In Stone's Clasp (6 page)

She fell silent. Then: “I wonder where that man has gone.”

After a cloudless night in which the gods danced in the sky, their blue and white coats sending sparks of colors to paint the night in vibrant hues, the dawn that followed was cold and clear. As Jareth fastened his cloak, he stated, “I am going hunting with the men. The sky is clear, for the moment, and we must not waste this opportunity.”

His wife and daughter nodded, their eyes downcast. Jareth remembered when he used to love looking into both sets of blue eyes. One woman held love and a deep passion; the other adoration and unconditional devotion. Neither wanted to look at him now, and he supposed he couldn’t blame them.

It will be better tonight,
he thought.
When the men and I re
turn with food for the tables, it will be better. At least I will have been able to provide something for my family.

He thought about speaking the words aloud, but decided against it. He would let his actions speak for him. He rose and went for the door. As he placed his hand on it, he heard Taya say softly, “Be careful.”

He nodded, his back to her, unable, unwilling to look at her, to kiss her goodbye. Annu stood beside the door, holding Parvan. She focused her attention on the baby to avoid looking at her father. The infant’s soft gurgle melted something inside Jareth, and he reached to stroke the soft curve of his son’s cheek. Parvan reached up a tiny hand and clutched Jareth’s finger, and the trusting gesture broke Jareth’s heart. Tears stung his eyes, and abruptly he tugged open the door.

It will be better tonight.

The men had gathered in the center of the village, carrying bows and arrows, large hunting knives and small axes. The blades were sharp, the arrows straight and well-fletched. During the long, dark days while the storms raged, there was nothing else to do but stay inside and hone weapons. Jareth knew the cycle. Weapons meant a kill, a kill meant food, and food meant life.

The land should have been well into late spring. The beasts of field and forests had already dropped their young. Jareth and the others had often come across small, frozen bodies that ought to have grown strong and sturdy from mother’s milk and warm sunshine. And even as he mourned the deaths that should not have been, Jareth assisted the hunters as they gathered up the corpses and brought them home. Food was food.

He wondered how the bees fared. Were they all dead in their hives by now? The trees had not blossomed; there would be no flowers for them now, no fruit for humans later. Soon the villagers’ stores would run out, careful as they all were with their dwindling supplies, and they would be forced to eat the seeds they had set aside to plant this year.

Rumors had reached them, from the occasional
huskaa
mad enough to wander into the valley claiming the
Huskaa
Law of hospitality. Rumors of men who had left their villages on rampages, taking others’ food and leaving their bodies behind. Such things had never been heard of before. Raids on other villages? Before, Jareth would have dismissed this news as a fantastic tale, but now he could read the truth in the performer’s eyes when he spoke of it.

Always in winter, someone would mention the legendary Ice Maiden. It was well and good to sing the familiar, haunting songs by a warm fire, secure in the knowledge—as they always had been before—of spring to come. But now, some were beginning to think the legends real. The seemingly eternal winter was, indeed, nothing natural. Some muttered that perhaps the Ice Maiden was behind it all.

The men were talking among themselves in quiet voices, falling silent as Jareth walked up to them. He stood tall and straight, forcing his expression to remain calm. He would not let these people know how painful their rejection was. He knew that the only reason they permitted him to accompany them was because sometimes, utterly randomly, he was able to help them. Larr gazed at him with barely disguised hatred, and Jareth wondered if he had tried to talk the others into forbidding Jareth from accompanying them entirely.

If only he knew what had happened—why he had fallen so out of favor with the gods! He had tried everything to beseech them to have mercy on his beleaguered people. He had taken to not eating his share of what little his family ate these days, secretly hoarding it to place as an offering at the foot of the oak tree that had once been his friend. Like all the villagers, weight was dropping off his powerful frame. And still, the gods’ hearts were not moved.

