The luminescence of the Veil came with the setting of the sun and with it my inability to sleep. Gleaming in the moonlight, it drew
me toward the window of my small, cramped bedroom until my breath fogged the glass. My father’s last words rang in my head as they always did, calling me to the freedom of the night and the temptation of what might wait for me outside this miserable village.
Fly free, Little Bird.
I curled my threadbare quilt tighter around my shoulders, attempting to chase away the chill as the late autumn air filtered through the gaps at the edges of the window. After my father had died, I’d stuffed scraps of old cloth from outgrown dresses into the holes many winters ago in a pathetic attempt to keep the coldest of winter nights from entering my protection from the elements.
In the fall, I could almost convince myself that it was enough. But once winter well and truly arrived, I would join my brother on the floor in front of the fire while my mother slept nearby in the wheeled chair Lord Byron had fashioned for her after my father’s sacrifice.
My bedroom was mostly empty, my meager belongings taking up precious little space in the room that was barely more than a closet. My bed had been carved by my father’s hand; the wood of my floor patched repeatedly by my brother every time it rotted out beneath my feet.
I touched my fingers to the cool, cracked glass, drifting over the circle I’d rubbed clean with my sleeve more times than I cared to count over the
years. When those trembling fingers finally touched the latch in the middle, I only glanced over my shoulder once to make sure my brother hadn’t appeared in my doorway to catch me sneaking out yet again.
Then I tugged them open, the wind nearly blowing them wide as it entered the ramshackle cottage so suddenly the shock of cool air stole the breath from my lungs. I caught them, but only barely, saving myself from the humiliation of waking the house. The tendrils of dark hair that had fallen free from my braid blew away from my face. I lifted myself onto the windowsill and swung my legs out—my skin prickling as moonlight kissed my bare hands.
I couldn’t suffer through another moment of my nighttime imprisonment, of being trapped inside the structure that was too broken down to truly be a home. Not when the night sky called my name and the fresh scent of pine in autumn flooded my senses from the other side of that windowsill.
There was something deeply therapeutic about my rebellious little walks in the woods. Something appealing in the way they went against the strictures placed on me by a corrupt society that was so often determined to keep women pure and virtuous for the husbands who hadn’t even been chosen yet. Good men were few and far between in Mistfell, a rarity rather than the norm. I didn’t dare to hope for a marriage like my parents had shared, a life filled with happiness and affection.
Dropping the blanket to the floor of my room behind me, I lowered myself down to the grass and fumbled around in the dark while my eyes adjusted, searching for my stick. I dug my fingers into the dirt below me, dusting myself in the neglected soil that never seemed to flourish. Dry and sandy grains slipped through my fingers as I rose to my feet and tugged the window panes closed. I slipped the twig into the gap in the windowsill beneath them and turned it until the branch caught on the other side, holding it closed until I could return to sneak back inside before my brother discovered I was missing.
The mix of wooden planks and wattle and daub that made up the outer walls had warped and cracked over years of neglect, the thatched roof was in need of repair in the spots where rain water had leaked in over time. There were only two glass windows in the structure, cracked and broken things my father and brother had been given as a gift after they’d helped one of the wealthier families replace them.
Leaving the house behind me, I walked toward the copse of trees that hovered just beyond the outskirts of my village. In the distance, something howled at the moon, calling me into the darkness where creatures roamed beneath the stars and the people of the village of Mistfell feared for their lives. But instead of the dread that should have pulsed through my body, there was only the sensation of what I could never find during waking hours when people roamed the streets.
Freedom.
It was a temporary illusion in my world, a deception I granted myself to ease the stinging reality; the privilege of making my own choices was not mine to have. For the time being, my life was determined by the Lord of Mistfell and the elite force of Mist Guards who had strayed from their original purpose and grown into a twisted army that did whatever he demanded. My brother’s opinion came only after theirs, his choices dictating my life in the absence of the father Lord Byron and the High Priest had sacrificed to the Veil.
One day, sooner than I cared to acknowledge, my fate and my activities would be decided by my husband, and that was when the true horrors of my life would begin.
I dragged a hand over the bark of the first tree as I came to the edge of the woods, not bothering to glance behind me as I drifted around it and into the tree line. Darkness quickly swallowed me whole, wrapping me in a steady embrace that beckoned me forward and called to the part of me that was different from those who feared the night that I craved.
Even the sounds of small creatures slithering through the underbrush at my feet couldn’t force me to flee the forest. Even the chill air on my skin that brought a pink stain to my cheeks couldn’t force me to turn back.
