Wearing every layer of clothing he owned, Indenuel stepped into the blizzard outside his home as the ghost of his mother followed close behind. The dress she wore when she was alive was now torn into strips and tied securely around his ankles.
“Indenuel.” The quiet voice was so soft he almost mistook it for Lucia, his mother, but she’d been ignoring him since their big fight a few days ago.
He turned to see Matteo standing at the doorway, shivering as the blizzard threatened to blow the nine-year-old child over.
“Get back inside. It’s too cold out.”
“But you’re going out,” Matteo said.
Indenuel stepped inside and closed the door to the small hut. Lucia drifted through the walls, unable to leave his side. Matteo tried to keep a brave face, but once his lower lip started trembling, the rest of his face crumbled too.
“You need to stay here with the twins,” Indenuel said.
Matteo shook his head. “I’m scared.”
The five-year-old twins huddled around a single candle in a thin blanket, wearing the two threadbare dresses they each owned.
“Emilia and Isla need you. You’ve got to keep watch,” Indenuel said.
Matteo’s lip trembled again; a deep red line of blood collected on his cracked lips. Indenuel stroked Matteo’s chin and the healing power stitched his lips back up. The boy didn’t notice at all.
“I don’t like it when you leave.” Matteo blinked back tears. “I’m scared. It never snows here. Why is it snowing? When will it stop?”
Indenuel couldn’t answer him. Instead, he rubbed Matteo’s shoulders and patted the twins’ heads. More power left him, enough for the twins to blink in acknowledgement. He gave Matteo one final nod before he opened the door and stepped out into the blizzard again. The children would be there when he returned today, but if this storm didn’t let up, none of them would last much longer.
The wind froze his ears and nose. Snow bit into every part of his exposed skin. Indenuel did not shed a tear when they buried Lucia a month ago, but this storm reflected the pain hidden deep in his soul. He wrapped his arms around himself and ignored the burning sensation in his feet. Burning was good. Burning meant he could still feel.
It was the afternoon, barely autumn according to the calendar. His tracks in the knee-deep snow were the only path through the village as Lucia floated behind him. Would he be able to start another fire tonight? They ran out of dry wood two days ago.
Indenuel entered the market square as snow stung his eyes. He made his way to the store front next to Hugo’s home, the postmaster for Mountain Pass. Once he stumbled inside, he brushed the snow from his hair. Some snow trickled in through the hole in the ceiling to accommodate for the tree in the center of the store. Hugo, the strongest tree talker in Mountain Pass, was elected postman to keep their little village connected to the outer world.
The healing power trickled through Indenuel, enough to make his knees shake as he leaned against the back of the door to gather strength. The door in the back was open, and Hugo remained in the shadows, talking to Andres, the village healer.
“I’m not a suspicious man. But this storm started the night we buried Lucia almost a month ago and it hasn’t stopped,” Andres said.
Indenuel waited for the healing power to give him strength enough to stand, and therefore didn’t react to hearing Andres saying Lucia’s name with such derision. The cold and hunger pressed on his mind far more than anything else. Lucia beside him made no reaction either.
“Come on, Andres,” Hugo said. “Lucia wasn’t a witch. She couldn’t hide something like that in this village.”
“She had two gifts, corrupted by the devil himself,” Andres said, dancing from the balls of his feet to keep himself warm.
“You never got proof of that.” Hugo sounded far more exhausted than Andres.
“I saw with my own eyes,” Andres said. “She could talk to the trees, and she healed one of her orphan children.”
“Did you? See with your own eyes?” Hugo asked.
“She carried a child inside her home, his leg shattered. I expected her to come to me for assistance since she doesn’t have the gift of healing, but she never did. The next day, the child was running around and playing like nothing happened,” Andres said. “Only High Elder Martin could heal a leg like that with those results.”
Hugo rubbed his arms. “If she did sell her soul to the Devil, the boy would have experienced pain, not healing. If anything, it sounded like she had two God-given gifts.”
