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Copyright 2015 Ashley Fox

Smashwords First Edition

Winter Solstice

Smashwords Edition, License
Notes

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CHAPTER ONE: The Moon

CHAPTER TWO: The Knight of Swords

CHAPTER THREE: Death

CHAPTER FOUR: The Ace of Wands

CHAPTER FIVE: The Hanged Man

CHAPTER SIX: The Eight of Swords

CHAPTER SEVEN: The Ten of Wands

CHAPTER EIGHT: The Eight of Cups

CHAPTER NINE: The Queen of Cups

CHAPTER TEN: The Queen of Swords

CHAPTER ELEVEN: The Ace of Pentacles

CHAPTER TWELVE: The Sun

CHAPTER THIRTEEN: Temperance

CHAPTER FOURTEEN: The Star

CHAPTER FIFTHTEEN: The Ten of Swords

Notes

Her soft skinned boots, although rising to
her knees and so protecting her from the more virile nettles and
grasses, did not dull the sensation of small stones, twigs and
packed earth that lay beneath her feet.

Rather than be deterred she welcomed these
intimacies, revelling in the crunch and pop, curling her toes into
each step, then springing splay and up. In one hand she carried a
yew stick, using it as a switch to thrash and whip through the
shrubs and wild plants, causing brittle stems to break, casting the
last of the summer seeds into the strong autumnal breeze.

Onwards, Mera meandered through the natural
corridor, blackberry bushes forming high, twisting walls. A few
fruit remained, dry and shrivelled, refusing to give up their safe
harbour amongst the thorns. The harbour which had protected them
from clever, prying beaks and eager purple stained fingers. There,
somewhere in the rambling thicket, came a noise. She paused, poised
still, breath caught. A scratching interrupted the susurrus of the
wind , then a crashing, breaking rushing. For a moment she
considered turning back, images of strange creatures cavorting in
her mind. Hesitated. Llew would never let her live it down if she
came back empty handed. Her resolve hardened, she stomped her foot,
followed by the other. With a pounce and a pirouette she carried on
her way. What fae could possibly harm her when she was so fey
herself?

Just in case she renewed her thrashing with
the switch, like the foolish, fearsome knights in the training
yard. Llew thought he was so tough, so brave playing with the
others, the silly beggars running round with no shirts on, waving
sticks. If she wanted to play games she would simply run with the
keep children. They had dogs as well. Big, smelly, slathering dogs,
always ready with a wet tongue and snuffling nose.

With a start
she realized the thorn corridor was at an end, and all thoughts of
knights and sticks were wiped from her mind as the narrow vision of
the corridor was thrown open. The trees of the
King
’
s Wood bedecked with
fiery leaves. Deep green of evergreens contrasting with bright
reds, vibrant golds, crisp golden yellow, palest of green, deepest
purple. Bark slick with resin framed by slim, silvery birch,
peeling back to reveal its black core. Each colour forming blocks
to merge and frame one another. Over the patchwork canopy loomed
the sky, fat rain clouds heading to sea, charcoal grey and indigo.
The setting sun brought out unknown colours, painting the sky a
brilliant flaring orange, as if in dying the day had bled fiery
ichors across the heavens.

The world seemed caught in the apex of its
season. Autumn it declared with molten hues, spilling radiance with
a last breath before the dream.

She stood in silence, for an unknown time,
the wind moulding her deep green cloak against her back, russet
skirts tugging about her knees, red curls flying as if seeking to
merge with the burnt splendour.

Her mind still, absorbent, within her a heart
an almost painful lifting, and the earth thrummed beneath her feet
with every ponderous heartbeat. Life pulsing with her own
blood.

Upon the wind
a scent lingered, spicy and earthy. She let it pick her up,
following the path into the woods
…
at the edge she hesitated, glancing back. Dark would
descend soon. She must be quick.

She knew
where the rowan copse lay,
‘
twas not far. In her mind she was the heroine of a story,
her destination clear. She must not veer off the path, or some
snarling beast or pointy toothed goblin would soon gobble her up.
If Llew thought she was afraid, well,
she
’
d show him. She thought
back to his gloating face, and her determination grew. She would
have the best masque of everyone!

‘
Twas Samhain
night when spirits of the dead and capricious creatures, mayhap
even the Utahan ,would be abroad. Later there would be feasting and
dancing around bonfires, and all would wear masques crafted with
nature
’
s gifts to tell them
apart from waxen faced ghasts and hide the fire of their hearts.
Llew had dared her to enter the woods to gather for hers, knowing
as everyone knew that at sunset all such fey creatures and spirits
would wonder forth, and that the woods and wild places were
favourite haunts.

But she was not afraid, she told the
butterflies in her stomach, not only would she enter the woods but
she would fashion a masque of rowan leaves and berries, bound with
ivy and mistletoe, all the better to see truly, invoking protection
and wisdom. She wanted to see! To be seen.