Every time the men went forth to hunt, the task took longer and was less fruitful. Several days ago, when they had previously had a clear day, they had stumbled upon a fox gnawing the frozen carcass of a fawn. The fox’s winter coat of white was long gone, and its orange and red fur was easy to spot on the white drifts. The fawn was all long legs, white spots on its brown coat marking its young age. The hunting party shot the fox, betrayed by his own red coat, and carried the fawn home. Both were eaten that night.

The animals were perhaps even harder hit than the humans by this extended winter, for they were creatures of instinct, totally dependant on the natural rhythms and cycles. Humans could choose to wear warm furs and heavy woolen cloaks, but the fox’s coat had changed all on its own, contributing to its death.

This time, hours passed, yet Jareth was able to sense nothing. At last, he felt a brush of something, some faint stirring of life in this frozen realm. Rabbits, holed up in their warren. Reaching further with his mind, he realized he sensed a doe with a litter of kits. To call her would be to doom her offspring, which would mean six fewer adult rabbits in a few months.

He agonized over what to do. He could call forth the mother and point the party to the warren, and the entire litter would be eaten tonight. He could ignore the presence of the animals, and let them continue to deal with the brutal winter as best they could, which could mean long, slow starvation. Or he could alert his companions to the rabbits and suggest they bring back the mother and her kits and raise them to eat later.

Even as the last option crossed his mind, he knew it would never happen. There was nothing for them to eat. Every scrap of food was necessary to maintain the lives of the villagers. Eleven had already died, a large number in such a small community.

Jareth made his decision. In the end, it was perhaps the most merciful one, both for the long-eared creatures as well as the humans.

Come to me,
he thought, keeping his eyes closed.
We will thank you for your sacrifice. Your young will not suffer from cold, nor from terror as the teeth of a predator crunch down upon them. Come to me, and we will honor you.

Slowly he opened his eyes and pointed to the warren’s entrance, well hidden by an overhanging branch. They would never have seen it, had not Jareth known exactly where to look. The rabbit, ribs clearly visible in its mangy brown fur, emerged, trembling in the cold.

Thank you. I’m sorry.

There was the brief whine of an arrow and the rabbit spasmed. It fell over, dead at once, its scarlet lifeblood steaming on the snow.

“There are kits in the warren,” Jareth said. His voice sounded harsh and raw in his ears. “We should get them, too.”

It made Jareth both angry and sorrowful as the men leaped into action. Men who would have, in a regular spring, let the doe and her kits be. Men who had children who were now growing painfully thin with each passing day.

Larr brushed past Jareth. “At least you’re good for something,” he muttered.

The urge to strike his childhood friend was so powerful Jareth actually surged forward a step, fist raised. A hand on his arm stopped him before he leaped upon Larr and vented his own fear, frustration and helplessness upon the other man.

“Larr is frightened,” Ivo said, for Jareth’s ears only. “It’s why he speaks so—to hide it.”

Jareth nodded as if he believed the older man. The wind picked up and he shivered, and then the snow started falling again. He looked up at the sky, so blue and clear earlier and now a dull pewter color. His heart sank.

“Storm,” he said.

It was becoming alarmingly easy now to recognize the signs. The storms came so frequently they were almost a daily occurrence. The other men, shoving the squealing kits into a sack, paused and looked up. There was no time to try to make it back to the village; they’d have to shelter where they were as best they could.

Jareth looked about. They were in an open area, and the wind whistled as it buffeted him. He pointed to a small cluster of trees and a few large stones, which would provide at least some protection. Working as quickly as increasingly numb fingers would permit, they tied a length of rope about their waists. As fast as this storm was coming on, they might lose someone in the time it took to reach their paltry shelter.

The line of men struggled forward. Finally they reached the area and clung together for warmth, silent and grim, and waited. The storm seemed to go on for an eternity. Jareth completely lost track of time. All he could focus on was drawing frigid air into his lungs, filtered through a scarf; staying close to the others as the wind and snow battered against their huddled bodies. At last, well into the night, the storm died down. The sky started to clear, revealing a black sky and a sliver of moon.

