Boyett-Compo Charlotte - Wind Tales 01 (2 page)

that for once Jasper Kullen was telling the truth.

The deer had been saved, he thought as he managed to arch his body away from the thick ice overhead

and dive toward the bottom of the pond, his feet tangling in the reeds as he swam. Even if he died, the

animal would see another day's light before some ruthless hunter brought her down. His sacrifice would

have meant something to at least one living creature.

A patch of a lighter hue hovered just beyond him and it was to this sanctuary he guided his frozen body,

plowing through the darkness with the last of his fading strength. If he could only gather enough speed in

the water, he might be able to push through the ice as he surfaced. He might even be able to beach

himself on the floe, then claw his way onto the ice and drag himself out of the pond.

Kicking out with every last bit of power in his long legs, he knifed through the slushy water and shot

toward the lighter shade of dark gray above him.

The ice broke with a resounding crack, the force of his upward momentum carrying him high into the air.

Although the sharp edges tore through his sodden shirt and cut shallow furrows into the flesh of his

forearms, he did not feel it. All he felt was the whipping wind that caught at his body and hurled him

sideways, on to his side, atop a thicker, sturdier piece of ice.

Scratching frantically at the floe, clawing, kicking, digging his booted feet forward on the ice, he

scrambled up onto the solidly frozen pond and into the frozen reeds at the edge. Grabbing handfuls of the

thick clumps, he dragged himself out onto the bank, coating his soaked clothing with layer after layer of

wet snow until he lay gasping on solid ground. A hard shiver ran through his tired, numb body and he lay

still, all the fight drained away.

Gilly stumbled over a half-buried tree stump and went down heavily in the snow. Her teeth clicked

together painfully and she tasted blood where she had bitten the inside of her right cheek. “The

gods-be-damn it!” she grunted.

“Are you all right?” Nick shouted at her over the skirling wind.

“Aye!” she said with disgust, spitting away the salty taste in her mouth.

“There's a pond over there!” Nick yelled. “Keep well away from it!"

Gilly nodded as her brother helped her to her feet. She dusted the snow from her knees and slapped her

arms around her chilled body. “Do you see the light?"

Nick looked about them. “It's gone.” And with it all hope, Nick thought as he urged Gilly forward.

There was a trail of sort, a shallower indentation in the snow that had to be a trail, and he hoped it led to

the source of the light they had seen earlier.

“This way!” he shouted.

Beyond the place where they walked, the conical shapes of fir trees were shadowed against the bright

glare of the snow. They were close enough to actually smell the tar scent of spruce and cedar. The lake

was off to their left, a darker white against the pristine drifts.

“Nick!” Gilly suddenly yelled, dragging on his arm, her own pointing north. “Is that a house?"

Snow stung his eyes; the wind lashed against his face like shards of glass. It was hard to breathe in the

polar air, harder still to talk for his lips were frozen hunks of meat. “I don't know,” Nick answered,

narrowing his eyes to the much darker gray shape that had suddenly loomed out of the gathering

darkness.

A gusting gale of wind slapped against them, and with it came the unmistakable smell of wood smoke.

“IT IS A HOUSE!” Gilly exclaimed, her grip tightening on Nick's arm. “NICKY, IT IS!"

They were heading right into the teeth of the winds, being devoured by the biting cold that sank through

their clothing and clamped down to their bones. Bent over to protect their faces, they struggled toward

the squat black mass that might well mean life and death for them.

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By the time they reached their destination, darkness had obliterated the front of the mansion, casting the

twin oaken portals in shadows so sinister they resembled the yawning entrance way to hell. The wind

which gusted over the courtyard and through the denuded shrubs and trees, skirted eerie, unholy

music-shattering.

Gilly glanced nervously about her, taking in the loneliness of the place, the darkness behind its windows,

the unkempt courtyard where brambles and debris lay huddled against the fieldstone walls, and scraggly

branches scraped at cracked and shattered window panes.

