Followed by Fros(7)

All the while careful tendrils of frost grew out from my person, climbing over the floor and walls until my family’s breaths hung as clouds in the air, and the blanket of snow grew thicker and thicker over the ground and rooftops outside.



Mother unpacked our winter clothes, our cloaks and coats, blankets and boots, and we dressed warmly. My own layers did nothing to keep me warm. They added only weight, and they grew stiff as soon as I put them on, the fabric freezing over my icy form. Father kept the hearth roaring to combat the cold that flowed from me, fire that consumed what little wood we had collected during the first month of spring. Arctic wind howled outside, and the snow fell unceasingly. The same men who had searched high and low for Mordan now broke out their shovels to clear roads and porches. My curse had created the heaviest snowfall in Euwan’s history, and in the early months of spring, no less.

I withdrew from the fire and took to my room for the next two days, huddled and shivering on my bed, thinking of how the world—and how Mordan—had so cruelly wronged me, and wishing death would take me. I realize now how ironic such a plea was, but at that point I had truly meant it, for each moment was a misery.

The snows hardened the ground and killed the weak sprouts that had pushed through the soil—flowers and vegetables alike. Many tried to unbury their gardens and cover them, but my snow would not relent. Our own food stores had grown weak over the true winter, and we had not yet purchased or harvested enough produce to last through another. Men started to slog through the snow to my home to either complain or to brainstorm a solution to the problem. However, my home was the coldest in Euwan, so my father began to meet with them elsewhere. What they discussed, I didn’t know, but I wanted to.

On the third day I left my house of my own volition, ignoring my mother’s pleas for me to stay. I stepped into the storm shoeless and coatless, for the cold could not possibly affect me more than it already did. The storm seemed to follow me wherever I went. When I walked far enough, the snow lessened for a time, but as soon as I stopped, it brewed around me anew, icy winds whipping through my hair and whistling in my ears.

I walked from home to home, aching and sore, searching for my father. It wasn’t until I gave up the search and walked to Ashlen’s house that I found the village men. They had rendezvoused in my friend’s home. I wondered if they’d kept Ashlen from seeing me or if she’d been too cowardly to brave the snow.

I stopped outside the front-room window and watched as the eight or nine men inside stood in a circle and argued. The wind and the glass hid their words from me, but I could tell they were angry, worried. My own father stared hard at the floor, his mouth twisted into a perpetual frown. It was through this window Ashlen saw me in passing. Her face, uncharacteristically gaunt, was almost unrecognizable. Then again, so was mine.

The wind blew over me. I made the signs for What is happening? with my hand, my frozen fingers barely nimble enough to form the words.

She signed back, My brother is sick.

No, the men. What is happening?

She shook her head. He’s sick from the cold. Gesturing to the circle, she added, Worried.

So am I! I motioned with both hands, struggling to bend my knuckles. Cold! Cold! Why am I not dead?

But Ashlen only shook her head, solemn, and signed, The Hutcheses’ boy is dying.

I threw my hands in the air and turned away from her, heading back into the storm. Even my best friend had no sympathy for me.

But as I climbed over the snowy hill toward my house, I thought of what she had said. The Hutcheses’ boy, dying. That family only had one son, a six-year-old boy with big ears but a charming smile. All the children in Euwan shared a classroom, and Bennion Hutches always sat so attentively in the front row. He had once picked flowers for me, not knowing they were weeds.

I could not believe Ashlen’s claim—surely my storm was no worse than a bad winter night, and no one could grow ill so quickly. I decided I needed to see Bennion for myself. I passed through my yard and cut through the snow-laden willow-wacks—several branches had fallen from the trees, unable to bear winter’s weight—and over to the Hutcheses’ small cottage.

I knocked on the door, the wood frosting beneath my touch.

It took a long moment before Antrid opened the door, a short, plump woman with stubby fingers. She didn’t recognize me at first—I could tell from the way she squinted over her glasses, frames I had always thought too thick for her face. When she knew me, she seemed afraid, but common hospitality kept her from slamming the door shut.

“Bennion,” I said, snow blowing over me. “I heard he’s sick.”

She nodded, shivering. “Caught in the storm . . . The cold is too much. Please . . . go home. It’s too cold.”

“I want to see him.”

She hesitated. Antrid was a mousy woman, but she still managed to say, “I don’t want your curse in this house.”

I shivered and folded my arms, some small part of me still thinking the gesture would warm me. “Please,” I added.

She frowned, but the moment she relaxed in consideration I shoved the door open and stepped aside, barging into her home. A fire blazed in the hearth on the far side of the front room, heating a pot of water. Lines of frost spread from my feet across the floor, but the fire drove them back. It must have been very warm inside the house, though I could feel none of it.

“Please don’t hurt him!” Antrid begged. I did not see her husband, Toren, and wondered if he was with the others at Ashlen’s house.