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Authors: Lisa Klein
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as Mother spreads Helwain’s gnarled hand upon a cold stone to ease the burning. But I still believe that Helwain is mad and that I will also go mad if I have to live with her any longer.
In February, Helwain makes us go with her to Stravenock Henge, where the moon and stars align with the stones to reveal when spring will come. Mother is so weak I must hold her up as we cross the frozen streams and clamber up icy hillsides. Helwain uses two walking staffs to keep from falling.
In the grip of the killing winter, the heath bears no sign of life, not a nighthawk or a raven or even a mouse. The tall stones of Stravenock Henge are slippery with white rime that forms patterns more intricate than those of the most skillful cloth-weavers. As we lean close to admire the icy designs, our breath makes them disappear.
Helwain scans the sky, but the moon stays hidden, and not a single star peeps through the blanket of night. Mother and I huddle together, blowing on our hands to keep them warm. Suddenly a bearlike creature lumbers into the henge, giving us all a fright. It is only Rhuven, covered in furs borrowed from her lady. She opens her arms and wraps Mother and me in her warmth.
Helwain shouts to the black sky, “O moon, show us your face!”
“Listen to her. She is mad,” I say to my mother and Rhuven.
“Nay, Albia,” says Mother. “For if the moon does not appear, then it means that the god of night has usurped the moon goddess. That is why the seasons fail and nature is out of joint.”
“I fear this is my lord and my lady’s doing,” Rhuven murmurs. “On that terrible night, I overheard her summon the god of night.”
“She called upon Blagdarc?” says Helwain in disbelief. “How did she come by such power?”
Rhuven’s whispering is lost to my ears. Then Helwain’s staff clatters against the stones like a lightning crack.
“By Guidlicht and all the gods! Are you saying that Macbeth and his lady—”
My mother interrupts. “Rhuven, why didn’t you stop them?”
“I did not understand, until it was too late!” Her voice trembles with tears.
“Ah, Macbeth was bound to act,” Helwain says knowingly. “And now Blagdarc rules through him, wrecking the order of nature.”
“Indeed there is nothing but misery with us,” Rhuven laments. “Sleep never comes to my lady, and she and my lord abuse each other. Luoch will not be ruled by Macbeth, saying the man is no father to him. The warriors who loved Duncan refuse to serve Macbeth. They drink and fight constantly. Horses thrash about in their stalls until they brain themselves. The lakes are frozen and even the seas are empty of fish.”
“What is to become of us all?” Mother murmurs.
The moon never shows her face. We trudge back home and fall asleep. When I wake up, Mother is sitting beside me, red-eyed, as if she has been crying all night.
“It is time to say farewell, my dear.”
“Where are you going?” I ask, rubbing my eyes.
Rhuven comes and takes my hands. “Geillis is not going away. You are.”
“Then where am I going?”
Helwain rears up from the shadows. “Away from here! You were not meant to live and die in the Wychelm Wood.” She waves her arms at me. “Go, find your own fate, let me grow old in peace.”
Stricken, I turn to my mother. She shakes her head.
“You cannot be happy here, Albia,” she says sadly. “Go with Rhuven. She knows a good man and his wife who will foster you in their household. There you will learn the customs of the world and how to find your way in it.”
“But how can you send me to live with strangers? I want to go to the shieling with Colum in the summers. I’ll miss the sheep!” Tears begin to roll down my face.
“It is for your own good,” says Mother, embracing me. “One day you will understand.”
I pull away from her and say coldly, “I cannot understand a mother who would send her own daughter away from home.”
“There is much that you do not understand,” says
In February, Helwain makes us go with her to Stravenock Henge, where the moon and stars align with the stones to reveal when spring will come. Mother is so weak I must hold her up as we cross the frozen streams and clamber up icy hillsides. Helwain uses two walking staffs to keep from falling.
In the grip of the killing winter, the heath bears no sign of life, not a nighthawk or a raven or even a mouse. The tall stones of Stravenock Henge are slippery with white rime that forms patterns more intricate than those of the most skillful cloth-weavers. As we lean close to admire the icy designs, our breath makes them disappear.
Helwain scans the sky, but the moon stays hidden, and not a single star peeps through the blanket of night. Mother and I huddle together, blowing on our hands to keep them warm. Suddenly a bearlike creature lumbers into the henge, giving us all a fright. It is only Rhuven, covered in furs borrowed from her lady. She opens her arms and wraps Mother and me in her warmth.
Helwain shouts to the black sky, “O moon, show us your face!”
“Listen to her. She is mad,” I say to my mother and Rhuven.
“Nay, Albia,” says Mother. “For if the moon does not appear, then it means that the god of night has usurped the moon goddess. That is why the seasons fail and nature is out of joint.”
“I fear this is my lord and my lady’s doing,” Rhuven murmurs. “On that terrible night, I overheard her summon the god of night.”
“She called upon Blagdarc?” says Helwain in disbelief. “How did she come by such power?”
Rhuven’s whispering is lost to my ears. Then Helwain’s staff clatters against the stones like a lightning crack.
“By Guidlicht and all the gods! Are you saying that Macbeth and his lady—”
My mother interrupts. “Rhuven, why didn’t you stop them?”
“I did not understand, until it was too late!” Her voice trembles with tears.
“Ah, Macbeth was bound to act,” Helwain says knowingly. “And now Blagdarc rules through him, wrecking the order of nature.”
“Indeed there is nothing but misery with us,” Rhuven laments. “Sleep never comes to my lady, and she and my lord abuse each other. Luoch will not be ruled by Macbeth, saying the man is no father to him. The warriors who loved Duncan refuse to serve Macbeth. They drink and fight constantly. Horses thrash about in their stalls until they brain themselves. The lakes are frozen and even the seas are empty of fish.”
“What is to become of us all?” Mother murmurs.
The moon never shows her face. We trudge back home and fall asleep. When I wake up, Mother is sitting beside me, red-eyed, as if she has been crying all night.
“It is time to say farewell, my dear.”
“Where are you going?” I ask, rubbing my eyes.
Rhuven comes and takes my hands. “Geillis is not going away. You are.”
“Then where am I going?”
Helwain rears up from the shadows. “Away from here! You were not meant to live and die in the Wychelm Wood.” She waves her arms at me. “Go, find your own fate, let me grow old in peace.”
Stricken, I turn to my mother. She shakes her head.
“You cannot be happy here, Albia,” she says sadly. “Go with Rhuven. She knows a good man and his wife who will foster you in their household. There you will learn the customs of the world and how to find your way in it.”
“But how can you send me to live with strangers? I want to go to the shieling with Colum in the summers. I’ll miss the sheep!” Tears begin to roll down my face.
“It is for your own good,” says Mother, embracing me. “One day you will understand.”
I pull away from her and say coldly, “I cannot understand a mother who would send her own daughter away from home.”
“There is much that you do not understand,” says
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