunters served a lifetime without answering such a call. How many could say they’d heard it twice in as many years?

Inside his hut, he examined his weapons. Hatchet, dagger, curved blade. He pulled each one down and wrapped it like a father might swaddle a newborn against the cold. The hunting knife he slung on his hip.

It was dusk when he set out, the smoke from his fire still ghosting behind him. His belly growled, and he tasted it: human sweat and fear. It hung in the evening air like a freshly gutted kill.

He walked with purpose, tall but swaybacked, faster than any normal man. And his eyes searched for one thing only. When he found it, there would be penance paid. When he found it, there would be blood.

× × ×

Nara was sleeping, dreaming again of snow, calling it forth in signs and swirls, speaking the language of the ancients. She barely felt the bag slip over her head, but as soon as she was hoisted into the air by rough, groping hands, her scream burst from her chest, cutting through the callused burlap, echoing across the night.

She writhed and fought, but quick, heavy hands clamped around her neck. It would take no more than a snap, she knew. She quieted herself, though her heart beat wildly in her chest. In her mind, she saw her father. His gentle face. His smiling eyes. Soon she would be with him. Soon she would find him and give him the message. She had to hold that hope in her heart, or she would never make it.

They bore her away through the dark night, jostling her through the snow, laughing and congratulating one another on their catch. Catch. As if she were an ocean pike and they the hearty fishermen.

They walked—twice they skidded on the ice, nearly dropping her—and at last they reached their destination. With rough hands, she was dropped in the snow. A moment later, the sack was removed from her head. She knelt there, shivering in the cold. She didn’t speak, just stared.

There were many, all boys, knee-deep in manhood. The two that looked alike—twins—had thick red beards and hands like meat. Then there were two who averted their eyes, one round of face, the other with locks curling down to his shoulders. Behind them there lingered a slim, dark-haired boy. He stared at her like he wanted to speak. In his eyes she could almost see an apology.

The one who concerned her, the one who could make things go bad in an instant, was the smallest of the lot. Sharp and lithe with bright blue eyes and hair like wet hay, he smiled hungrily, his incisors grazing the soft flesh of his full lower lip. He held a cudgel in one hand, gently tapping it against his leg.

“What is your name, then?” he said, his eyes flashing with hunger. He took a step toward her. The dark-haired boy flinched. Instinctively, she withdrew.

“Do I frighten you?” Blue Eyes asked, his voice friendly but his lips drawn tight at the edges.

She shook her head.

He held out a hand to her. Not seeing any other option, she took it. His palm was icy, yet slick with sweat.

“Do you know where you’re going?” he asked.

She nodded, doing her best to keep her eyes downcast.

“And where is that?”

“To your land.”

“And what land is that?”

“Down south. Where the sun meets the moon and makes waves on the land.”

“And do you know why you’re going?”

She swallowed, blinking back tears. “Because your women are gone, and your girls, they are dying. The gods have turned your earth to stone, and your witchgrass won’t grow. Without witchgrass your women die. Without women, your people are no more.”

Looking up, she locked eyes with the dark-haired boy, and she was certain he was trying to tell her something.

“Look at me, girl,” Blue Eyes said, squeezing her hand hard, his nails digging into her flesh. “Tell me why I took you.”

She looked into his face, and she knew his kind at once. Her heart began to race.

“To sell me,” she said. “You’ve taken me to sell me to a southern man that he might have a wife, that he might have sons, sons that can live without the witchgrass.”

He narrowed his eyes. “You say that like it’s a bad thing. Tell me your name.”

“Nara,” she whispered.

“I’m Sain,” he said. “Remember that name. Always remember it. And that boy over there, the one you keep staring at. His name is Mowich, and he isn’t your friend. He does what I tell him. Do you understand?”

“I understand,” she said, and eyes still averted, she continued, “I understand that you’ve taken me that your sons might live and breed, but what of your daughters? Your daughters still die. Taking me won’t save them.” She glanced up quickly.

His eyes widened, and he licked his full lips. “I don’t care about saving them.” He shook his head, a terrible smile cutting his face. “And that isn’t why I’ve taken you.”

Nara stood, still small beside her captor, but she looked him in the eye, and when she spoke, her voice was certain. “Then why did you take me?”

His face went blank. Nara recognized the look. The Gray Woman of her village had worn it the day her husband died. Her kinfolk had tried to console her, but she’d been impervious, as if something inside her had simply taken flight. It was later that night that she’d taken her babies three out to the edge of the world and set them on an ice floe. After wrapping them up tight in a handsome blanket, she pushed them out to sea, watching as they drifted out to the open ocean and to certain death. They found her the next morning, her eyes empty, her face mad.

