Chapter Two

“Blanchett!”

The sound was music to her ears. It rejuvenated her lost strength and put energy back into her weakened legs. The heart beat faster and calmer than sinking into a deepening grief. Her head turned and there, across the small bed right beside where the furs of foxes hung, she saw her…the trail of blood now tracing back to her, on her fur robes and to her face that smirked, the eyes flashing with achievement. The sleeveless left arm ended with the metallic shine of the axe that had been used this noon to chop something other than the wood.

“Grandma?! What happened?” her palms pushed the floor she had knelt on, getting up swiftly and meeting her granny in a fierce hug. She didn’t mind the stench or the blood…

“A black wolf my darling” her voice melted into her ears as she tightened the hug. The situation she had thought of…

“Sit by the fire. You look like you have seen a ghost!” her grandma walked, her voice as calm as the fire that burned the birch logs. Pulling a few furs, she laid them on the ground, letting her sit on them.

“Grandma! Why the hell do you live alone?! I am telling pa! You must come back” her voice ghastly made it to the old lady as she dipped her hands in a bucket of melted ice, letting her callused hands rinse her wrinkled face. She then arranged her hair bun.

“The spirits have been speaking to me Blanchett. They warned me about this. There is a reason why the wolves have been losing sanity. This morn, one of them snuck past the barriers I have casted around the hut. Of course, I knew…and prepared. But these wolves…they have been bold. Insanely bold…and don’t think like beasts think. This one was prepared to kill” she explained, sitting right beside her. Facing her palms towards the fire, she then resumed, knowing that her grandkid needed more explanation. Her flabbergasted face said it all.

“The black wolf stood no chance dear. I was prepared. See these marks?” she spoke with loud accent, pushing the sleeve off her right arm and revealing why it was the only sleeve she wore. To call it a scar would be an understatement. The skin was missing around that crescent shaped mark.

“I was about to lose an arm once…then the villagers let the red hot iron rest here and the infection didn’t spread. I am not the silly old woman your village calls me. Neither I am like your merchant father…craving for a warm fire after a day of work. I am of warrior clan Blanchett. And I have those gifts…” her eyes looked away, as if the sparks in that fire showed her the uneasy memories…which she didn’t wish to share.

“Grandma…it was a wolf today. There might be more coming. Come back to us!” she pleaded…no begged. In response, the old lady smirked…reminding her a lot about how she used to smirk whenever the gran told her to stay away from her recent lover.

“Darling, I am a survivor. Go back to your village and tell your father not to attend tonight’s festival. I have seen this before. The wolves…they behave like this only under the presence of…” her face turned pale and Blanchett wondered the magnitude of such calamity…one that had put such a frown on her grandma’s face.

“What grandma…?” she regretted asking.

Her expressions pulled themselves back into the calm demeanor like before as she penetrated deeper into her eyes with her stare.

“Something evil has been roaming around these lands! These animals, particularly ones that have dark fur serve as its agents…” the words were calm though Blanchett saw her grandma’s jaw clenching, the nerves on her face tightening. The calm in her words hid something…

“You know the legends of Sahmal?”

She heard her speaking the name of a place, remembering those old ruins that her father told her about. As a travelling merchant, he used to tell her that caravans rather entered the woods and tried their luck with bandits and wild animals than take a shortcut through those ruins.

“I know only a little…something about two brothers. The one named Maxwell was pure and kind and the other one named Boris was filled with hate and vengeance. The story doesn’t end well. Maxwell had gifts. He could see into the future. But Boris…he was a dark magic practitioner. Delving deeper into black magic, he made a deal with a devilish entity that made him both powerful and vicious. He raised a small number of followers and planned a coup. He was discovered by Maxwell who then banished him and his small number of followers from the clan. He and his small band left, swearing vengeance on Maxwell. But what does that have to do with what you are saying, grandma?” she asked.

The observant stare deepened as her grandma turned her head, staring blankly at the fire.

“We are the descendants of Maxwell…and the full moon is approaching…the fifth of Winter…the time of the year when Boris made a deal with the dark gods…” she murmured slowly, letting the voice die out in the sounds of the gusts that blew outside.

That one corner of valley had come alive that night, the chilly air carrying warm spicy fragrances of the deer and fish roasted around that bonfire. Dancing heads were all she could notice, sitting right in front of what she called home. In truth, it was a hovel. A cramped place…miraculously still standing even when there were three sisters cooped up in there along with a father. She looked at her older sibling, dancing around with her eyes on that golden-haired boy carving the wood, avoiding all the girls. He had his eyes set on her…for what reason…she didn’t know or care. Neyru would never give into the false charms of the other ones. He always cherished her…

Tonight was when festivities flew in the air. Winter was approaching…had approached in fact. Though the resources weren’t enough, but the moment the merchants managed to return with heaps of meat and skins from the standing city a few miles away, the village had managed to throw together the festival to invite good spirits and keep their villages warm. A nonsense tradition! They just needed an excuse to add some color to this bland place and see other textures than the bleakness that ruled over. Seeing that old chief drinking the mead in his mug, she did admit that things had been different and in a good way since last year. Resting his wooden leg on a log nearby, he looked around happily. The frostbite won’t take any more limbs or legs. In comparison to last year, when there were only candles and cries supposedly to spirits for keeping the village safe, now there was a festival. She admitted that prayers perhaps did work. A gust of wind blew, messing up the dark locks of hair that she was going to twist and turn and form her braid.

Glowering at her elder bulkier sister who was constantly dancing around the corner where a boy carved the wood, she let her hands run through the silky strands. She had her mother’s features…probably why her sisters didn’t see her eye to eye. Finally tying them in a bun, she trudged on that snow-covered ground, heading to the dance. Heads turned, thinking this lass in red cloak would join them. She quickly dismissed the notion, letting her walk end at the old tree stump where the nineteen-year-old, golden hair body with a light stubble and dreamy blue eyes let his sharp knife peel yet another lay off the branch. Like all villagers, he wore fur clothing…warm and somewhat comfortable.