“The place looks deserted!” Nick shouted as they pushed their way to the entrance.

Far off to the south, a dog howled in frustration at being left out in the biting tempest, and a wolf

answered in commiseration.

“Nick....” Gilly began, unnerved by the deadly quiet which emanated from the mansion, but her brother

was already pounding on the portal, wincing as his frozen fist struck the wood.

“HELLO!” Nick yelled, pounding with all his strength. “WE'RE LOST! LET US IN!"

No light came on behind the darkened windows. No answering cries of greeting, or warnings to go

away, issued from the silence within.

“HELLO!!” Nick kicked at the door and tried the handle only to find it locked. “DAMN!” he spat.

“Maybe we should just leave, Nicky” Gilly said, growing more uneasy with every passing moment.

“And freeze to death out here when there is shelter available?” her brother snapped. He wedged himself

between a scraggly shrub and the mansion wall and cupped his hands to a dirty, glazed window pane.

“Do you see anything?” Gilly asked, stamping her feet.

“Not a gods-be-damned thing!” Nick snarled. He tried the next window, but the accumulation of grime

and neglect very effectively blocked his view of the mansion's interior.

“There's got to be a stable,” Gilly suggested. She did not wait for her brother to answer.

Dragging the sodden hem of her skirt out of the snow, she plowed through a knee-deep drift and started

around the side of the mansion.

“Gilly, wait!” Nick growled, squeezing between two bushes to follow in her wake.

The stable was locked and barred with a heavy padlock that had not been opened in a long while. Rust

caked the metal hasp and bolt. A peek through a gap in some boards gave mute evidence that the place

had long since been deserted by man and animal alike.

“We could pull out some of the boards; at least get in out of the snow,” Nick advised. He put his foot up

to the stable planking and was about to wedge his thick fingers through the gap in the boards to lever

them apart, when Gilly touched his arm, drawing his attention.

“There's smoke coming out of the chimney, Nicky,” she told him. “Maybe whoever we heard calling for

help is unable to come to the door.”

She shuddered as she peered through the gloom at the mansion, then tried to put aside her fear.

“Shouldn't we try to get inside and see?"

Nick glanced at the mansion, looked up at the billows of white, wafting smoke coming out of a far

chimney and shrugged. “It's worth a try, I suppose."

Every ground floor window was either too small to accommodate entry or else was enclosed with iron

bars. The servant's entrance was locked, as was the kitchen. A complete circuit of the mansion proved

the place to be inaccessible to anyone without key or ax.

“There's got to be a way in,” Nick fumed as he looked about the long-neglected flower and vegetable

gardens. Nothing with which to batter their entrance in could be found among the discarded implements

scattered about.

“What about those?” Gilly asked, pointing.

Nick followed her direction and looked up to the second story and saw a set of double doors, their

mullion panes opaque in the gloom. There was a small wrought iron balcony which looked out over the

ramshackle flower garden. It would be a hazardous climb, what with the fieldstone walls being slick with

the driving snow, but it was at least worth a try.

“Can you get up there?” Gilly asked as her brother waded his way through the snow to the kitchen door

where an overhang blocked the weather.

Nick did not answer, but reached up to take hold of the overhang's support where it met the wall. He

knew if he could get up on the overhang, and if it would hold his weight long enough for him to get a

toe-hold in the fieldstone, he might be able to crab-walk his way to the balcony. He had no doubt his

boot could make quick work of the fragile-looking mullions.

Gilly held her breath as her brother pulled himself up to the overhang, the strain of scrambling over the

contraption's edge making his face dark. His feet skidded on the roof tiles, sending small chunks of the

material rolling down the incline until he could lever himself up onto the roof. He crouched there, no

doubt testing the safety and stability of the overhang then inched forward, his fingers digging into the

fieldstone to keep the wind from dragging him out into space.