The boy pulled her close so that his lips were wet against her cheek, hot breath down her neck. “I took you . . . because I wanted to take you.”

And then with lightning reflexes he pushed her to the ground and raised the cudgel high in the air.

“No!” someone screamed—then pain and a darkness deeper than death.

× × ×

Across the ice, the Hunter stalked, metal case in his hand, sealskin bag slung over his shoulder. He was closing in now, the scent drawing him near. No sleep. Not yet. Not until it was over.

Somewhere up the hillside, an animal screeched as a wild thing’s teeth sank into its flesh. The Hunter uttered a low growl. Last time, his quarry had nearly escaped him. He had the souvenir to prove his victory. Absently, he ran a finger over the string of teeth that hung from his waist like a belt. Each from a different hunt. Each one worthy prey. This time, though, things were different. This time it was darkness itself he hunted. This time there was no room for mistakes.

× × ×

Mowich glared across the campfire at Sain. His brother stared coolly back. The girl was doing better now. She was breathing at least. Sleeping in her cage. But Mowich couldn’t bear the sight of her. She was someone’s daughter, someone’s sister. Once, she might have been Izlette.

“She’s a child!” he said.

“She’s bled,” Sain replied. “And I will do with her what I like.”

“And we don’t have a say?”

Laughing, Sain swept his eyes over the five of them. “Of course you have a say, but which of you doesn’t want to bring home gold to your starving father? Which of you has enjoyed watching our way of life destroyed, watching our sisters die before our eyes?”

“There are other ways,” said Mowich.

Dairn pushed a dark curl from his eyes and cleared his throat. “I think we need to stop arguing. We need to keep moving.”

The others stared at him, and Sain cocked his head. “And where do you propose we go, brother? You want to travel through this terrain at night?”

“It’s just that,” Dairn said, looking away, “I’ve been hearing things. I think . . . I think someone might be following us.”

Sain smirked. “No one’s following us. We’re in the middle of nowhere.”

“Don’t tell me you don’t feel it too. In the darkness. In the trees. There’s something out there. Something is watching us.”

“Night creatures. And let me tell you, they die plenty quick if you’ve got a good blade in your hand. Let them try. They’ll cook up nice and toasty on a spit.” Sain laughed, but when he looked to his brothers for approval, he was met with dour expressions. “Oh please, not all of you.”

“Dairn has a point,” said Ig. Mowich nodded, but the Fairlish twins snorted and shook their heads.

“This land is full of ice magic,” challenged Dairn. “They’ve got hungry spirits up here. Their kind can call them forth to kill a weary traveler just like that.”

“Bedtime stories,” one of the twins spat.

“Dairn knows what he says,” said Ig, leaning forward. “The Five. The ones who stand still. Who’s to say they’re not out there now? Out there watching us?”

“That’s what this is about?” Sain laughed. “Devils and magic? Hungry spirits that can make man slaughter his brothers and eat up his children, picking their teeth with the bones?” One of the twins laughed and Sain slapped him on the back. “Perhaps we should call on a benevolent fairy to protect us. Or sing a magical song to take us to a land made of honey and gold.”

Dairn lowered his eyes and shook his head. So they would stay put tonight. But in this tiny fracturing, Mowich began to see an opportunity.

× × ×

The next day, they drove on through the snow, on through the cold, and Mowich noticed the little things. The hitch in Dairn’s voice as he spoke to Sain. The fear in Ig’s eyes as he scanned the trees. Even Sain seemed different. His brother held his shoulders a little higher, his lips a little tighter, and if Mowich wasn’t mistaken, when dusk began to settle, he’d seen Sain flinch suddenly, his eyes flicking to the forest. There was something out there. How much longer could they deny it?

Soon dusk crested into night, and tempers flared. Dairn had taken the reins, forging ahead despite Sain’s demands to stop that they might camp for the night.

“I said stop the cart,” Sain growled through his teeth. But Dairn shook his head, his lips an angry white line.

“Do as he says,” grunted one of the Fairlish twins. But Dairn refused.

“They’re out there,” he whispered. “They’re watching.”

“You’re acting like a fool.”

“We can’t stop. We have to keep going.”

“It’s too dark!” shouted Sain. “Stop the cart.”

“The moon is full. I can see just fine.”

