Wrath of Flight

By Stephen Zimmerman

A fantastical, frozen world is all fifteen year old Eirlys has ever known. Her small mountain village thrives in the shadow of a snow-capped mountain, living off a silver herb the people call "snow clover". But the dormant mountain is beginning to stir, and villagers -- Eirlys's father included -- are falling ill with a mysterious disease borne of the cold's malice. What is behind the mountain's unrest? Can Eirlys act in time to save her home?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stephen Zimmerman
• Release date: Jan 21, 2015
• ISBN: 9781507030424

Book preview

WRATH OF FLIGHT

By Stephen Zimmerman

Copyright 2014 Stephen Zimmerman. All rights reserved.

Visit amberopposition.com for more works by the author.

1. Dragons

The cold is a loyal companion.

Even in the longest days of summer, when the fields are green and yellow with life, a chill wind blows down from the mountain above. It wants to remind us that it’s still there, watching and waiting for the days to shrink. Night comes, and far away wolves howl as if to frighten the chill away. But the days are growing shorter now, and the snow is already falling. Tomorrow morning will mark the Day of Equal Night — the beginning of winter. The white powder that falls tonight will paint our homes for six moons, fading only when spring pries open winter’s cold embrace.

Footsteps. Three faceless figures march uphill through the fresh snow, wrapped in warmth from head to toe to stave off the cold. The moon glistens overhead, and the snow glistens back in pale imitation. But for the footsteps, the loudest sound is of snowflakes hitting the ground.

Enil! There’s a patch!

A man’s voice calls out, and another answers with a grunt. I see it.

They change course, descending now. A crevice in the mountain opens before them, pitch black in the shadow of a steep wall. It’s a jagged fissure — a scar of the earth, afraid to face even the dim light of the half-moon. It wasn’t here yesterday, and shouldn’t be here today. But none of the three are bothered. The fissure brings with it the treasure they seek. And sure enough, a sparkle of silver glows amidst the deep shadow.

Snow clover! one of them shouts triumphantly.

Snow clover is the reason we return the cold’s embrace. The shining plant grows in cold and dark places, wearing the shape of ordinary clover but with the color and sparkle of diamond. It’s a magical plant: useful to ward off disease, for gathering strength after injury, and even to keep one’s bones warm against the cold when prepared correctly. It’s rare to find it at this time of year — usually, we only find snow clover when summer’s heat chases the walls of ice towards the mountain peak. The fissures have changed the equation. Now we hunt snow clover year round. It is a worrying sign.

The three men have spread out, their pockets and pouches bursting with as much of the precious silver plant as their clumsy gloved hands can gather. My vision blurs — no, all the men stumble. It’s not that my vision is shaking, it’s that the world is. Sputtering a number of choice oaths, the men retreat with what they can carry.

But out of the shadow, it’s no better. A wall of rock and snow is tumbling towards them. They grow smaller — no, my sight is retreating — and I cannot see an escape for what are now precious little ants. Grey and white, the avalanche will take them. The mountain rumbles. The crevice widens. The ants are engulfed by darkness, and then overrun by the mountainside.

***

I overslept.

It’s a poor excuse, but I’ve grown so accustomed to being woken by my father’s queries that I now depend on them, like farmers in the valley below depend on their roosters to signal the day. But the rooster did not crow this morning: his walking stick has left its place by the front door, and his cloak and boots are gone as well. Peering outside, I see only indistinct footprints. The snow has covered his tracks.

My father is sick. He won’t admit he’s sick — he never admits a weakness. Just the same, he coughs fitfully, and he gets feverish when he’s outside too long. As my grandmother always said, the cold is poor medicine. Recently, he’s become a recluse, leaving his bed rarely and going outside virtually never. His absence this morning gives me a feeling of foreboding, and also a pang of shame for making me tardy on today of all days. Still, I’ll consider it a positive. He felt well enough to venture outside, after all, and the sun will brighten his mood.

I put on my wool coat and cap, and push open the heavy front door. Cold air rushes in to greet me. I step outside, close the door, exhale, and stare through the cloud of my breath.

The scene dazzles: trees and ground clothed in shining white, sparkling in the mid-morning sun. It’s as if all the woods have been covered in snow clover. The wind is cool, but summer’s death throes hold it back from biting too hard. The screech of a distant hawk echoes through the trees.