“That’s impossible.”
“But makes more sense than her being a witch. We saw her, Andres. She did not have the mark of the devil on her.”
Andres’ tone turned sharp. “All I’m saying is this storm has lasted a month. A month! In a place where it never snows. And it’s getting worse. At this rate, we’re all going to be buried by the end of the week.”
“You said she could talk to trees and heal but nothing about control over the weather.” Hugo gave Andres a skeptical look. “And gossip also claimed she could talk to the dead. If gossip is to be believed, then she had all four God-given gifts. No one is that powerful, not even the High Elders.”
Andres narrowed his eyes. “I know what I saw.”
Indenuel took a few faulty steps forward, the healing power giving him enough strength. “My mother wasn’t a witch.”
Hugo and Andres turned, startled. Hugo walked closer into the light despite the cold. Andres stayed behind, glaring from the shadows.
“What are you doing out here in this weather, boy?” Hugo asked.
Indenuel stumbled forward, Lucia following. “I came to see if High Elder Martin has come.”
“You would have known if he arrived.” Hugo, though a gossiping old man, was at least generous. He opened his home to those who’s huts collapsed in the blizzard. It was why Indenuel came. He already felt his power seeping out of him into the villagers past the darkened doorway. “This snowstorm hasn’t stopped for…” Hugo glanced at Andres before scratching his heavy wool coat. “For a while. The pass between the mountains is completely blocked.” He placed his hand on the tree, closing his eyes. “But I sense Martin the Healer doing everything to get to us. He’s got a large cart full of supplies for us, despite the war going on. It’s the storm that’s stopping him.”
“We’ve never had a storm like this.” Andres didn’t hide the suspicion in his eyes. Andres, who had a house just as grand as Hugo’s, shared none of the hospitable spirit. The food supplies ran out a week ago, yet Andres looked far more energetic than anyone here.
Indenuel said nothing, little emotion on his face. Yes, the storm started when the first shovel full of dirt hit Lucia’s body, when the ache in his heart became too much to handle. One the blizzard echoed.
“How are the orphan children holding up? Do you need a place to stay?” Hugo asked.
Indenuel shook his head. “We will be fine.” He turned around before they asked any more questions, returning to the storm.
He walked down the village square, his power spread out and worked among the villagers. It had gotten stronger since the storm. He didn’t have to touch anyone for the healing power to work. The gifts always grew stronger in desperate times.
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
Lucia floated over to a particular house. She remained, staying firm, not looking at Indenuel. It was Gracia’s house. She must have sensed something.
“No, mother.” Even in the howling wind, she could hear him. “She was the cruelest to you.”
“What have I taught you?” her voice quiet, carrying through the wind.
“Kindness changed none of these people’s minds about us. You heard Andres. After everything you’ve done, he still thinks you’re a witch.”
“Her baby is dying,” Lucia said.
Indenuel bit his lip so hard it split open before immediately stitching back up again. He glared as he dug through the snow toward Gracia’s house. Disregarding custom, he opened the door. The three children sat at table, gathered around a candle. They looked fine. Hungry, cold, but no worse than anyone else in the village. The inside of their house was dry, but no warmer than the outside. Indenuel pushed back his wet brown hair from his forehead. Gracia sat in the rocking chair holding her three-month-old baby. She stared ahead, no emotion on her face. The same look on most of the villagers faces. They were weathering out the storm, fearing the worst.
Indenuel touched Gracia’s elbow. She made no movement. The baby also had a look of deep hunger, the kind so deep it was beyond crying about. He touched the baby, and she began to sniff, then whimper. Gracia to look down. Indenuel turned away as she began to feed the baby, the infant drinking greedily. The baby would survive a while longer.
“Let me go,” Lucia said. “Please.”
Indenuel ignored her as he turned toward the children and touched them on the head. No food was in their bellies, but at least their bodies would keep working.
He walked back out into the storm, closing his eyes and letting the healing power enter his fellow villagers.
“Indenuel?”
