• The cool chill of a midwinter night rose up from the snow covered ground like mist on a lake. The once vastly green and fertile hills, which rolled on for miles and miles, were now laden down with a new snowfall. The clouds had long since parted their ways, leaving only the moon to gaze her eyes downward onto her land, watching like a silent specter whom you'd never see but knew was there.

    Upon a hill sat a small church, the spires, although meager, climbed upward to the sky, reaching for the stars as though in prayer to God. Snow made its home on the roof, planting itself into every crack and hole it could fit in to. Every now and then, a faint wind would pick up, pushing away a little snow from the church roof and into the silent cemetery below. The graves of the cemetery stuck into the snow and ground at odd angles, their faces worn, cracked, weather-beaten, and illegible.

    The wind gave a stir, upsetting the sleeping snow, causing it to spiral its way to the waiting ground. Church bells swung softly in the highest tower and gave no song.

    Two miles from the lonesome church sat a small cottage by the edge of a wood, the lights from within glowing faintly as a fire burned dimly inside. The trees, found feet behind the wooden building, stood like stern soldiers in the cold, their branches armed with freshly fallen snow. They creaked slightly as again the wind blew, and snow fell from above to land with a soft thud on the forest floor.

    And then, quite suddenly, a cry issued from the forest. It was a piteous wail, a mourning wail, that carried itself to the cottage door, reaching the straining and yet fearful ears of those living inside the house. A boy sat himself beside the door, a rifle pressed down against his lap with one slightly shaking hand over it, while the other hand pressed a white cloth to his mouth. He opened his mouth and gave way to coughing, hacking, wheezing, until his lungs felt deadened in his aching chest. His mother sat worriedly on a moth eaten sofa, her young daughter sleeping restlessly over her lap. The mother tossed one of the golden ringlets from her daughter's head so it was not draped over the young girl's face, and once done, she looked to her son, eyes pleading.

    The boy lowered his cloth, chest heaving ever so slightly. He made the handkerchief into a ball and tucked it away into a breast pocket before fixing his mother with a determined look. Her face tensed up at her son's gaze as though she knew already what he was about to say.

    "It's died off," his mother said before her son could even begin to form words, "so let it stay as such." Her voice was strong, and yet it shook ever so slightly as though she were on the brink of tears. "Leave it be, David. "

    "No," he said while one hand wiped a bit of spit from his quivering chin, "no, whatever it is, it's bothering the animals. I've never seen them in such a state. Leave me to deal with the beast, or we'll never get another decent piece of meat." He fought hard to keep his nagging wheeze from his voice; it would only concern his mother more and make matters worse.

    "It was the bells, the old church bells, nothing more." She argued, the fire light flickering against her face, making it look older and more wizened than it really was. Her lips grew tight against her face, showing the hallow bits in her pale cheeks, bringing out the heavy and dark circles from beneath her eyes. "The bells, that was all it was. You don't chase bells, David."

    David shook his head. "They have been silent for years, mother. It was not the bells crying out. And besides, I have yet to hear a bell that cries out in agony-" he gave way to another violent attack, and slowly he could feel his chest tighten. He brought the cloth to his lips and pressed the fabric against them. It took all his will to keep himself breathing, steadying his breaths, concentrating on sucking in another painful mouthful of air.

    "You are too sick," she began a new argument, voice rising up, "you cannot keep a conversation. If you go out there you'll die-"

    "No!" David managed to bark out with an angry snap. Just then the cry came again, closer and louder than before. The sound stilled the argument. Mother looked from son, to door, to now stirring daughter, and chewed her lip.

    "Please," she whispered to her son, tone softer now, eyes begging him not to go.

    "Mummy," said her daughter, not lifting her head from her mother's lap. The woman's daughter fitted her hand under her mother's fingers, seeking comfort as the wail carried on to a peek and then died.

    "Shhhh," her mother whispered gently, "just sleep." The woman ran a hand back and forth along her daughter's back, trying to ease the girl to sleep, but failing as once again the cry commenced, closer still.

    "It's nearer by now," David said distractedly, lowering his rag to speak and glancing out a window, "so, I won't have to go far." He lifted the gun a little with his free hand as though it was decided.

    "No," his mother said evenly, tone growing with authority, "I forbid it. Enough is enough, and damn it! Put that gun down!"

    "Try to stop me, go on!" David challenged, rose to his feet, and shouldered the weapon.

    "David," she warned, growing angry and fed up, "sit back down!"

    "Mummy," the girl whispered again, her fear growing.

    "I shan't take long." David turned to the door, ignoring his mother who was now starting cry.

    "It's the Devil out there! I know it!" She said, tears choking her voice and streaming from her eyes, and her chin gave a tremble. David nervously looked over one shoulder as though her words had touched a note, but his nervousness was soon masked with a stern and resolved look, eyebrows coming to form a 'V' shape above his watchful eyes. He shook his head.

    "The Devil has no business being in these woods... or frightening our cattle. I will scare him and his demons." He opened the door before his resolve broke and closed it quickly to silence his mother's sobs and sister's whispers.

    The moon was bright, bright enough to light his way, so, no fire was needed. Even still, David craved a fire's warmth on this cold night. He shivered and carefully made his way through the snow, feet sinking into the whiteness with a soft crunch.

    The tall trees, some naked, some laden with pine needles, all pregnant with snow, loomed above, quaking with each gust of wind. The boy pressed on despite a madly beating heart and sweat brimming hair line. He took one shaking hand and wiped the perspiration away and gripped the gun a little tighter for comfort and reassurance.

    The trees pressed in from all sides like a mob of people in the streets of a city, growing closer together as he deepened his path through the wood. He neither heard his prey, nor saw any tracks to lead him to the beast, so, David paused and glanced around, looking for some sign of life. There was nothing besides is slightly ragged breathing.

