No warmth reaches this place. The cold is a physical ache, breathing it in feels like razors. Each time we inhale the frozen air it burns our lungs. I watch Cliff as he takes the lead holding his cloak tightly against himself.
As we walk the snow muffles all but the faintest sounds, the rustle of wind stirred branches, the rhythmic puff of our breath into the icy air, the weight of our footsteps through fresh powder. Pausing to catch our breath, a distant music fills our ears, like the glass chimes on my grandmothers porch. They are a cascade of notes that seems to come from the falling snow itself. The haunting sound weaves itself among the pines, and it is renewed with each gust of wind. With every step forward the song swells louder and louder among us.
"The sound, it seems to be coming from that direction," I point to a dense stand of conifers on the horizon.
"Do you see the beams of light?" Sam questions.
"Yeah I do," Tyler responds.
"I thought it was just me, my eyes playing tricks," Sam said shaking the snow from his cloak.
The beam of light we see, is like that of a searchlight, it extends into the starless sky. The snowfield between us and the light seems to stretch endlessly over a sea of rolling white dunes. Beyond that is the forest and its light.
We make our way across the snow field, a breeze stirs at our backs, kicking up tiny bits of frozen debris that sting our exposed skin. The cold has settled into our bones now, so that we can barely feel our fingers and toes. The snow becomes more agonizing with every step, but we continue to push our legs towards that light. Halfway to the tree line, Cliff's muffled cry catches our attention, he has stumbled into a sudden dip, plunging himself neck high in powder. Sam and Tyler rush over to him and I follow closely behind, our breath puffing in thick white clouds, as we struggle to free him.
"Hold still, we've got you!" Sam says and then plunges his hands into the snow around Cliff's arm. Sam works quickly to scrape the snow away in double handfuls. Tyler and I do the same on either side, digging through the icy layers trapping Cliff.
The snow has already soaked through Cliff's clothes, biting at his skin. He clenches his jaw against the cold, trying not to shudder. "F-faster..." he stammers through chattering teeth.
My fingers tingle and burn, my movement is slowed by the numbness. But I keep working to free Cliff. We all do. Bits of ice slide under my fingernails and stick to my palms. My skin feels raw and frigid, but I dig on relentlessly. With a roar of effort, we free Cliff. Sam and Tyler lift him by his shoulder, and I give him a sturdy push from behind, until he staggers free of the dip, his clothes soaked and his skin pale as the snow.
"Th-thanks guys," Cliff gasps, shaking the snow from his clothes. The color is returning to him in a pink flush.
"Couldn't...couldn't feel anything f-for a minute there."
"Let's get you moving before you freeze solid," I insist. We gather close, sharing what little warmth remains between us, and before setting off again for the forest.
The beam of light in the distance seemed to be the only warmth this place allows. As we close the distance between the forest, icy canyon walls rise up on either side of the trail, channeling the wind into a razor that cuts through our layers. Cliff shivers violently, teeth chattering, his soaked clothes clinging to his skin. I know we have to get him warm soon, or he will succumb to the harshness of this challenge. The way ahead of us winds through a thin veneer of snow obscuring the rocky path underneath, beyond that we can see the forests edge.
The music is intensifying again. This time it is accompanied by what sounds like whispers. They swirl and eddy all around us. I try to ignore the sounds, focused on placing each of my steps, but their insistent murmurs are increasingly distracting. Strange shapes appear in the corners of my eyes, vanishing when I turn to look for them. I almost say something, when Sam shakes his head sharply. He see's them too.
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We struggle forward at a stumbling pace, the urgency to find shelter and warmth for Cliff takes precedence over all else. An outcropping looms, blocking half the path where the rock face has collapsed. As we edge around it, something pale flashes in the narrow space beyond the rock. It disappears just as quickly. I feel my pulse quicken, the shapes I saw in my peripheral vision are following us . That doesn't make me feel any better.
Cliff slips on the snow slick stone, nearly tumbling to his knees before Sam catches him under the arm. "S-sorry..." he gasps through violently chattering teeth. We huddle around him trying to conserve warmth, waiting for the mysterious specters to move on.
