The seven year crow, p.2
The Seven Year Crow, page 2
“Aoifeeeeeeee…”
Her name drawn out, like an echo down the corridor of a cave, snaked down her spine. It slid under the door and crawled up her legs. With each step back she took, the anxiety in her stomach began to climb, and the voice deep within her gut started to panic. It told her to run, cower and hide from the monsters.
The air around her turned soupy, too thick to breathe. A glossy sheen glazed Aoife’s eyes, but she dared not close them. Her thoughts scattered like a storm inside her head. All she could think of was failing and that not being an option. Her mind and soul were being torn in two. Run, stay. Hide, fight. Live, die.
“Aoifeeeeeeee…”
Again…her name on the wind. This time, it whipped against her body with force. The pain started as an unpleasant warmth, like standing a few inches too close to a fire—uncomfortable but tolerable for a moment. With the heat came nausea, just enough for her to move to the table for support. Whitwick Gates didn’t produce cravens or cowards. In the harshest of conditions, whether frigid cold or missing more meals than healthy, Whitwick Gates allowed only the strongest to survive. Aoife had prized herself on her ability to ignore pain and muster, regardless of a limp or illness. But for the briefest of moments, Aoife clutched her table and breathed deeply, bending slightly to the pain. The tightness in her chest reminded her of being kicked by her father’s horse. She ran her fingers over an engraving on her table, carved by her mother long before Aoife’s birth—Eagla aon rud, iontaobhas aon duine. ‘Fear nothing, trust no one.’
Aoife held a hand over her mouth and swallowed the vomit in her throat. She clamped her eyelids tightly against the bullish force of panic in her gut and steadied her nerves. Silent tears ran past her blistering hot cheeks and dropped to the floor with as much a sound as the silent agony she’d felt when she’d given her daughter away. She hadn’t screamed. She’d known what she had to do. Two halflings together attracted far too much attention. She also knew that she could mourn when the sun came up again if she were blessed.
Aoife would be the first of her line to cleave the Gate’s magick and start the closing. She would force the Fae back into their realm, force them to suffer their oaths as the mortals had. Abelia had given her life to the spell, a sacrifice surely worth the notice of the Gods and Goddesses. Like Abelia, Aoife was willing to die for the spell to protect the next generation, her daughter and daughter’s daughter. Like Abelia, Aoife would give her life to ensure the gates would close.
As the door opposite her slowly creaked against a thunderous wind, a narrow stream of moonlight graciously wandered through the room. The door splintered at the lock and finally gave way and allowed the night a full view of Aoife, who stood clutching her cold iron knife. Aoife wasn’t too proud to show her fear. She knew the sweat that clung to her body would have been a dead giveaway. It took her several blinks to remember to breathe and release her chest's dread. Her stand against the Fae would be for nothing had she passed out, starved of air.
Aoife listened to the many footsteps outside her home. Each second seemed to last a lifetime. The rocks crushing underfoot had muted the pounding of her heart in her ears. Against the backdrop of the night and burning of her village, he stood, the man who haunted her dreams. His many arms melted away before her eyes. One of the creatures of Elphame, one of the most terrifying of Elphame, stood in the doorway.
He stood tall, his skin the color of fresh milk, pale as the moon, like the creature he was. His eyes, ever vigilant, like a snake seeking its prey, buried into her soul. He blinked his black eyes, the long lashes, momentarily covering the glint in them. The air around him seemed to slither and ooze from one place to the next, as though his very soul was skulking in his black shadows. His unnaturally long tendril-like fingers clasped at his front, the tips looked like a parasitic plant, twitching and reaching. Each movement of his body was slow and expert, as if he had no bones at all. And in an instant, a slight movement in his shoulders had locked away the hell found in the pits of his eyes and brought out a charm Aoife feared more.
“Aoife,” he finally spoke. “Good evening, Crow.”