    Minutes passed, waning like the moon. No longer could he see the house light shining gold on the snow around. His only guides were the stars and moon.

    He felt unsure by this silence, as though he was being lulled into some false sense of security. Once more, David began to walk, the crunch of his feet bouncing from tree to tree. Whatever it was must have heard him coming. What if he had scared it off? What if it didn't show at all, and would remain an un-shot bother to his animals and family? This thought seemed to discourage the boy, for his steps drew closer together and less bold than before. David's doubts swam to the surface of his mind, giving him a sense of failure.

    The cry had been persistent all night, coming and going within minutes of the last unearthly wail. David felt like a young child who had, for so long, been denied some great treat, and when finally he was given the permission to take what he wanted, the treat was gone. The boy, almost a man, felt as though he had missed his one chance to prove himself as a worthy protector of his sister and mother, not just some sickly child who needed care all the time.

    He edged deeper in still, determined to at least come home saying he did all he could do. Again David stopped to pause, listening, hoping almost, that something, anything, would move and he could have a shot at it with the gun. Something to kill to bring back and show to a surprised but proud mother. He wouldn't feel so useless then.

    His mind wandered hopefully into his own world for a few moments, relishing the idea of the possible glory he might be a moment or two from finding.

    And then as though answering his almost prayer, behind a tree not far ahead, the cry began again, mounting to a crescendo steadily. David's daydreams stopped at once as his attention darted to the tree, goose-bumps rising along his skin in large numbers not from the cold. His ears listened, eyes wide as he looked for the one screaming, feeling excited and yet fearful at the same time.

    David slowly brought the gun into a firing position, and he carefully took a step forward. The young man positioned the gun, aiming it at the tree, and he waited for the animal to show itself.

    The moon slid behind a cloud, plunging everything into an oppressive darkness. There was nothing but him, the wind, the wood, and the dying cries of an unseen weeper. The cry vanished, and David's finger tensed on the trigger. He felt his chest starting to tighten as each one of his senses heightened, and he felt the urge to grab his cloth seize him, but did not. He needed both hands for firing the gun. And still he waited, eyes wider than ever as they tried to catch some sort of movement.

    From the wood to his ears, David heard the sound of movement close by, so close he could have touched the walker. Something swept across his body, something cold and icy, like wind, but he did not hear anything except his clothes sway in the breeze.

    In panic, David pulled blindly on the trigger. A bullet erupted from the opposite end in a burst of fire which, for a split second, illuminated the forest around, shining against the sleeping trees and fresh snow, and was gone. Smoke curled to the sky from the snout of the gun, and somewhere yards away the bullet made a home in a tree with a resounding crack. The sound echoed and died, and the gun slipped from David's hands to the snow at his feet. He staggered backward while pulling forth his cloth and pressing it over his maw, feet dragging in the snow as his breathing began to come in great shuddering gasps as another attack seized him.

    He turned and began to run blindly through the woods. Trees blocked his path, snow pulled him down, and fear made him stupid; he didn't know where he ran to, and he spared no attention to his protesting body.

    The wail arose again, hanging in the air with a sorrowful lament. The eerie noise only pushed David into a further state of panic, and once again the wheezing and hacking filled his throat. He tried hard to lumber on, but the air coming into his lungs was far from enough. Both legs and arms became dead weights dangling from his body, holding him back. His head spun, and his chest burned and pained and constricted. The air ways allowing him breath tightened as though a wrought iron hand was closing itself around them.

    "Home," he thought feebly, "home." But which way was home? Something caught at his foot, and he fell into the snow. David lay on his stomach, breathing in the cold air as though sucking it in through straws, hands limply trying to push himself up, cloth cast from his fingers to fall a few feet away. He began to feel sick with emotion, and his stomach pushed bitter bile upward to spill from his mouth. Vomiting did nothing to give him strength, and he was fast becoming soaked in melting snow. His situation grew worse and worse the longer he drowned in the wood.

    He lifted his head to look around, the moon sliding free of its cloud captor. The silhouettes of the trees came into sight, and from just beyond the trees, he could see home, the firelight snuffed out.

    With heavily shaking and winter-nipped hands, he pushed himself to a sitting position, and still he coughed. He could not stand; his body would not allow it. David sat yards from home, his legs so cold and weak they would not carry him any more.




    The boy leaned his body against a tree's trunk, slumping against it in tired defeat. He could not move, would not move, and felt a chill of fear pass over him which made him shiver to the bone. His lungs would not expand all the way, and his throat felt tighter than ever before. David, it seemed, was dying where he sat.

    And then, just by his cottage door, standing there in a soft and pallid light, stood a figure, a white and lightly billowing cloak draped about their shoulders. David squinted his eyes as he gazed upon this lone traveler who was standing there very much alone. And from it came a soft sob, just barely audible against the soft breeze which swept passed.

    It was the voice of a woman, the sob more like, and she turned to gaze at David, somehow knowing he was there. Her face was a milky and deathly white, young and smooth while her hair gleamed like the snow around, a silvery gray color. Her frail hands held her cloak tightly around her frame to keep the cold out, and they seemed to shake slightly.

    Despite his situation, David relaxed, feeling himself ease against the tree as his head spun and pounded. Cold sweat ran down his face, and he continued to watch the beautiful woman.

    Her gaze met his, and she smiled, although sadly. Her sobs shook her body, shaking her shoulders, tears falling in great streams down her face, but they did not detract from her angelic beauty. The woman made no move to help David, only lifted one delicate hand to point at him.

    A warmth spread his body, sudden and shocking. It was a sleepy warmth, one that made his head lull forward, eyes blinking until they closed. David slumped forward, over the snow covered roots of the tree, and was still. And the woman cried no more.