Before Winter's End

XVI: BLOODLETTING

"The time is coming when the wicked shall persecute no more, when the mouth of iniquity shall be stopped, when the desire and hope of all believers shall be satisfied, when the Redeemer's work shall be consummated, when the kingdom shall be delivered up to the Father, when those that made a jest of this day shall be fully confuted. Faith sees the certainty of it, and love makes us hold out till the time come about."

Songs:

Brian McOmber - "Travis' Acceptance" (It Comes At Night OST)

I lit the rings of sapling and twine, so that I stood in the midst of their fiery light. The quivering flames cast wary fingers into the darkness, but did not go far. I took up the small pot of boiled herbs – a concoction of Cauldron's Cap and other things, a brew I had never prepared nor drank. I drank it now, deeply, letting the warm liquid fill my belly and still my shivering.

I sat upon the roots of the old tree, and swore I could feel the life moving through its massive limbs. Deep below my feet, in the chambers, the spirits of the sacrifices moaned. I sensed them stirring in the earth. I kept my breathing steadying and focused on building my power. With every pound of my heart, I envisioned energy spreading through my veins until my limbs were tingling.

I could not have doubt.

I could not hesitate.

Something moved in the darkness.

I stood up, my feet feeling strangely numb, so that it was almost as if I was floating across the ground. I peered into the trees, toward the noise I had heard, and reached out with my sight. I found only darkness. Impenetrable, familiar darkness.

The darkness twisted like ink in water. The snow shifted, as if something were digging up out of it. I held my ground. It was not Zibarath, not yet. It was his underlings. The Spirits of the Loam, drawn to the fire and heat of life.

I could see vague, shimmering orbs in the midst of the blackness. Whispers darted around me, little chuckles and the swift pattering of inhuman feet. I resisted the desire to whip my head this way and that, to struggle like a frightened rabbit to see what was surrounding me. Instead I held out my hand, and said firmly, "Spirits, I command thee show yourselves. Come forth!"

The darkness shuddered, and this time a deep, melodious chuckle sounded forth. It filled the space around me, from all sides, so that I could not pinpoint a direction from whence it came.

"What is your name?" The whispered words seemed to hiss directly in both of my ears at once. It was not just one voice, but many. "What is your name witchling? Give us your name and we'll give you ours."

Tricksters, I thought. They sought to prEy on a frightened girl, but were sadly mistaken as to who they were facing. I was not that girl. Not anymore.

"Show yourselves, spirits!" I said, raising my voice. "I compel you to my will! Do not disobey!"

The darkness began to rearrange itself: it became limbs and torsos, dark faces and hunched bodies. I could see the faint glitter of eyes. They were all low to the ground, hunched and creeping. Watching me.

"Why does the witchling not play with us?"

"Play with us witchling."

"Give us your name."

"Be silent!" I cried. "You do not command me. Tell me. Where is your master?"

The whispers stopped. The woods became strangely silent, and a little shiver went up my spine. I thought that perhaps I should ask again, but then there was a hiss directly in my left ear, "He is watching."

I could not stop myself from jumping, but I did not turn. I knew nothing was there for me to see. These ravenous spirits would play tricks on me, seek to weaken and frighten me. I let out my breath in a slow count to ten.

"Why does he not show himself?" I said.

The whispering exploded in a cacophony of sound. I could not make out all the words, only tidbits and random disjointed mutterings.

" . . . the master . . ."

"Does she think she can command . . ."

" . . . very angry . . ."

"Coming . . ."

"Well?" I snapped, thinking myself mad when I heard the sharpness in my own voice. "Where is he? Where is Zibarath? His sacrifice is here! Let him come claim it!"

"There is no sacrifice!" the voice hissed again, just behind me. "You defy him! You offer nothing!"

"Yes, I do."

I drew the small knife from my belt, its blade glinting in the firelight. I held up my palm, and with a long slow slice, I parted the skin. My blood ran down, over my wrist and down my arm in a swift river. It dripped off my elbow and dotted the snow. I felt the pain starkly, but I did not flinch. I held out my hand so that my blood fell in a ring around me.

"Pro remissione facimus," I said. I had memorized the passage from the Black Book, the words that would usually be said over a tortured lamb. "Pro benedictione nostra facimus. Bibe sanguinem in altum o pruinis corpora unus."

I could feel a rumbling in the earth. The trees began to creak all at once, their wood straining and moaning. The wind blew, tugging at their tortured limbs and billowing my hair, whipping it around my face. The swirling darkness that was the Spirits of the Loam whisked away like midday fog, the whispers vanishing with them. When the air stilled, there was no sound but my own breath and the lingering rustle of the trees.

Then there came the sound of claws scratching into wood.

The sound was distant, at first. But then it began to draw nearer. Every time I could hear the claws rend deeper into the trees onto which they latched. I could hear the drag and scuffle of something large walking – then running – through the snow. My instincts told me to run, but I forced myself to stay. This was it.

I had to face him.