All that mattered to me was the darkness surrounding me, the privacy afforded in the dead of night when I didn’t have to tolerate the prying eyes of Lord Byron’s men watching me for signs I might be acting out once again.
I slipped further into the woods, navigating as far from the village as I dared to go. The rock trolls didn’t often stray too far from their homes, instead choosing the prey that willingly walked right into their habitat to shelter from the elements, but that didn’t mean I wanted to tempt fate and wander too close.
My moment of freedom would mean nothing if I spent it trapped within the jowls of a beast three times my size, my flesh torn to ribbons while what remained of me bled out on the ground.
I stayed away from the paths that the Mist Guard would undoubtedly patrol, dragging my fingers over the trees as if I could memorize each and every one to find my way back home. I’d come this way before, navigated with only the moon and stars to light my way, more times than I could count.
A scattering of lights twinkled in the distance, moving through the trees in a circular pattern that drew my attention straight to it. I paused, halting as I glanced back over my shoulder for any sign that I might have been followed, or that Lord Byron and his Mist Guard might have waited to trap me like a curious housecat wandering where she didn’t belong.
There was nothing behind me but the woods I’d already traveled, and after a single moment considering turning back, I ducked low and crept forward to approach the strange glints.
They reminded me of the faerie lights my parents had told stories of when I’d been a girl, of the twinkling wisps that tempted human children away to be replaced by changelings in the time before the Veil. In those centuries, the Fae had run rampant in the human realm, taking what they wanted and leaving the rest to rot and suffer the consequences of their thefts.
I couldn’t turn away from the faint lights that moved through the clearing up ahead. When I got close enough, my breath caught in my chest at the sight of the people dressed all in white.
A single candle rested atop the gleaming, beige bone of a skull at the center of the clearing, with figures walking around that centerpiece as they spoke in secretive murmurs to avoid being heard. I crouched low at the base of an evergreen tree, pressing my cheek against the rough bark as I watched them moving rhythmically. Curiosity warred with fear within me, sending my heart pounding until I felt certain they would hear it.
They walked in a circle, chanting softly as they moved within the boundary they’d drawn with twigs lined up end-to-end. With the skull at the center like a bullseye, the outer boundary was perhaps a dozen steps out from it.
Every so often, one of them would turn their face my way, the white of their teeth glimmering in the flickering light as they raised and lowered the
candles held tightly in front of them. My eyes couldn’t seem to stop wandering to that skull on the ground and the way everything centered around it; I wondered what person could be so unfortunate to have their bones used in some sort of ritual.
I had no idea what I was witnessing, but there was no doubt it was anything but the worship of The Father and The Mother that had been sanctioned by the Crown. Centuries had passed since King Bellham the First had liberated us from the Old Gods, who’d kept us entrenched in lives of sin and depravity, then led us toward the virtue we found with the New Gods.
One of the robed figures stopped walking, body twisting to the side to reveal the curves of a woman. Her head turned toward me, her gaze landing on me so pointedly that she left me with no doubt I’d been spotted. Where I might have expected animosity and fear, for the worship of the Old Gods was strictly forbidden by the Crown, she gifted me a kind smile and sighed as she tipped her head to the side, her dark braid falling over one shoulder.
She broke from their pattern, stepping over the circle they’d drawn around their fellowship with sticks and branches. Everyone within the circle paused as she made her way toward me, while my legs seemed unwilling to move, even though it would have been the smart thing to do. My own curiosity would get me killed if these people decided leaving me alive came with too great a risk; my ability to report them to the Mist Guard could see them burned at the stake for heresy.
My breath shuddered in my lungs, the faint fog it caused floating in front of my face before dispersing into the night air. She approached, that smile never leaving her face as she moved slowly, treating me like a frightened animal. As she came closer, I knew without a doubt she was not from Mistfell, and glancing around, her companions matched her, their clothes in good repair and skin and hair clean. Wherever they’d come from, they didn’t belong to the grimy village I called home.
“You are safe here,” she said finally, her voice a murmur hanging in the air between us. She shifted her candle into one hand, stretching out with the other to entice me forward. “The Gods welcome all who wish to know about them and their customs.”
“The Father and The Mother would never condone this,” I said, shaking my head as I stared at that hand. Something in the gesture called to me,
pulling me forward until I felt the brush of her fingertips against mine and realized it wasn’t her who’d moved.
My cheek stung where the cold air touched the skin that had scraped against the tree bark; while my left hand dragged over the rough branches as I moved further from the illusion of safety they provided. “I do not speak of the Gods they worship indoors, begging for clemency on their knees before an entity that promises salvation only to those who do as they are told.” Something in her voice sounded wistful and sad, as if it pained her that I didn’t know about the alternatives to the faith that had been shoved down my throat for as long as I could remember.
