In The Grip Of Old Winter Read online

  Peter said, “Did the spae-wife make granddad and Almina bad?”

  Bear faced the ice house. “She cast a glamour that guided them in ways that blossomed as they travelled down their chosen road. Those ways lay dormant within them and the spae-wife gave them the life to thrive. It also gave her the chance to conceal her true form.”

  Peter said. “She cast a spell?” Bear nodded.

  “Where did they go?”

  “I do not know.” Bear climbed out of the hollow.

  Peter scrambled after and stood in a drift that reached up to his thighs. It stopped snowing. “Will I ever see you again?”

  The skin-walkers returned to the house. “I am certain that you will,” said Bear. “When your need is great. The charred branch brought you to us, but that way is gone. You will find other ways, for they are many.”

  Peter wanted to ask where, though he guessed that Bear might not tell him if he didn’t need the skin-walkers help. So many questions jumbled up inside his head. He didn’t know which one to ask first and so he didn’t ask any.

  In The Hall, the skin-walkers circled the bonfire. Bear joined last, but before he did, he said, “Farewell Peter. Give thought to what has passed, but do not dwell long on what is lost. There is hope and joy in life too.”

  The skin-walkers raised their arms and sang a long high note which rang in Peter’s ears. He stared for many minutes at the flagstones where they stood, but nothing showed, no scorch mark from the bonfire, no ash, or scent that lingered.

  He took off the seal-amulet and thrust it into his anorak pocket. Then he dropped onto the sofa, lay down and fell fast asleep.

  *

  The distant throb and rattle of a large engine invaded his sleep and pulled him back to consciousness. Daylight, dimmed now to twilight, left deep shadows in The Hall’s farthest corners and the fire in the hearth cast little more than an orange glow.

  Fuzzy-headed, he sat up and listened. Distant voices came closer and the engine’s noise diminished to an idle beat. The rattle of the latch as the kitchen door opened.

  “Where is everyone?” Grandma, and then, “Oh! The sideboard… and... what’s this?”

  A deeper voice, a man’s, the words too low to catch and then silence for a long time. Peter stared straight ahead. He imagined grandma finding granddad’s letter and reading the horrible words that he wrote. He imagined grandma’s hands as they trembled, which made the paper flutter.

  And then a cry, that, as it rose in anguish, filled the house with its pain and anger and fear and loss.

  The man’s voice, Farmer Brunt’s, brusque, confused, flashed with bursts of temper, then countered by concern, that suggested, cajoled, ordered.

  Peter waited. Grandma’s grief scared and upset him with its intensity. He didn’t want to see her so sad. This didn’t need to happen if he’d used the seal-amulet, if he’d stopped granddad’s and Almina’s escape. So much pain still to come, because he’d chosen it to be this way. Yet, Bear said he’d been wise. He wished that he might cry too, to share grandma’s grief, to express his own upset at dad’s accident, yet his eyes stayed dry and he wondered at the numbness in his mind and body.

  “The boy! Where’s Peter?” Grandma’s tearful voice cracked. The scrape of a kitchen chair and then her footsteps as she hurried down the passage. Her hand went to her chest. “Oh! There you are.” She sat and took him in her arms. “There you are, oh, there you are...”

  Her tears wet his neck. He didn’t know what to say, didn’t know the right words that might help. Nor did he know how much grief came from her shock at granddad’s letter and her need to comfort him for dad’s injury.

  Not my dad. I loved him as my dad.

  Farmer Brunt appeared. He held his cap in his hands and twisted it as anyone might in an uncomfortable situation. “I’ll go and fetch the wife. She’ll help. I’ll not be long.”

  He hurried away and a minute later the tractor’s engine revved and as he drove off, its roar diminished.

  Grandma held him for a long time and then she wiped away her tears. “Peter, something terrible has happened.” She took hold of his shoulders. “It’s your dad.”

  Peter glanced at the embers in the hearth, grandma’s floral dress under her green coat, at his boots. If he admitted that he already knew about dad, she’d think him mad. It worried him too about how to react. She’d know if he pretended, for such serious news always came as a shock.

  Grandma shook her head and took a deep breath. “He cut his leg badly when he fell off the ladder. It took a long time to reach hospital...” She wiped away her tears. “The doctors did everything they could, but... he’d lost so much blood and... and, oh Peter, the cut was infected and the poison was too strong and in the end they had no choice but to amputate. It’s terrible.” She hugged him again. “So terrible and now... and now this...” She burst into tears.

  Peter didn’t need to pretend to be upset, for she cried into his shoulder and didn’t see his face.