He held no knife that Aoife could see, but still, she felt the chill of metal against her throat, against the hammering of her pulse, a promise of what he could do if given a chance. Aoife could hear her breathing over the chaos outside. The salty sweat from her brow stung her eyes as it trickled down. She blinked away the saltiness and hoped that she’d wake and the day would be a dream, her father would be at the table with breakfast, her partner would be stoking the fire, her daughter on her lap and her friend would be waiting at the Gate with spells of fortification. But no number of blinks could remove the man at her door or the fear of ending up nothing more than mangled limbs and rotting flesh, one more failed attempt to rid this realm of horror.
Aoife cleared her throat. She had known it would be he who came for her. “Solas, I have been waiting for you. Have you stooped so low as to do the bidding for the king? Which are you today, light or dark, good or evil? You have far too many faces for me to keep track of.”
“Good or evil? Who is to say the night is evil and the sun shines in goodness?” He smiled and, for a moment, laughed. Aoife would have thought him to be handsome when he smiled in any other situation. “You have no idea what good or evil truly is, halfling. Your small mind and shorter lifespan couldn’t begin to comprehend either in their truest form. Some are born good and turn bad, and vice versa—as is said for you and your kind.”
Aoife knew the Fae could tell no lies, but they were fluent in riddles and stories that talked circles around the truth. “You didn’t answer my question.”
“Little Aoife, you, yourself, do not understand the question you are asking. One cannot be completely good unless one possesses the ability to be fully evil. Good and bad are a choice one makes at the moment. But one must have free will to choose. And that is not something I have. Therefore, I am neither, for I’ve chosen neither,” he answered as he leaned his shoulder into the doorframe, crossed his arms and propped an ankle over the other. His appearance shrank slightly, and his eyes brightened. He looked less frightening, like a rabid wolf would if he could smile before chowing down on your flock.
Solas tested the threshold and pulled his foot back. “My, my, for someone who ought not to know about our coming tonight, you are awfully prepared for me to be at your door. Which little birdie has given you the gift of knowing? I’ve always suspected little Abelia and her loose tongue.”
Aoife smiled. He didn’t know Abelia had taken her life yet. But he would know soon enough. “I’ve known about this moment my entire life, as you’ve so kindly pointed out my halfling blood. The villagers may never feel you’re coming, but my line will never forget. I know how this day will unfold. I see your failures as well as I see the mist at your feet.”
“We shall see what fate has in store for us all, for not even you can see what wicked plans she has.”
“You may kill me eventually, but I will stain your world with my blood.”
“Many support the killing of your kind, halfling, but I am not one of them. I’ve always been far too curious to vote on your deaths. I rather enjoy these little strolls.” Solas’ words did not sound kind. They felt like a warning. One word and my line could end with his vote.
His smile made her stomach roll. Aoife wasn’t a fool any more than she was a coward. He would win no friends in her household, no matter how buttery his words were, for even the devil could be charming. As the man tried to win her affection, Aoife could feel her courage in the form of sweat drenching her skin. It danced down her spine and threatened to run out of the back door. Her village’s screaming was eaten by the fog that pressed at the man’s back. Aoife knew her fears were her greatest challenge and her devil to slay, for if she gave into them, those devils would come, too.
“Devil,” Aoife whispered. “You are not welcome here.”
His head tilted to the side, and he grinned. “The only difference between an angel and a devil is one’s intentions. I can be both and neither, for the intentions, here this night, are not my own.”
“You are no angel or God.”
“I would not say those words any louder. You may bruise the egos of many. It wasn’t that long ago that we roamed free to do as we pleased. And so many wish for those days once again.” Solas sighed as if he had had this argument many times before me. “Lest you forget, you are closer to my kind than those of this community. Now, remove your wards, or I shall remove them for you. I have a great many things to finish before this night is over.”
He said the words as casually as passing the salt. It was Aoife’s turn to grin. “You will not. You will not touch me. If I am to become the next Crow, you cannot harm me. Your need for me only protects me. Without halflings, your realm has no one who can walk between worlds on a whim, no one to keep the Gate open. We witches provide you with the freedoms you’ve taken advantage of.”