Cautiously, the men got to their feet, brushing mounds of snow from their backs, heads, and shoulders. They had no more energy for words, but they all knew that it was too late to try to make it back. They would have to spend what was left of the night here. Exhausted, shivering, soaked, they lit a pathetic fire after many failed attempts and agreed to take turns feeding it. By twos, they went out to scrounge for dry kindling deep in the forest and large branches that would somewhat block wind and snow if another storm manifested during the night. Jareth didn’t think it would come. He looked up at the stars, seeing them cold pinpoints of light against a soft blackness.

Toward dawn, the gods began to play in the sky. Red, blue, green, purple, the lights chased each other, turning the night sky into a riot of dancing, shimmering colors. The headman grunted.

“A good sign,” he said. “If the gods are so happy they are playing for two nights in a row, perhaps they are beginning to look kindly upon us again.”

Jareth thought about a group of blue tigers, chasing one another back and forth like kittens, and hoped the headman was right. Perhaps this was a sign that things would improve. Perhaps the winter would begin to retreat.

Let me know what you want me to do,
he thought silently.
I have always striven to honor this gift. Why have you taken it from me?

Well before full light, aching and exhausted, the hunting party trudged back in silence. Their tracks had been obliterated by the storm, but they knew in which direction home lay.

It was heading toward dawn when they saw the torches that marked the path toward the village, warm and golden against the purple-blue of the retreating night. Jareth’s heart gladdened slightly at the sight. The rabbits they had caught were not much, but even a little meat would help to thicken a stew. He need not feel quite so helpless when he returned to his family this morning.

A figure moved in the dim light, moving quickly toward them on snow walkers.

“Jareth!”

Words of greeting died in Jareth’s throat at the stricken look on Altan’s face.

“Taya—” Jareth’s hand shot out and seized the boy’s arm, fingers digging in tightly. He pleaded silently with Altan to say
she’s fine, they’re all fine, don’t worry.

Altan’s mouth trembled and his eyes filled with tears. “The storm—it was so violent, I went to check on them this morning—oh, gods, Jareth, I’m so sorry—”

A moment before, Jareth had been quivering with exhaustion, cold, and lack of food. Now raw, panicked energy surged through him and he began to move as quickly as the snow walkers would let him, dropping his weapons, the food sack, anything that might hinder his speed as he raced out of town and up the twining path toward his house.

He bargained with the gods as he went.
Let them be all right, and I will give you everything I have. Let them be all right, and you can take my powers away forever, all of them. Let them be all right, and I will cut open my own wrists and feed my blood to the forest.

Let them be all right—please let them be—

The door was open. Snow had poured into the house. Someone had dug through the drift, had left tracks all around—Altan, seeing what Jareth saw, forcing his way inside—

“Taya!” screamed Jareth, his arms digging wildly at the entrance Altan had made, tunneling through the snow that had come in so quickly and so deeply—

Altan had uncovered her face.

Jareth stared as if mesmerized by the pale features that floated up through the coating of snow as if Taya were surfacing from the lake. She was almost as pale as the snow that had been her death, save for her lips which were a dark blue. He reached and touched her, found her cheek hard and cold as if she had been sculpted from stone.

Or from ice.

Her expression was oddly peaceful. How had she not woken as the storm screamed around her? Had it covered her like a lethal blanket, chilling her so slowly she never realized what had happened? How could she not have heard the wind slamming the door open, the howl as the snow rushed inside?

And then, bizarrely, all Jareth could think about for several stunned, long moments was the trembling doe rabbit and her squealing kits.

He had to see if somehow the offspring had been heartier than the mother; if perhaps Parvan had been so well swaddled in his crib he still breathed, if Annu might be coaxed back into the realm of the living. So he dug through the snow yet again, and again the reality that someone he loved was dead slammed his spirit so hard he sank down into the white stuff himself and begged the snow to take him too.