Soon she reached the copse, the woodland
opened up to reveal the strand of trees, clear space circling them.
A wood within a wood, the berries bright beads of red in the gloom,
the fanfare of leaves riotous in their gold and red glory, the
ancient boles gnarled in repose. She circled widdershins round,
gently spiralling to an opening, perfect for her size. She began to
gather, casting her eye over the bounty, searching for the best
leaves, perfect in their sequence, of all the varying colours.
Slender fingers plucked up the round berries, like drops of blood,
vibrant sprigs. Her perception narrowed, her awareness solely on
her task, her pleasure grew with each perfect specimen collected.
Deeper into the copse she ventured when, into her reverie, slowly
sank the awareness of a voice. Soft and sibilant it seeped through
the boughs, quiet and drifting, then louder. It was no language she
recognized.

Her curiosity piqued, she rose from amidst
the ferns and bracken. She felt no fear. Gently she glided forward,
parting the underbrush. Lower branches sought to grace her hair and
shoulders with caresses, seeming to coax her into the heart of the
copse. Within she glimpsed a movement; something glowed softly in
the gloom, light seemed perceptibly leeched from her surroundings,
the shadows darker in the presence of a shifting pearlescent
glow.

When only a
single bower screened her from the heart she ceased her movement,
hands resting against an ancient tree, surely the largest of them
all. The scent of the bark surrounded her, reminiscent of the
lingering spice earlier. Around this vast bole she peered. Beneath
the spreading canopy lay a secret cavern composed of woven
branches, a latticework holding the smouldering sky at bay and
within stood a white stag; glowing like moonlight, every line a
grace, antlers tall and forked and silver. His breath billowed
mist, lambent eyes resting on the bent form of an old woman. She
stooped, covered in dark wool, the hood of her cloak creating a
shadowed recess in which her face was hidden. With a turn of her
head she revealed a glimpse of her craggy, deeply lined
countenance. One hand curled around a tall knobbled staff,
it
’
s end firmly plunged into
the loaming, the other emerged from within the voluminous folds of
her clothing. Emerged with a crooked finger, beckoning.

For a moment her reality simply seemed to
stop. The silence to press against her, all in stillness, in
waiting. Should she answer the call or flee? Flee to the bonfires
and press of humanity, flee to the safety of all she had ever
known?

Her hand dropped from the bole and she
stepped way from shelter, revealing herself in full. Her chin
raised high she met that knowing gaze and walked forward. As she
fully entered that twilight cavern the stag grandly paced, each
hoof placed with a dainty precision, the muscles beneath that
glowing hide rippling with each step. He stopped in front of her,
bending his noble neck to snuffle at her face, her hair floating in
his warm musk. Above, a full moon lay cupped by arching horns.

Enchanted by such beauty she dared raise her
hand, slowly reaching up a grubby finger to alight upon his silken
pelt. As her hand stroked surely down his neck there was a flash of
amusement in those dark eyes, and, with a snort, he spun and
antlered through the trees, his luminescence swallowed by the
gloom.

A cackle
split the night air, and the old woman looked upon her with merry
eyes.
“
Come, child, will you
no greet me?

Abashed, Mera stepped forward, presenting
herself to the crone. Looking into her face she saw something that
reminded her of her bond father. So thinking she thought it prudent
to show respect, folding neatly into a curtsy.

Again that
cackle, like wood splitting in the freezing snow, or the bark of a
rook.
“
So the little spy
does have manners, eh? And what, pray tell, is a wee lass like
yeself doing wandering the woods on Samhain
nact?
”

Mera was
aware of her precipitous position. Unconsciously she chewed her
lower lip, thinking fast on what to say.
She
’
d never seen this woman
before, so she couldn
’
t know
who she was. Could she just pretend to be some peasant girl, lost
her way? Something about her heavy presence, the same thing that
demanded respect, told her it would be pointless to lie. With a
shuffle of her feet the words poured.
“
Lady, I had no intention of spying
on you! How would I know you
’
d be here? See, I came to gather these leaves and berries
for my masque, Llew, he said that girls
aren
’
t brave, he dared me I
wouldn
’
t come here tonight.
So, see, I had to come, coz
’
I am
not
scared, and I want to see them! Tonight
I
’
m going
to
-”

“
Hush child,
you do be babbling. Seem clear to me ye be truthful, and
bold!
”

Mera closed her mouth, pursuing the crones
expression. She had not expected to be found amusing. Mostly
grownups seemed annoyed by her presence, forever sending her on her
way or scolding her. For simply being.

“
Let me see
what ye have gathered girl, I
’
ll fashion a masque to leave all others gasping, that I
will.
”
The crone slowly
lowered herself onto a grassy hummock, with much sighing and
grunting, patting a spot by her knee. Mera knelt and began to
arrange her trove before them both. The crone quickly plucked up a
few larger, supple boughs, twisting and weaving, then began to
arrange the leaves and berries just so. Her were fingers
surprisingly dextrous and nimble. In moments the
masques
’
outline was clearly
formed, and fleshed out.
“
Girl, have ye a tie?
”

She dug through her pockets, pulling out a
leather thong. She removed a sticky honey drop with a bashful flick
of her eyelashes, hastily wiping it off on her skirts before she
placed it upon the crones knee.