Behind our small home is a tall hill. Past the snow-laden trees that cover it, a pointed clearing strikes out towards the midday sun. My eyes are always drawn to it. Today, a white wolf stands there, leering down at me with haughty superiority. I stare up at him. Neither of us is a threat to the other at this distance, and after a long moment he turns away with disdain, his nose pointed to the sky as he trots away. I turn as well, striking a path over the cold ground.

Today is the Feast of Equal Night. In the valley below the mountains, they call today the end of summer. For us, it’s the beginning of winter. At the center of our small village, we hold a bonfire to celebrate the harvest one last time before the cold forces us to abandon our fields. Winter arrived early this year. Still, no one is worried: last year was a good year, and there’s plenty of food to go around. No one is worried; except for me.

Eirlys! A high-pitched voice shouts my name. I turn to see a young girl approaching from the next house over. She is encased in a white cocoon: a coat two sizes too big that looks like a festival costume.

I see you’re dressed up for today, I say with a smile. My joke falls flat against the snowy pine needles.

I am! You’ll never guess what I saw, Eirlys! Her excitement is overflowing, a wall of water crashing against rocky shores.

What did you see? A penguin?

No, even better! I saw a dragon! For effect, she stretches her arms wide as a bird’s wings. With her coat as oversized as it is, she looks a bit like a small head perched atop a tent. What are you laughing at? she asks accusingly.

Nothing important, I grin, crouching to meet her round face. Dragons are rare, Ashlyn. You’re very lucky! Where did you see it?

With wide eyes, she points towards the mountain. I wonder if she hadn’t expected me to believe her.

At the peak.

I don’t know if Ashlyn really saw a dragon. The villagers will scoff, of course — ‘dragons are extinct,’ they’ll say. But the dragon has come before. One day it will return. The wise accept such matters, and when the time comes read it as a sign to move on. Or so my grandmother claimed.

The path to town is a gradual ascent, a winding path at the edge of the thick woods. Usually they teem with life, but today the snow seems to have stunned all the creatures into an eerie silence. A foreboding chill runs down my spine, and it has nothing to do with the cold.

As the ascent levels off, the dense woods retreat to both sides and the winding path straightens. A squat home much like my own comes into view at our left, and another two behind it. A burly man’s voice calls,

There’s no dragon. There’s no such thing as dragons.

Then how do we know what they look like? a boy responds.

Listen to me, boy. There’s no such thing as dragons.

If a thing is repeated often enough, it becomes true. So they say.

Sure, there’s dragons! an old man’s hoarse voice suddenly interjects. Ashlyn giggles. We pass the house, and the three voices are suddenly assigned faces: the sunken-eyed, weary bones of the grandfather, the tired exasperation of the tall, thick-bearded father, and the childish wonder of his seven years young son.

I saw one myself when I was a kid! the old man continues, his long face eager and thoughtful all at once. I reckon I just saw one the other day, too!

You did, grandpa?! his grandson squeaks in sudden excitement.

No, he didn’t… the boy’s father grunts dismissively. It was a bird, right, grandpa?

What was a bird?

The father looks flabbergasted. The grandpa turns, his old beady eyes lighting up slightly as they see me approach.

Eirlys, is that you?

It is, I confirm. Hello, Leon.

Nice day. Is your grandmother around?

No, I answer calmly. She’s gone away, remember?

Is that right… she was always so pretty, you know? If your granddaddy hadn’t gotten to her first… He mumbles something incomprehensible beneath his breath. You know, you remind me of her, young lady.

The thick-bearded father cringes, interrupting,

Grandpa, we should go inside. We need to get ready for the festival.

Nonsense! I was born ready, the old man protests ineffectively. It was nice seeing you, Eirlys. You should smile more!

Thank you, Leon, I smile. We continue on our way.

My grandmother fell ill five years ago. I was ten years old — about Ashlyn’s age. One winter night, she rose from her bed and vanished into the snow flurries outside. For weeks afterwards, my dreams were filled with visions of her adventuring atop the mountain, alive and well. I was sure she would return to us. My dreams ended abruptly, though. On the solstice, I woke in a cold sweat, utterly certain she was gone but with no recollection why. We never saw her again.

Ashlyn and I continue our march to the village market. A few tall trees shadow the wandering path, and the irregular chirps of birds echo down from overhead. Our noisy companions reassure me — silence is unnerving. I glance up to look for one, but find a different sort of tree climber instead.

Good day, Eirlys. You’re late, a pleasant female voice announces from a tree