“Worship of the Old Gods is against the law. If they catch you…” I trailed off when her knowing gaze held mine without fear.
“We know the consequences of discovery, and still we choose to worship. Some faiths are greater than life,” she said, sliding her hand against mine until she could grasp me more firmly. She pulled gently, tugging me away from the tree—my safe haven—and drawing me toward the circle at the center of the clearing.
“At least leave Mistfell. The guards aren’t far from here,” I said, grimacing at the smile she gave in return.
“And yet here you are, risking punishment by being out this time of night. I think you understand better than most why we must take the chance. There is beauty in knowing who you are, and in embracing that in spite of the potential consequences. We come here to be closer to the Gods, to feel the energy coming from the Veil itself,” she told me, nodding her head toward the boundary that separated Nothrek from Alfheimr. It twisted, dancing through the air as we watched through the gaps in the trees, the shimmering light continually beckoning me toward it, despite the dangers.
Rumor had it that those who touched the magic of the Veil itself relinquished their life to it, fed the power that kept it strong. It was forbidden, tampering with the single entity that kept us safe from the Fae of Alfheimr, considered the worst of all our trespasses against humanity. But in the interest of preserving the Veil and feeding the energy that sustained it, the High Priest chose one person to give to it every year, one person to sacrifice at the border of the Veil, spilling their blood upon the soil on the last day of the fall harvest in thanks for another year of safety.
Just as they had done to my father.
“This is wrong,” I said, pausing at the circle of sticks they’d laid upon the ground. I couldn’t seem to convince myself to walk away, but stepping into the inner circle where they worshiped felt wrong. It felt like a betrayal of everything I’d had beaten into me, of the virtues that were supposed to matter to me but had never appealed.
It wouldn’t just be the act of a curious girl observing something she’d stumbled upon. I knew if I stepped over that line, I would be an active participant in a ritual I didn’t understand. “You should not judge something that you’ve never experienced,” the woman said, stepping over the boundary while she watched me. She still entwined her fingers with mine, our clasped hands hovering over the sticks while she waited. “And no matter what you believe now, there is no harm in experiencing a faith other than your own. You can explore other beliefs without converting. If you still think of us as heathens by morning, tell the Mist Guard what you’ve seen and absolve yourself from sin.”
Sucking in a deep lungful of air, I lifted my foot and stepped into the circle, unable to ignore the pull any longer. Like diving underwater, everything from outside the clearing seemed to fade away. She grabbed a candle off the ground, lighting it with hers and handing it to me as the dozen people still waiting within the circle made room for me to join them. “Who was he?” I asked, glancing down at the skull at the center.
“Jonab,” she said, regarding the skull on the ground. “During his lifetime, he was the God of Changing Seasons. Killed during the First Fae War between the Seelie and Unseelie Courts, when Mab fought against her brother Rheaghan.”
“How did you come to have his skull?” I couldn’t even begin to wrap my head around how long ago the First Fae War must have occurred.
“The same way we have these traditions. Passed down quietly through generations and protected,” she said, finally turning her back on me and beginning to walk forward. With only a step or two between each of us, the circle of human figures walked around the skull, just inside the stick-drawn barrier. The others followed, sweeping me up onto the path around the skull that mimicked the circle drawn by sticks.
I swallowed, raising and lowering the candle in my hands as the others did, copying the motions that I had no clue the purpose of but couldn’t help but mimic. If I was going to earn an eternity of suffering for participating in a forbidden ritual, I might as well commit. I knew I didn’t agree with the
beliefs of the New Gods, and found something lacking in their promises for me.
Minutes passed, fading into hazy hours of walking in that circle. My legs tired long before we stopped, the soft chants falling from my lips in unison with theirs as I fell into a dreamlike state. With only the changing of the night sky above to demonstrate just how much time had passed, the words felt written on my soul, like they’d become a part of me in a way I didn’t understand.
From death to birth.
From Winter to Spring. Life renews in time,
from ashes and dust.
When the footfalls eventually stopped, the woman in front of me turned back, bending down and pulling a stone from the pocket of her robe. She placed it on the ground as the others followed suit, forming another circle. Setting her candle atop the stone, she reached into her other pocket and handed me a stone to do the same.
“If a candle falls in the night, it is a warning that the person will not survive the winter,” she said, making me pause and take care to center my candle on the stone perfectly. I didn’t know that I believed in fortune or prophecy or the Old Gods, but I would do everything I could not to tempt fate.