Sain grabbed his brother’s arm, meaning to wrench the reins away, but Dairn was stronger and pushed back. Sain stumbled and fell against the front of the cart, spooking the horses. But it was more than that. More than horses spooked by ordinary commotion. Their muscles tensed in strange waves. In their throats, gurgling sounds. They surged forth as if driven by an unseen hand.

Sain, staggering, pulled himself to stand.

“Stop the cart!” he bellowed.

“I’m trying!”

Dairn pulled tightly at the reins, but it only vexed the horses more. They pushed harder, faster against the darkness. A jolt as the cart hit something hard. A wheel sprang free and the cart skidded on its side, careening through the trees and thundering across the ice, finally coming to a stop at the center of a moonlit clearing. Mowich had been thrown clear, some distance from the others. He sat, stunned, watching as chaos rained down. The horses reared up like harpies, crying and straining against the night. Sain struggled out from under the cart. One of the wheels had nearly crushed him. He was on Dairn in an instant, smashing his fist into his brother’s face. Blood spurted from his nose in a magnificent spray. Furious, Dairn raised his own fist just as Sain pulled his blade from its hilt.

“Don’t push me, brother,” he said. “You’ve seen the things I can do.”

Ig stepped in, bleeding from a cut on his forehead, and put a hand on Dairn’s shoulder. He guided him away from Sain. “We don’t need to turn on each other,” he said, staring behind them and into the trees. “Let’s get the cart fixed and be on our way.”

That seemed to bring a measure of peace. The boys quietly dispersed and set to their tasks.

Mowich, still dazed, found himself staring at the moon. It was odd, that moon. Steel blue and so full, it seemed almost like it might split at the seams. Pushing himself up to stand, he took a few steps away from the group, trying to understand why it was he felt so uneasy. He noticed the trees, tall and angular, their branches like enormous thorny limbs, and for a moment he felt certain that they were about to consume him. He shook off the thought. You’re seeing monsters where there stand only trees. He started to walk back to the others but stopped. It wasn’t just those trees. With a slow panic, he came to realize that there were dozens more. He stood at the very center of a perfect circle of trees. The pines stood around him, predatory, as if waiting for some violence to delight them. He was reminded of his father’s stories of long ago, when men were made to fight terrible beasts, as spectators watched from the seats of an enormous circular theater. He was imagining things. But what was this place? What had spooked the horses? What hand had brought them here only to drop them at the center of this gruesome stage?

Slowly he backed away. Now was his chance. He had to be quick, while the others were distracted. He would take the girl, run, escape.

He hurried over to the cage. It had been thrown a good ten feet from the wagon. She’d removed the sack from her head and had crawled out, the cage door apparently forced open in the accident. She was free, and yet she hadn’t tried to run. She just sat there, dark eyes watching him, pale hair almost indistinguishable against the snow. He noticed blood on the ground.

“My god, you’re hurt,” he said, a break in his voice.

She raised a palm to show him a clean, half-moon slice. Blood seeped from it in lazy rivulets, its path slowed by the cold.

He offered his hand. She frowned, an uncertain look in her eyes. Then she nodded and gave him her unwounded hand.

Over by the wagon, Dairn was shouting something at Sain. Voices grew louder. Ig looked over at Mowich. He had been gathering up the supplies that had been dashed into the snow, but now he watched Mowich with a frightened eye.

“She’s bleeding badly,” Mowich called to him, trying to keep his voice from shaking. “I’ll take her down to the stream to wash the wound. We don’t want an infection.”

Ig nodded quickly, shifting his eyes away.

Mowich helped Nara to her feet and then, with an awkward grasp around her waist, led her from the circle, down to a nearby stream.

They stood there a moment, Mowich listening. The rapids of the icy water beat the same pace as his heart.

“A fight is about to begin,” he whispered. “When it does, we will run. Back to your people. Back to safety. We’ll be gone before they realize it.”

She turned to him with troubled eyes. “Why are you doing this?” she asked.

“To protect you,” he said.

She reached a hand up toward his face. Instinctively, he grabbed it. He moved closer, but she brought her lips to his ear. “When I tell you to run,” she whispered, “run as fast as you can and don’t look back.”

“What?” He frowned, pulling back. “What are you talking about?”

“I only need five,” she said.

“Five what?”

“Five,” she said, her eyes downcast. “To sate them. You are extra. You can go.”

He started to laugh, but then he saw a figure move in the darkness behind her. Moonlight caught Sain’s eyes. Mowich’s heart surged with panic. He tried to wrap his arms around her just as Sain stepped into the light. His brother smiled, lifting his hand to reveal a hunting knife, twisting the handle to let the blade glint in the moonlight.