When at last we finally reach the outermost pines of the forest, a wall of frozen wood, boughs and prickly green needles bar our path. The trees stand huddled close and the snow thins beneath their branches. I can see a path continuing on the other side. It angles toward the light. Pine needles and small broken boughs are trampled into uneven steps as if others have walked there recently.
"If we can unblock the way, we may be able to shelter for the night, Sam do you have anything left in that pack of yours that can help us?" I asked.
The cleric shrugs off his pack, kneels down, loosens the ties and begins digging through its contents. His fingers rummage over rations of dried meat and fruit, a waterskin, a tinderbox and a tightly rolled woolen blanket. He examines pouches of coins, a whetstone, lengths of cord and bandages until he finds a small wooden box. Sam pulls it out, opens the hinged lid and sighs in relief. Inside is a carved wooden disk, painted with a spiraling image of the sun god Solma. It rests along with a small linen bag of dried herbs and a stick of fragrant incense. Sam lifts the holy symbol by its cord, holding it up to catch the pale light filtering through the trees.
"Guide me, Sun Father," he whispers.
He tucks the incense carefully back into the box, but takes out two of the small herb pouches. The scents of lavender and thyme escape as he loosens their drawstrings.
"These will do," Sam says closing the box and returning all but his holy symbol and the herbs to the pack. He closes the pack lid, then hefts it onto his shoulders before standing.
Sam stands over the barrier holding out the holy symbol of Solma and begins to chant the ritual prayer, invoking his deity's power. He breathes out mists of air as he walks back and forth along the tangled mass of wood. With each repetition of the chant he sprinkles a pinch of dried lavender and thyme. He places the herbs on the densest sections of broken pine. The aromatics begin to radiate with a warm, orange light as the cleric's magic activates them.
Sam's voice grows more confident with each pass, his faith aiding to open the path entrance. After several minutes of ritual walking and chanting, Sam lifts his holy symbol high and cries out in a commanding tone, "Solma, Sun Father - purify this path that we may continue our journey under your light!"
A wave of crackling energy in a flare of sunset hues bursts outward, washing over the wall of debris. Branches untangle into a clearing, narrow but navigable, that leads deeper into the shadowed woods. Sam lowers his symbol, surveying his handiwork with a satisfied smile. "The Sun Father provides. We may pass freely for a week's time, the wood will welcome travelers under Solma's grace."
The trail opens ahead of us into the forest. We need shelter, and a chance to escape the cold. It's almost dark. We walk slowly down the path, watching for signs of anything moving in the shadows, the only thing we see is the forest filled with tall, bare trees. Up ahead, an old sign lit with purple neon letters points off the trail.
"That's strange, I wouldn't expect something like that here," remarks Tyler.
"I don't think we can expect anything to be normal from here on out," I said, watching the shadows.
Beyond the neon sign A weathered log cabin sits at the far end of a clearing. It is slightly hidden in the shadows. Light flickers in the window the only sign of life we've seen in this place. From the stone chimney smoke curls and the scent of burning wood invites us closer. The cabin seems normal enough, but something feels off about this clearing. The trees are spaced too evenly, the ground too flat, like someone shaped this space to their purpose. Or they found a purpose for the place as it was. The need to warm ourselves drives us onward. We approach the cabin door, Cliff taps on the thick oak panels, the door creaks open to reveal an older man standing in the doorway. He is holding up a black lantern cut from faceted obsidian. A small flame dances at its center, through delicate rice paper, casting an intricate pattern of shadows that shift across his face.
"Reckon you'll be wanting in from the chill," he says, waving us into the firelit room. "Warm up by the stove. Know these woods can be fierce after dark."
We gratefully shuffle inside, eager to warm ourselves. The cabin is rough-hewn but cozy, lined with bunks and supplies. By the potbelly stove, two strangers warm their hands. Our host brings steaming mugs of something aromatic and honey scented.
"Drink up. Morning's a ways off, and sleep doesn't come easy under these trees." His eyes gleam in the lamplight, hinting he knows what haunts the night beyond his humble shelter.
I take a sip of his tea, and then I hear it, those crystalline chimes, the sounds that haunted us through the snowy fields.