“Witches? Is that what you’re calling yourselves now, halfling?” Solas mocked her.
“We have many names. This is true,” she responded.
“No matter, it does little to protect you or your lands,” he countered. “How many shall die for your bravery? How many children do we take for the sake of your own life? Shall I tell them why their fate is death and who holds the blame?”
“Do your worst, but you will not have me.” Aoife threw the knife at his feet, and it plunged into the wood floor and wobbled. Like Aoife, the knife held firm. “And since you cannot take me unwillingly or the Gate will close the moment I step through, go back to where you came from, Fae. I am not a willing sacrifice.”
“Foolish child, I can take what I please. It is your choice to die at the Gate or to step through. But the sacrifice will be made whether your heart still beats on the other side or not. The longer you wait, the more of your people will die. It is as simple as that. Their deaths are on your hands. It is up to you how many must die for your bravery.” He took a shuddered breath. Aoife could feel it dance across her skin in excitement. He wanted her to take all the time in the world. He was Fae. Death was all he knew. “You cannot possibly know how this show ends, wee witch. If you believe nothing I say, believe this. You will go to Elphame one way or another. It is your fate. The only difference will be how many of your people you will sentence to death before you go. It is the oath forged so many moons ago, one Crow—and an oath I’d be delighted if you broke. Break the oath, and the Gate comes down.”
“If you so wish for the oaths to be broken, why the force?” Aoife asked. Although she understood the treaty between the Sidhe and the mortals, she would stall for as long as possible.
Solas spread his arms and feigned a half bow, his eyes never leaving Aoife. “As the king commands, so shall it be.”
“You should not have come. You have failed your people and squandered your favors on crossing the Gate.” Aoife stared the man in the eyes and straightened her spine. “I am warning you, Solas, leave before your failure costs your people. Leave and never come back. You do not want me. I’ll bring you damnation, I promise as much.”
Solas grinned. “Aoife, there is nothing you could do that we haven’t done to each other thousands of times before. There is no power greater than Fae.”
“You will feel the burn for the seven years I am your Crow, Solas. Choose wisely.” She stepped back into her salt circle, lined with pieces of her life, a leaf found on her grandmother's headstone, twigs gathered after a storm, one stone from the foundation of her church and a crystal owed by her mother. The next sacrifice would be great, but Abelia had paid the dues to the Goddesses but hours ago. A blood sacrifice so great, it cost Abelia her life. She kept Solas talking, waiting out the time it would take for the spell to fall into place. She could feel the moon at its highest point in the night’s sky.
“Time is but a blink to me. It means nothing,” he replied. Even though he held little emotion on his face, Aoife could see the turmoil festering in the black pools of his eyes. Seven years as their Crow may go by in a blink for the Fae, but his failure would make each hour she felt count for something. The cursed creatures of Elphame would pay as dearly as she had.
“Mother, send your power strong and white and weave a web of blooming light. Grandmother, send your power strong and red and weave into my strand of a simple thread. Goddesses cast the circle around me black and weave it into the wisdom that I lack. Elements, I call on you to protect this nook from wandering eyes and their prying look.” Aoife held a red thread, knotted and woven with her hair and twigs. A witch’s ladder started nine days before the fog. Each night, Aoife tied a new knot and prayed hard enough to bruise her knees.
“You will force an outcome you do not desire, nor do I,” Solas spoke over the wind. His words clung in the air, coming to a coiled rest inside Aoife’s stomach, tasting of vomit.
“You, Solas, have forced this outcome.”
He nodded once. “I will see you before the sun rises, and you will come willingly. You forget, little witch, you are not the only halfling on this side of the Gate. We do not need you alive to maintain it. You will mark yourself for all times as an oath breaker.”