“You’re not trying to take what’s mine, are you, Mowich?”

“No,” Mowich said.

Sain laughed, and with his free hand he grabbed Nara by the wrist, yanking her toward him.

“Let her go,” Mowich said to his brother.

“From now on she stays with me,” Sain said. “She—”

Nara slipped from his grasp and started running. But Sain, his face a grimace of rage, was on her heels. Mowich sprinted after them, but stopped just as suddenly. Nara ran not away but toward the others—toward her prison.

“Nara, no!” he called, scrambling up the slope to the clearing. But when she came into view again, he found himself struggling to take in the sight. Sain was a good distance from her, entranced by what could only be called a transformation. She stood at the very center of the ring of trees, and although she was still small, there issued from her an unmistakable power, strange and pulsating. She seemed capable of stirring the depths of earth with a movement of her hand.

“What’s she doing?” one of the Fairlish twins called.

They all grew quiet, and as if pulled, started walking toward her.

“What are you doing, girl?” Sain called to her, his voice low and careful.

She closed her eyes and bent her head forward. She spoke quiet words in a foreign tongue, her lips moving, and then with a slow, graceful gesture, she raised her hands in a circle over her head.

“She’s crazy,” laughed one of the twins as he quickened his pace, closing in on her.

But Mowich knew better. It was a sacred tongue she spoke, a powerful tongue, and the song she sang was the shaman’s song. This girl was no ordinary girl.

“Stay away from her,” he tried to warn. But then something rose up behind the Fairlish twin, something dark and taller than any man. Mowich tried to call out again, but the words stuck in his throat. Whatever it was, this thing, it was made of shadow, made of night. It seemed to ache and swell as it rose up ever higher, its opacity splitting the moonlight like a knife. Mowich backed away. “Behind you!” he finally managed to call out. The twin sneered, but it was enough to make him look over his shoulder, and as he did and saw the darkness swelling up behind him, he went utterly still.

Mowich turned. He meant to warn Nara, but she stood staring down into the snow as if she could see the future there.

“Nara?” His voice broke.

Slowly, she raised her eyes to him.

“Run,” she said. “Run now.”

He didn’t. He couldn’t. He was unable to tear his eyes from the monstrous shadow come alive. Looking at it was like looking into the face of God.

It began to undulate, moving forward, fast now. It wrapped its inky darkness around the Fairlish boy until he seemed almost to vanish. There was a sound like tendons popping, a gurgled scream, and then nothing but blood puddled at the foot of the darkness, a crimson stain glinting in the swell of the moonlight, soaking the snow.

High above Mowich and the others, an icy wind screamed through the trees.

And then it started.

Four more shadows rising, five in all. The Five. The Ones Who Stand Still. Called from deep inside the core of the earth. Called forth for the rite.

The others were screaming, suddenly stirred, but Sain was staring at Nara, his face blank. And then, ignoring the towering darkness descending upon him, he pulled out his knife. Raising it high above he head, he rushed at her, a terrible screech rising from his pitch-stained soul.

Nara did not flinch. She closed her eyes. Behind her lids, she saw snow falling on fields of green, saw the dream she’d held in her heart since birth.

But then the sound of a struggle.

She opened her eyes to see Sain on the ground, Mowich above him, the knife now in his hand. “No!” she screamed, too late. She watched Mowich slit Sain’s throat with one clean stroke.

Mowich dropped the blade into the snow and struggled away from the body. He looked at her with haunted eyes, a brother’s blood now upon his hands. “He was going to kill you,” he said.

“No,” she cried out as the shadows grew taller, grew closer. “You were supposed to run. I told you to run!”

Mowich looked at her, lost. And then he saw the five shadows. The one now sated, the puddle of blood at its feet, stood still. The four others moved in silence, closing in. Five shadows. Five boys. And as the shadow meant for Sain grew ever nearer, Mowich understood. He looked at her with terrified eyes.

She shook her head. “I’m sorry,” she said. “There’s nothing I can do. I’m sorry.”

“Oh god,” he gasped as the darkness enfolded him. Around him the others’ screams rose in the air like smoke. Nara looked away as the creatures began to feed.

× × ×

The Hunter found her at the center of the circle of blood. She was on her knees, face in her hands. The shadows, their offering accepted, stood still and tall, inert. He approached with his hunting knife.

“I don’t want to fight you, old man,” she said, her voice so calm and clear, it gave him pause. “You can put away your blade.”

