"Ghosts,” Russet whispered, gathering her skirts up as if to take flight.
Maerose shook her head. “Samhain is still five moons away, so none of these ghosts will have risen yet, if they ever do.” She gave a dismissive sigh, rolling her eyes. “Steady yourself. Don't let the turn in the weather make you afraid."
Her sister was both easily flustered, and the victim of a wild imagination. She latched onto every ghost story she was told with a mixture of fear and fascination. Maerose was the practical one in the family, the oldest sibling, the one who had taken their mother's place in the household when she had died, four summers before. Maerose was sensible. She reasoned through things more so than her sister, who was already collecting tokens to ward off the demons and dark spirits that would come visiting on Samhain, the eve of winter.
Maerose tried to calm her younger sibling, but at the same time she knew there was indeed something afoot; a dark sense of foreboding had surrounded them. Unlike her sister, though, she wished to understand it, rather than flee, and forever fear the unknown. She scanned the nearby woodland, her senses alert. After a moment she noticed that there was movement there. A tall, robed figure wove a path through the silver birches, leading a horse and cart. His hood was drawn low, casting his face in shadow. Beyond him another two similarly robed figures followed.
Maerose breathed easier. She gestured at them, urging her sister to look. “Look yonder. It is only the elders from Western Tor passing through."
Russet watched them weaving through the trees a while.
"Maybe. I wonder where they are going."
"Oh, some place far too special for the likes of us normal folk.” Maerose gave a wry laugh. The elders were a kind, reclusive lot, but they seemed a strange bunch to her, with their mystical ways and talk of communing with the gods. Her practical nature and her duty to her family kept her from musing on such things.
"It still feels odd here,” Russet said, her expression perplexed as she glanced around. “This place ... since that time, when we were bathing in the summer, I've always felt as if we are being watched."
Despite her better judgment, Maerose couldn't bring herself to disagree with that. One day, they had both felt it. A shadow had passed over them, but there was no person around and the sky was clear. At first she'd assumed it was one of the young men from the village, trying to catch sight of them undressing to bathe. But no, it was as if something strange was there; something that had never quite manifested, but made itself felt all the same. She'd felt a new sense of awareness, as if she recognized that the fundamental nature of her life was changing. How so, she did not know.
It had troubled her for days after, but she had settled upon it being the nature of adulthood and responsibility. She'd been warned of it often enough by her mother, and the other women in the village, after her mother had died. It was part of becoming a full-grown woman and finding your place in life. And yet, it was as if a dark cloud gathered on her horizon all the while.
She shrugged it off, although still uneasy. “It's just a feeling, that's all it is. It was the passing elders we heard. Don't let it upset you."
Russet nodded, somewhat reassured by her older sister, but rose to her feet, rolling down her sleeves and rubbing her hands together for warmth. She unlatched the skirts of her dress where she had them hitched up to kneel upon and pulled her shawl closer around her shoulders. “I'm homeward bound. You won't linger long, will you?"
"Don't fret. I'll be right behind you."
Russet bent and collected her basket of washing, stepping away from the riverbank.
Maerose glanced after her. She picked up her shawl and then rose to her feet, wrapping the soft, woolen garment around her shoulders. The scent of the river was heavy with the smell of decaying plants—a heady scent, not entirely unpleasant. The clouds were rolling in across the sky. A storm was on its way, perhaps, or it could just be that the nights were closing in. Winter was surely on her way. She was a harsh mistress, never quite as you remembered her from the year before. There was a beauty to winter, nonetheless, and Maerose savored memories of the family hearth, the joy of yuletide, and the crispness of the snow in bright sunlight. The r
eality was often much worse; the shadow of death was never far from the village in the dark months.
The outset of autumn was full of hope, a time to take stock and be with each other after the busy harvesting months. They had an abundance of food stores at that time, but by the deepest point of winter they would be struggling, pulling any remaining frozen root vegetables from the soil with sore hands. They lost their older brethren then, and the weak. For the villagers, Samhain marked the beginning of the dark season. They said the curtain between the dead and the living was drawn back, and death never strayed far after that night, until Beltane had her way and pushed the dark season aside.
She pulled her shawl closer around her shoulders and bent to pick up her basket. When she rested it in the crook of her arm and turned, it was with a shock that she found the elders she had spotted earlier were standing silently behind her. She hadn't heard them approach, and yet one was a mere three steps away, blocking her path. The others stood in the background between the silver birches, as if waiting.
"Good day, sire. Have you lost your way?” She felt uncomfortable. She couldn't see their faces, shrouded as they were in their hooded cloaks. Her heart beat hard and fast. Something was wrong here, very wrong.
He didn't answer. Instead, he lifted his hand. At first she thought it was in greeting, but without warning he reached out and grabbed her arm.
Her basket fell, scattering its contents on the ground. He hauled her in, locking her against him with a solid arm around her waist. One hand clamped over her mouth, quelling the scream that had risen in her throat. She struggled. He gripped her tighter. Lifting her bodily from the ground, he grunted against her ear. He forced her on, his legs behind hers, solid as tree trunks. The man with the cart started to move, came closer. Nearby, the third man raised a length of rope in his hands. He lashed it from side to side, restlessly.
Their intention was now all too clear.
I will not let them take me. She jabbed her elbow into the wall of her captor's chest, kicked her heels into his shins.
He cursed, and then winced.
She pulled free, screaming for help as she hitched her dress up and broke into a run. A shout issued from behind her, followed by a whooshing sound. Her legs were hit. Her knees buckled. The rope. She keeled over.
The shock of the fall stunned her. Pain wheeled through her body. Scrabbling across the grass on her hands and knees, she felt the sting of nettles on her palms but didn't care, tasted grass in her mouth but didn't pause to spit. Grass, earth, and blood. Her tongue was sore and bleeding. She screamed again.
A hand at the back of her neck snatched at her dress, hauled her backwards and onto her feet. The fabric tore as she was twisted back into the man's arms. His hand slapped over her mouth. His hood had dropped. Flaxen hair fell to his shoulders. He broke into a wide, insinuating smile, looking down at her torn dress and bare flesh with a leer.
"I admire your spirit, but I should warn you that it fires my lust all the more."
Her blood ran cold. He was threatening her, his expression filled with pure evil. Her heart lurched in her chest.