“Stop, mother. I’m trying to concentrate.”
“You wouldn’t have to do this if you just let me go. Death is part of mortality.”
He continued to ignore her. The villagers always saw him and Lucia as a necessary evil. They tolerated Lucia because she was the only one willing to take in the orphan children. But they still didn’t associate with her. She appeared in Mountain Pass pregnant with Indenuel twenty years ago. A pregnancy the villagers soon realized was out of wedlock. Their hospitality was enough to give her a start in their village without asking too many questions, but there was plenty of gossip once her back was turned.
Indenuel’s frozen hand pressed against the bark of a tree as he closed his eyes. The tree was in a deep slumber, but he pushed his power forward. The trees were all connected, sparse though they were here in Mountain Pass. He gave the tree instructions not to alert the oldest one in Hugo’s home.
His mind’s eye traveled along with the trees until he saw past the mountain road. He couldn’t see Martin, instead sensed his presence like the trees did. A human, walking on the earth, doing whatever he could to get his horse and heavy cart through the mountain road. There was a crunching sound, unfamiliar to the trees, and took a moment for Indenuel to understand. That, coupled with the swaying motions he sensed, he guessed Martin was trying to break through the barrier of snow blocking the path to the village. He would never make it time. The barrier kept growing every day as the storm got worse.
Their tiny village had never received a High Elder. High Elders remained at the Cathedral in Santollia City, a month’s travel from here. It was a miracle from God that Martin had been traveling through the nearby towns when Hugo sent the message of their distress. Yes, Martin being here was a miracle, but it would take a greater miracle to stop the storm.
Indenuel released his hold on the tree and made his way home. He opened the door and barely felt Matteo’s arms around his torso, hugging him tight. Indenuel tore the boy away from him. “Don’t. You’ll get wet too.”
He obeyed. “Don’t go out anymore, please? I don’t know if you’ll ever return.”
Indenuel brushed the boy’s blonde locks, knowing Matteo’s green eyes would fill with tears if his body could. “It’s time for bed.”
Matteo said nothing, but obeyed, moving toward the twins. Indenuel reached down with trembling hands to untie his makeshift shoes. He stepped out of them, healing himself from the ropes biting into his ankles. Indenuel and Matteo helped the twins into bed. Staying inside had kept the children dry, though not warm. They had separate rooms for the girls and boys, but Indenuel ignored those rules long ago. They needed everyone’s body warmth to last tonight. The firewood was still too wet.
Once the children were in bed, Indenuel covered them with all the blankets and clothes he could before he turned toward the fireplace. It was imperative he dry off before he climbed into bed with them. He picked up two pieces of sticks and tried to rub them together, but his hands shook so terribly that he couldn’t do it. Heavy breathing emanated from the bed. The children had fallen asleep too quickly. How much longer would they survive?
The sticks slipped from his grip. He closed his eyes, willing his healing gift to travel through his body. He still shivered with the cold and his clothes still clung to him, but his body wasn’t in danger of shutting down.
He tried again to rub the sticks together, but his optimism fell. He couldn’t make wet wood become dry. That unfortunately was beyond his powers.
“Your stubbornness is what will kill this village,” Lucia said.
Tears pricked his eyes. “I’m healing them, mother.”
“Keeping me here is making you marinate in your grief. You need to let me go and stop the storm.”
The sticks spun in his hands. “I didn’t cause this storm.”
“We both know the truth.”
Lucia wasn’t afraid to force the truth from him when he tried to lie. The sticks toppled to the floor again. This storm came from his soul because he refused to mourn her properly.
“You will see me again,” Lucia said.
Indenuel covered his face with his hands. “Not for another year. Not until you’ve settled in the afterlife. Even then, only when you are allowed to. I can’t, mother. I… I can’t.”
“A year is not that long, son.”
“It is an eternity in this village.” He couldn’t face the idea of losing her. Of facing the villagers without her to talk him out of his anger and hurt.
“You cannot keep hiding anymore.”