“Be careful!” Gilly called up uselessly and was instantly contrite as her brother looked down, frowning at

her. The light had almost gone, but she could not help but see the irritation on Nick's stubborn face.

“Sorry,” she mumbled, knowing he could not hear her.

The going was tougher than Nick could have imagined. The fieldstone was slippery, slick and ice-cold to

the touch. It was all he could do to wedge the toes of his boots into the joints and find any purchase at all

along the thick stone. After what seemed to Nick to be an eternity, he could finally reach out and grasp

the flooring of the balcony.

“God!” he drew in a harsh breath as the wrought iron grating stuck instantly to his hand. He had not

thought about that, he reminded himself as he jerked his burnt flesh back from the contact.

“What is it?” Gilly called. “What happened?"

Nick clenched his jaw and mentally cursed his forgetfulness at leaving his gloves back at Tempest Keep.

He drew his right hand into the sleeve of his coat, scrunched up the material in his fist, then reached once

more for the grating. With a mighty heave, he managed to get close enough to hook his entire arm

through the grating.

Gilly slapped her arms around her body, trying to find some warmth. The wind had died down to a low

mournful dirge and the snow was tapering off, but with the night's coming, the temperature would drop

drastically and she knew if they did not find shelter soon, they would freeze to death.

Praying the balcony would not come crashing down with his weight, Nick dug his toes into the fieldstone

and pushed himself up, straining to get his left hand up to the top rail of the balcony. Swinging his arm up,

he was able to hitch his crooked arm over the rail. Dangling precariously for a moment, his feet

scrambled for purchase on the stone.

“NICK!” Gilly gasped. Her hands were up as though she could catch him should he fall. “DON'T

FALL!"

“I'M NOT TRYING TO!” he shouted back, at last finding a toe-hold in the stone.

With one heavy intake of breath, he unhooked his right arm from the grating, simultaneously pushing

away from the wall with his feet and swung out. With the momentum of his swing, he was able to drape

his free arm over the rail. It was then only a matter of hoisting himself over the railing and onto the

balcony. As soon as he did, he headed for the door and took hold of the handle through the cloth of his

coat.

“Thank you,” Gilly muttered, looking to the heavens.

“The gods-be-damned door ain't locked!” Nicky called down, his voice rife with pleasure.

Gilly looked back to the balcony in time to see her brother disappear into the mansion.

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It had taken the nearly-drowned man over thirty minutes to make his way back to Holy Dale. His wet

clothing had frozen to his flesh as he stumbled through the blowing, blinding snow. He had begun to pray,

not really believing any god would ever hear him again or even want to; but he had to try. His upbringing

had demanded it.

When at last he had reached his home, he had staggered gratefully through the servant's entrance,

managed to lock the door behind him, and had then collapsed on the stairs, unable to go any further, not

sure he really wanted to, although the only warmth in Holy Dale was in his bed chamber on the third

floor, and he was chilled to the very marrow of his bones. After a few attempts to haul himself up the

stairs, he'd given up. Not even Brownie's excited barking or lapping tongue could rouse him from the

stupor into which he allowed himself to drift.

“Go away, girl,” he mumbled to the dog, feeling the slick, wet tongue slathering over his chaffed face.

The bone-jarring chills had yet to come; but he knew they would soon arrive. His lungs felt heavy, laden

with water, full of pond scum, and he could hear the wheeze that was already beginning as he drew in

harsh gasps of breath through his opened mouth. First would come the chills; then the raging fever, the

wracking cough that produced blood-flecked sputum, the violent convulsions, vomiting, the gasping for

breath, and finally....

He'd watched his little brother, Anson, die in just that way. The illness had claimed the young boy in only

two days.

His dog barked, backed up and spun around in a circle. When he didn't respond, the animal snared the

sleeve of his wet coat and, digging in her hindquarters, pulled.

“No,” he said, too weary to put up a hand to fend off his only companion for these last five years.