  She pulled back. “You’re in shock. We’re all in shock. Your poor mum’s still at the hospital. They might need to keep her in for a bit, you know how worried she gets when there’s a crisis... oh dear, let’s get you to bed. I’ll heat some soup for both of us and bring it up. Come along, there’s a good boy.” She rose and held his hand as he stood. “A good rest will help both of us.” Her brow creased. “Did you... did you see granddad or... or Almina?”

  He shook his head.

  “No,” she said. “No... well, let’s talk about that tomorrow. I’ll fetch you a candle and then up you pop to bed and I’ll bring the soup.”

  The stairs creaked as Peter climbed to his bedroom. The old house brooded and watched, but it didn’t frighten him now. An old house that stood on such old ground might know much to brood about.

  He washed, changed into his pyjamas and climbed into bed. As if a switch flicked in his head, he fell into a deep sleep.

  ***

  He woke with a start. The candle’s wick trailed a coil of white smoke. Someone must have drawn the curtains, for a line of dim grey edged the window frame.

  His eyes smarted as he stared into the dark. “Leonor?” He climbed out of bed, hurried to the window and pulled back the curtains.

  The snow gleamed under a clear sky where a thousand stars glittered. Opposite his bedroom window, where the treeline marked the edge of the track as it went down to the lane, a flame, yellow and orange, swung back and forth.

  From under his window there came another light. Not bright or yellow, this floated like a white mist across a water’s still surface.

  Leonor stood upon the snow and raised her hand.

  The yellow flame hung still and brightened. Wulfwyn stepped out from between the trees and opened his arms.

  Leonor swept across the snow and into his embrace. They stood together, as lovers’ long-parted often do, held tight as if for ever, fulfilled at last and content.

  Together, they walked away through the trees and Peter watched as the yellow flame faded from sight. Then it stopped and rose, as if lifted high, and it flared once, a bright orange.

  Peter’s candle flickered and bloomed and the wick ignited, where a flame burned, steady and bright.

  The End

  About the Author

  Jonathan Broughton. Authors love reviews for their books. A short review on the site where you bought this book would be much appreciated. After you have left a review, contact me on the email below and I will be happy to send you another book of your choice as a thank you.

  The inspiration for In The Grip Of Old Winter came from two very cold winters on the south coast of England, UK. Heavy snow fell and not only settled, but stayed. The transformation of everyday landmarks alters perspectives and sets the imagination, or at least mine, racing. When I was young, I read and enjoyed the Green Knowe stories by Lucy Boston and The Dark Is Rising by Susan Cooper. The shifts in time that introduce new characters, but keeps familiar locations more or less unchanged, fascin
ates, because of the exciting and different possibilities that are revealed for the hero or heroine to experience.

  I have tried hard to make the MS as clean as possible. Unfortunately, wicked gremlins often hide in dark corners and jump out to cause mischief just when you thought it was safe to move on. Please let me know if you come across any typing or spelling mistakes so that I can catch the gremlins and release them into a safe and sustainable environment.

  I started writing fiction in 2007. I embraced the e-book revolution and published Dark Reunion- Twenty Short Stories, and The Russian White, a Victorian thriller. Running Before The Midnight Bell is an urban thriller set in Hastings and St Leonards-on-Sea.

  My email: [email protected]

  You can join me on Twitter: @jb121jonathan

  My Amazon page: amazon.com/author/jonathanbroughton

  About the Artist

  Melvyn Grant - is a well-known artist specialising in book and album sleeve illustrations. His versatility spans from children’s art to the darkest adult horror, but he tends to concentrate on fantasy and has produced covers and interior art for leading writers and musicians. Among them are Terry Pratchett - Where’s My Cow. Darren Shan - The Demonata series. Judas Priest - Rocka Rolla and Hero Hero. Iron Maiden - Fear of the Dark, Virtual XI, The Reincarnation of Benjamin Breeg, Death on the Road, The Final Frontier and From Fear to Eternity. He also produced the cover for the final book in the Pan Book of Horror series.

  In Mel’s paintings there has always been a hidden tale. Now he’s stepped out with a pile of paper, a pen and a large pot of ink and decided he’d write down the tales for all to read.

  He’s started with Pesky Baboon on Kindle, suitable for all ages from twelve up. ‘The Doings of that Pesky Baboon’ (Part One) ‘The Maggoty Man’ (Part Two) ‘The Bloodpainter’ (Part Three). The link to his Pesky Amazon page is here:

  http://www.amazon.co.uk/Doings-Pesky-Baboon-Maggoty-ebook/dp/B00BJ2MR0O/ref=pd_rhf_gw_p_img_1_PWQA