“Look how they treated you when they thought you had two. If they knew I had all four? No thank you, I’ll keep hiding.”
“Stop the storm, Indenuel. I know you can do it.”
Indenuel rubbed his frozen hands together. “As long as I can heal, they’ll survive.”
“None of you will last much longer.”
Tears fell down his cheeks. He rubbed his eyes, a quiet sob traveling through him as his powers over Lucia loosened. “I can’t go a whole year without seeing you again.”
“Martin the Healer will help. You can trust him.”
More tears raced down his cheeks. “I miss you.”
“And I miss you. Goodbye, son. I will visit you again in your dreams when I am allowed. But please, let me rest.”
Indenuel nodded. He still had his eyes covered, but he sensed her spirit disappear. It was so lonely without her.
He dried his tears and stood up. His powers stirred within him. With grieving her properly, the wind began to die down and the snowflakes weren’t so thick. He opened the door and stepped out into the world; the burning sensation returned to his bare feet. He closed his eyes and lifted his face toward the cloudy heavens as the snow stopped. His heart pounded in his chest. Weather was the hardest one of all. It took four or five weather powers meditating together to stop or start a storm, but Indenuel had created this storm. If he created it, he could stop it.
“Do I want to stop it?” Indenuel asked himself. “I can be with my mother again if I don’t.”
“And take the rest of the village with you?” another part of him asked.
“They were cruel. They deserve it.”
“And take Matteo and the twins with you?”
Indenuel’s heart broke. The orphans under his responsibility deserved a long, beautiful life.
Power began to gather, his body feeling heavy as it traveled through him before reaching the top of his head. His pale green eyes closed, his brown hair plastered to his face. He no longer felt the burning sensation from the cold, just a heaviness rising to his fingertips.
His conscious pulled out of his body as it lifted higher into the heavens, his essence among the clouds. Below, his body moved its arms as though brushing away the clouds. In an achingly slow way, they began to dissipate. Indenuel left the remaining clouds alone and focused on the early evening sun. His body lifted its arms, his fingers curled toward each other as though he could hold the sun in his palms. His conscious melded with the rays as the sun warmed the land, moving the rays faster and faster. The sun protested the oddity of this weather. It was autumn. It should not be this hot. This was unnatural. Indenuel ignored the protests. He didn’t expect the sun to warm the entire land, just this one tiny village, and the mountain road next to it.
The sun’s protests turned more violent. Indenuel was having a harder time concentrating. The sun insisted the rays dim to the appropriate amount for an autumn evening, but he would not let those precious rays go, making it get hotter. The sun ached, and Indenuel heard screaming. Strange. Why would the sun scream? He always personified the trees and the weather, because it helped him better understand his powers over them, but he didn’t expect the sun to scream.
It took him another moment to realize it wasn’t the sun. It was him. His body below was screaming in pain. His wrestle with the sun taxed his already starved body. He pumped healing power into him to give him the focus needed to keep the sun where it was.
He was losing. The rays seeped back into the sun. He focused again. If not the village, then the road between the two mountains. He let the sun know it was him that caused the unnatural winter, and he needed to atone for his mistake. He could not let the villagers die because of his mourning. The sun entered his mind, playing the memories and emotions of Lucia’s death. Indenuel let the sun have them too weak to push it aside. It distracted the sun enough to keep the rays beating down on the mountain road. Martin needed every moment to melt the pass to get through.
The sun was done with him. With his powers weakened, the sun pulled away. He held on as long as he could before soft, wispy clouds came to the sky, and all at once he found himself back in his body.
He gasped. The entire village staring at him in awe and wonder. They came in and out of focus before his sight darkened and he collapsed to his knees. People moved their mouths, staring at him, but Indenuel couldn’t hear. How long had he been wrestling with the sun? It was almost setting now, the chill autumn breeze feeling warm compared to the blizzard they all experienced.
Indenuel fell forward, his face hitting the warm mud. He closed his eyes and allowed himself to finally sleep.