From deep within, a storm raged, charged by her words and her truth, her rage and destiny coming full circle. From every pore, she burst with the wind of her anger. It was a madness that destroyed ships and reduced men to ash. It came hard and fast and burst through her home with a demolishing effect. It smashed her books and paintings and dishes. It hit the creature at her door and pushed him to his back. Her front door slammed shut and sealed Aoife inside. Her ears rang in the sudden silence. A high-pitched hum told her magick was in the air and charged by her words. It would move through Whitwick Gates until every creature had been marked by it.
Aoife waited out the hours until just before the sun rose from the safety of her home. She could not risk opening her door to those begging for protection, scratching at her door. They were dragged away as they prayed for shelter. To let them in meant to let in the threat of death at the hands of her neighbors. She sat on her floor and wrote out the happenings in Whitwick Gates—what is yet to come, what must come next. She sat and waited for fate to provide the seal against the destiny she knew she could not escape with the rising of a new sun. She waited for the spell to sit firmly against the marrow in her bones. Many died while she waited, but the sacrifice of ‘now’ was needed or there would not be a ‘later’ to protect. She calmed herself, knowing that she had done everything she could do. She sacrificed all that was hers to give. With tears in her eyes, she weaved a curse. No Crow would ever return from Elphame. No Crow would return and birth future halflings. The spell would curse Elphame and their ability to come and go as they pleased. As the halfling line died out, the Fae magick on this side of the Gate would fade in years to come, weakening the link to the human realm.
Once she left the human realm, Aoife knew she’d never see her daughter again. She’d never see her grow and would not be able to protect her from becoming a Crow. But she also knew that only a spell strong enough would frighten the Fae and make her line, the Darkmore line, less desirable for the Taking. Creating fear of the Darkmore bloodline was the only way to protect generations not yet born. And so she penned her final goodbye, a warning to those who have not yet come.
My dearest children and grandchild and greats,
We are the Crows, the halflings, the sacrifices for mankind.
The Seven-Year Crow, a Taking of one halfling for seven years, is our payment for peace.
We are the Teind for the mortal world.
This night, I will have changed the course of destiny, our oath to Elphame. No Crow will place a halfling within the human realm upon their return, for no Crow shall ever return. When there are no halflings left, the Gate shall close for all times, for the Fae realm cannot sacrifice a full-blooded human.
Aoife placed her witch’s ladder inside the envelope and added the prayer, hoping it would help the next generation or generations to come who would need to seal the Gate. She chanted the words as she scrawled them on her parchment.
With knot one, the spell has begun.
With knot two, my heart is true.
With knot three, so mote it be.
With knot four, the Gate is restored.
With knot five, our people shall thrive.
With knot six, the Gate spell is fixed.
With knot seven, their powers will not lessen.
With knot eight, this spell is our fate.
Before the sun touched the self-inflicted war in Whitwick Gates, Solas stood at her door. Aoife knew her end had come. She had seen it as clearly as she could see the tears puddle on the floor at her knees. Aoife stood, grabbed her sack and opened the door. Solas held Aoife’s newly born daughter. She was not surprised and knew the child would be unharmed. They wanted her, not the baby. A baby was of no use to them, for they could not endure torture long enough for the Fae not to feel cheated. However, if Aoife did not step outside, the child would be dead before hitting the ground, as would everyone within Whitwick Gates. Aoife’s reluctance to leave was posturing, buying time. Even if the spell didn’t work, she’d have gone with the Fae, if only to save her community and child.
“End this now,” Aoife spoke. Her words were as firm as her resolve.
“Your word, you will uphold the oath?” Solas asked, and Aoife nodded.
She knew she didn’t have to say the words out loud to be held to the agreement. Solas snapped his fingers, and the fog and everything that lingered within it was gone as if pulled back into Elphame with force. Solas handed the child to Aoife, and Aoife placed the child on the doorstep and grabbed onto the hand of fate…Solas. In as much time as it takes to form a regret, Aoife was gone from Whitwick Gates, wrapped in darkness, to take up the position of Crow among her full-blooded brethren.