He stood still, his eyes trained on her. A shaman girl, able to sing out the darkness, to call it forth in dreams of snow and make it do her bidding. A forbidden rite, one her people had officially renounced long ago. It was the duty of the Hunter’s people to see that hers kept their word. It was his job to rain down justice when they did not.

“You can come easy, or you can die right here in the snow,” he said.

She nodded once. “What’s done is done. I have no reason to fight. I will come with you. I will face the punishment.”

“They were only boys,” he said, looking around at the carnage, and then he spat. “Stalked them and killed them, you did. Offered them up like meat.”

“They were no innocents. I made sure of that when I called them here, when I sent the vision. If their souls had been pure, they wouldn’t have answered. Yes, I stalked and killed them, but what were they going to do to me?”

The Hunter grunted. “Blood sacrifice is blood sacrifice. Your people have been warned before.”

She nodded. “There is no use in upbraiding me. It is done. The spirits have received their offering, and they’ve granted my prayer. The weeds will grow. The girls will live. Order is restored and bloodshed and war will not come to my people. I have protected them all as I was sworn at birth to do.” She hesitated as if struggling past some difficult emotion. “And . . . and I can give my father the message. Our oath is completed and he can rest. We all can rest.”

He knew her father. He’d had to spill the old shaman’s blood the previous spring. The Hunter ran his finger along the row of smooth white teeth.

“You should know better, a girl like you. The darkness must stay hidden, must be kept separate. Your ancestors paid the price for mixing with those devils. Driven mad, driven to feast upon one another’s flesh.”

She nodded. “But you will take them now, won’t you?” She looked up at him. “You will take them. Bury them deep in the ice so they can do no more harm?”

“Aye,” he said. And then he looked around at the bloodshed, and shook his head. “And then I take you to your judgment.”

Keeping the girl in his sights, he set his case on the ground and undid the latches. Next to the blades, five glass bottles, each stoppered with rough cork. He pulled on the heavy work gloves. Slowly, methodically, he did what he’d been trained to do. Carefully, he collected them, luring each into its bottle, careful not to look too deeply into their quicksilver eyes as they pulled in, shrank down, accepting their confines.

When he had finished his task, he latched the heavy metal box and removed his gloves. His blade in his hand, he looked at the shaman child. She would meet her punishment with chin held high. He shook his head and put his knife away, and offered her his hand. He had to admire her courage, if nothing else.

He helped her to her feet, his hands the last gentle ones she’d ever know. The hangman wore rough leather and smelled of pig sweat.

Arms crossed, head bowed, Nara walked slowly through the snow, and with greater purpose even than the Hunter, she took her first steps toward the edge of the world and the gallows awaiting her there.

× × ×

Far to the south, Mowich’s father awoke with a start. Something had changed. Something irreversible. And then he felt it deep in his bones. His boys. They were gone. All of them.

Crying out, he sprang from bed and ran down the hall to Izlette’s room. The covers were pulled back; the bed was empty. A strange silence hung in the air.

A thrust to his gut and the fear swelled there again. Not her too. Not little Izlette. Not yet. Hands to his eyes, he cried out. What had they done? His boys. What had they done?

“Izzy!” he called out.

But there was no answer. Steadying himself, he started down the dark corridor, trying to prepare himself for whatever he might find. That was when he felt it—the cool breeze against his face. It brought an odor with it, strange and sweet. The kitchen door was open. He surged through it and out into the yard. He followed the smell to its source. He stood, stunned by what he saw. Not twenty yards from the house knelt Izlette, chest high in a sea of green reeds, her face bright, shining. But it wasn’t Izzy. It couldn’t be, for there was color in her cheeks. She was chewing on something.

“Look, Papa,” she laughed, holding out her arms as if to receive a blessing.

Thunder groaned across the sky and a moment later, soft white powder began to drift down, dusting the green with brilliant white crystals. Snow. Snow like angels’ wings. Izlette stuck out her tongue and caught an icy white flake. Closing her eyes, she smiled.

And then he understood. The green in the fields as far as the eye could see. Healing witchgrass stretching out into the distance, growing, soaring up toward the sky and out toward waters as if sown there by a magic hand. He couldn’t have known the sacrifice that had brought it forth, couldn’t have known how the shaman girl had given her own life to save a thousand others. Nor could he have known that the penance paid was the blood of his own sons. All he saw was his daughter’s smile. All he saw was the gift of salvation, born of a sacred dream of snow.