Illustration © Liam Lefr
Cold wind bites into my cheeks and I know that it signals the change. The stripping of leaves, the spattering of dew-frost, and the startling brightness of a sun drooped low in the sky, all mean my days of walking the land are limited.
I know it’s coming every year, yet the moment still seems to sneak up on me—so much am I enjoying roaming mountains in spring, visiting beaches in summer and watching as life blossoms all around. Though I no longer measure my time in years, each term I serve feels different, every cycle offering something new and exciting. Often, I find myself forgetting the winter months that have come and gone—as if my mind has blotted out the memory of such desolate moments.
This year, the impending cold is like a slow tug, and I prepare myself for my body to stiffen—for the battle of the seasons to wrench me away from my youthful freedom. As my body turns frail, I take a final pilgrimage to the mountain, and sit upon the craggy rocks that will form my throne for the onslaught of winter to come. I steel myself for my long hibernation, knowing that even if there is pain, at least the warmer seasons of freedom that come after will help me forget.
I close my eyes. My mind drifts in and out of consciousness, as the darkness and freezing winds batter me from every direction, until I’m no longer here nor there.
#
Something disturbs me. A crunch of frozen bracken. I force my eyes open, and gaze across the land. A clouded haze encompasses the space around me. But I can sense I’m no longer alone.
‘Who comes here?’ I whisper, my breath a mist.
A pale figure appears. ‘It is time to drink from the chalice, my queen.’ A woman’s voice. She blinks up at me, her hands holding my golden artifact towards me – the one I drink from in the spring and summer months, to fuel my rejuvenation.
An uncomfortable knot twists in my chest. How can she pick it up? Only I have that power. Who is this imposter? Red hair, woven with intricate wildflower vines, frames her neck and shoulders. Something tells me she is known to me, though I cannot place how.
I look around again at the frozen landscape, feeling the icy bitterness of it deep in my bones. ‘It is too early. Winter is not over yet. Leave me be, whoever you are.’
‘Ah.’ The woman smiles. ‘But I’m here to offer you an opportunity. Don’t you want to end your torment early? To have a longer spring, a longer summer?’
I frown at her. ‘Yes, it would be great if I could just decide to get up and end this, but that is not the way. The length of the seasons is a thing that cannot be altered.’
‘But you could change that, if you decide it.’
I shake my head. What does she mean? ‘Who are you?’
‘I understand, you don’t remember me,’ she says. ‘But you can trust me, I only want the best for you. Come, don’t you want to be born anew? Drink!’ She pushes the chalice closer. Air bubbles move on the icy surface of the water within, threatening to escape with the lightest touch. Maybe it really is almost time. How much I crave the warmth. How much I want to feel the soft earth beneath my feet.
A slow wind whistles in my ears, and I search for any hint of sun. It is still low in the sky.
Winter isn’t over.
And it is forbidden to drink from the chalice too early. I take a slow aching breath. ‘It is not yet time.’
The woman cocks her head. ‘I’m sorry my queen, but now is the time.’
‘I am tired. Go away,’ I say, my voice rising like a rumble of thunder.
Her eyes dart around. ‘Please, just listen. You cannot enjoy being stuck here, the pain of being frozen in one spot, hardly able to move for months on end. It is a cruelty no one should have to endure.’
‘No.’ I sit up to get a better look at her and my bones creak. ‘I don’t enjoy it particularly.’
‘A cruel fate,’ she says and shivers. ‘So you must drink. Drink and you’ll be renewed, refreshed. This is a gift, only to be given to you, my queen.’
If it is a gift, then there would be a cost. There is always a cost. If I drink now, winter would end early. Then I may not have energy enough to keep the warmth flowing when spring comes, and just like that the seasons would be disrupted. No, I will not be tempted. This is a balance I have kept from time immemorial, and I will keep it still. Why is this woman trying to get in my way? ‘Who do you think you are, meddling in things you cannot possibly understand?’
‘Ah, but I do understand.’ There’s a strange gleam in her eye—like a spark waiting to ignite. ‘We are more acquainted than you can know.’
I search the woman’s face again. She looks younger than me, her skin luminescent against the fiery redness of her hair. There’s a hint of familiarity, but it is vague and slippery. ‘I don’t care who you are. We’re done here.’ I close my eyes and hope she’ll go away.
But she only laughs. It is a tone I recognise. ‘Alas,’ she says. ‘You have thwarted me again.’
I open my eyes slowly. She is standing so close to me, like her figure is a reflection in glass. The illusion is shattered, and I remember who she is.
I am her, and she is me.
The fogginess fades and memories of our past interactions flood into my mind. My other self, the form I take in the spring, appearing before me like a mirage, tempting me from my slumber early, trying to break the sacred binds laid upon us. And so, I know what comes next. She will make me forget, until we’re forced to engage in this whole episode once again. ‘One day I will remember your attempt at treachery,’ I tell her.
‘And one day you’ll fall for it. Then we will be free from this curse.’ She sighs. ‘What a shame I cannot force your hand. Alas, maybe next time. But until then…’
She waves a hand in front of my face, and I hers.
For a moment my hand hangs out in the air, withered and wrinkled, pale and blue. The movement hurts, as if my bones could break at any moment. I look down at the chalice at my feet, the water inside completely frozen over. It is not my time yet.
A flurry of snow begins. As it lands on my skin, the coolness of it courses into my muscles. It stings with a familiar kind of suffering. But it feels right. This is what I must endure.
The world becomes a void of white.
#
When I wake, birdsong rings in the air. The bleating of lambs echoes in the fields below, while the sun warms my skin. My chalice of gold lies next to me, appearing as it always does when I wake.
I take a long drink and stretch out my limbs, until they no longer feel like stone. It feels as if I have been asleep forever. As always, the long months of cold are a blur in my mind, the ache in my muscles the only memory of my torment. And even that pain is starting to subside.
I stand and look down the valley where hints of green are already starting to appear. As I gather my hair over my shoulder and weave it into a braid, the last hint of silver-white fades into red.
Lyndsey Croal is a Scottish writer based in Edinburgh. She received a Scottish Book Trust New Writers Award for 2020 and is working on her debut novel. Her work has been published in a number of magazines and anthologies, including by Folkways Press, MookyChick, and Liars' League, and her debut audio drama drawing on Scottish Folklore was recently produced by the Alternative Stories and Fake Realities podcast. Find her on Twitter as @writerlynds or via www.lyndseycroal.co.uk. This is a response to the Scrying theme.