She chuckled under her breath, watching me fuss over my candle as I stood straight and followed the group when they stepped over the sticks forming the outer circle. They gathered at the edge of the clearing, sitting on the ground with smiles on their faces.
“Is this something you do regularly?” I asked, taking my place next to the ageless woman who had invited me to join them.
“Once a year,” she said, lowering herself gracefully. “Only on Samhain.
The day we welcome the long Winter.”
“The end of the harvest celebration isn’t for two more days yet,” I said, staring at the sky in the distance. In just two days, we’d be forced to watch the High Priest slit the throat of whatever sacrifice he chose. In just two days, I’d be out of a job for the cold season and need to find random work around the village just to help feed my family.
“According to the Lord of Mistfell,” one of the men said, “the worshipers of the New Gods hate anything to do with the Fae, and delayed
the celebration out of spite centuries ago. But they all know as well as any, the harvest should have been celebrated today.”
“How could you not hate the Fae? After everything they’ve done throughout history?” I was skeptical.
“One should always remember that history is written by the victor. We may not have won the war, but our lands have been free of the Fae for centuries with no one left but the people who fought against them to pass down stories. What do you think the Fae would say about us and the part we played in the war? If they could share their perspective, I doubt it would be so black and white,” another woman said.
She rummaged through her pack, pulling out a bundle of cloth that she unwound on the ground. The parcel was filled with a dense cake, and she cut it into slices.
“I think Adelphia should explain the cake before you eat it. Having seen you mess with that candle for an eternity, I think you may want to pass on this,” she said, glancing toward the woman who’d drawn me into the circle in the first place. Adelphia.
“There are objects baked into the cake,” Adelphia explained with a chuckle. “According to tradition, if you choose a piece and find one of those objects, it symbolizes what will happen to you before the next Samhain.”
One of the men nearest the cake leaned forward, snatching a piece off the fabric. He lifted a chunk to his mouth, chewing thoughtfully before he spit a hand-carved tiny baby into his open palm. “Fuck’s sake. Just what I need. Another mouth to feed.”
“Keep your dick in your pants then,” another man said, slapping him on the back.
I jolted, my body going rigid at the crude words. It wasn’t often men spoke so freely in front of women, who were supposed to be pious and virtuous. I knew what a dick was, had even seen one and experienced one in the dead of night while watchful eyes were closed with sleep.
Aside from Byron and his conquests in the privacy of the library, nobody had ever spoken of one in front of me, outside private lessons with my tutor so I knew what to expect come my wedding night. She’d been entirely unaware of how uselessly late that lesson had been for me.
Adelphia took the next piece, and the others followed suit. Without conscious thought, I leaned forward and snatched a piece of cake off the
cloth before logic could stop me. Adelphia chuckled at my side, her piece free of omens for the future as she wiped her hands on the grass to rid them of any crumbs.
I lifted the first bite of cake to my mouth, flavors of vanilla and cinnamon on my tongue as I chewed. There was nothing hidden within it, just the sweetness of the cake itself as I watched the others around me chew theirs.
I was through my second bite before something struck my tooth and I raised a hand to my mouth to pull it out. The ring glimmered in bronze against my palm, a sign of the shackle I’d spent my entire life knowing was coming.
Death or prostitution were the only escapes from marriage in the Kingdom of Nothrek. Still, the clear symbol in my palm felt like a noose around my neck, like a death all its own.
“Congratulations are in order; I see?” Adelphia said, her voice tentative. There was no joy on my face at the prospect of my pending nuptials. It didn’t matter that I had no knowledge of who my husband might be.
Men were almost all the same, in the end. Looking for a warm place to stick their cock and a trophy to sow their seed.
“It would seem so,” I said, smiling and trying to shrug off the dread coursing through my veins. I’d never believed in the fortune tellers who worked at the market every week, predicting which of the thirteen lives a person found themselves on in the cycle of reincarnation before the true death. I’d never put any stock in the magical items a person could purchase if they spoke the right words at the right stands.
I wouldn’t start believing in prophecy just because it predicted something I’d always known was coming anyway.
There was a soft thump behind us, the group going still as they looked over my shoulder at the circle. I turned slowly, following their gazes to where a single candle had fallen off its stone and extinguished the moment it touched the grass, as if by an unseen force.
I swallowed, working out the placement for a moment before I turned back to the group with a shaky breath. The silence between them as they watched me rise to my feet spoke volumes about their belief in their Samhain traditions and the clairvoyance they brought.
“I should get home,” I said, looking at the sun just cresting the horizon through the trees.
Adelphia nodded, not even bothering to argue with me. There was nothing left to say.
The only candle that had fallen was mine.
