Chapter 1: Old Blood
The buffeting wind howls along the creaking walls of my decrepit cottage. The daub and wattle laid upon this croft has sheltered my kin for generations- but I fear this winter will mark the end of both my home and lineage. I tend to the hearth from sunrise to sunset, leaving only to hunt and forage; I have tried marking down what few warrens remain, but ink freezes quickly, and I am no cartographer.
The land here has been soured by famine for nearly an entire year. Rot festers within the soil, withering the crops I had planted while the days were still warm- even my fallows have been left barren. My meager reserves consist of one bushel of rye, a half-bushel of orache, a peck of skirrets, and a miscellaneously-filled sack holding a diminutive count of garlic cloves, parsnips, and swedes.
Such stores will not last me the season, I supplant what supplies I can with half-frozen goosefoot, chickweed and the occasional emaciated rabbit. The only bit of luck I have been graced with in this time of judgement was a rare patch of borage I was able to chisel free from the rime-coated forest floor.
Boiled and skimmed snow water is far from preferable, but it is one of the few things I have in abundance, the other being firewood. My wife always said I spent far too much time gathering twigs and splitting logs. Were she here, I may have enjoyed a bit of empathetic catharsis at the fruit of my paranoia. Instead, I lay alone on my home's bed, a straw-stuffed mattress far too large to be used by only one man.
The nearest village is a day's journey away- and that was in fair weather when I still had beasts to pull my cart. Though, I imagine I am actually in better standing than that settlement filled with cottar's and thieves. Last I heard, there was tell of a plague descending from the north along those well-traveled roads, if they survive the winter, I wonder if there will even be a village left to recover from the frost.
I know our God is a vengeful god, but I do not understand what the people of this land have done to earn such ire. I doubt not the wickedness of my neighbors- but when Sodom was bathed in sulfur and fire, was the land nearby not spared of their judgement? Perhaps I am more like Job, and my monotheistic loyalty is merely being tested.
The barren earth within my homestead has been so densely packed by decades of footfalls it may as well be stone. I have marched countless spirals along this floor, my legs quiver much like my mind if I remain still. I organize, I clean, I pray, I weep, but nothing but the cold embrace of sleep grants me remission from the dread sown deep in my soul.
Another day, another meal comprised of bitter starches and boiled greens. The hearth is my only way to tell time, if I let it burn, it will last a quarter of a day before it is reduced to glowing coals. Of course, I rarely let it get this low, so this calculating is largely guesswork. It is not uncommon for me to open the door and be greeted by a tenebrous woodland black as pitch. It is not much brighter in the day, in truth, so I often resign myself to scouring the land under cover of night, like a feral urchin.
Irrational as it may be, I fear that darkness- or rather, I fear what may lurk within it. My latent terror worries not of beast or brigand, but of things not so easily dissuaded by biting cold or blinding storms. It has come to the point where even the snapping of a twig beyond my sight is enough to diverge my mind to base instincts of fight or flight.
In those times, my thoughts wander to those stories told to me by my grandfather, that had been told to him by his grandfather, and he by his. Ours is old blood... pagan blood, with practices and prayers rooted in beliefs more ancient than the trees of this forlorn boscage. My father and mother would spend entire evenings weaving sticks and twine into heretical charms they would decorate with bones, smoked entrails, and shriveled berries.
They always claimed they would explain their blatant heathenism when 'the time was right'... but that time never came. It was a simple serf who had seen one of my parent's many charms hung on an old oak while foraging in our forest... though of course the bailiff cared little of that detail when he was told of what was seen. Choosing between church and home was a nigh-impossible task for a man as young as I- but luckily, it was at my father's own behest that I testified against my kin.
To this day I make no defense against my parent's blasphemy, their paganism could not be denied. But still, had it not been they who elected to have me raised in the village's beliefs? Each week when we would return to the village, they would instruct me to join the town in worship while they prepared to sell goods in the streets. After, they would ask me what I had learned, listening attentively as I told them tales from the good book. They would even join me in my nightly prayers- kneeling in worship to a God they knew to be jealous.
As the sun rises beyond my sight and I awake to fuel the fire, I am burdened with confusion, guilt, and rage. I plant a log upright in the hearth and watch as the flames crawl their way up the dried bark. Soon the inferno licks the air in front of my face, like a disobedient hound gnashing its teeth. Plumes of grayish smoke twirl upwards to the ceiling, vanishing as they trickle into the darkness above me.
The billet crackles and hisses as trapped moisture bursts free from its wooden prison. This singular conflagrated log still makes more noise than my kin did as they burned- their absolute quietude still rings in my ears in times of silence, and their charred faces always lay hidden behind the veil of open flame. My parents may have taken their secrets to their ashen grave, but they had left me our home, and I had every intention of taking care of it.
Compared to the cabins and houses of the town, most would say my cottage is far from opulent, but my homestead is impressive in its own ways. Over the dozens of generational occupants, the simple semicircular hovel was gradually expanded by the hands of tradesmen decades apart. One of my forekin had been a craftsman, adorning our walls with all the tools we would ever need. Another had carved out our root cellar, a structure I would be long-dead without. Perhaps the most prestigious of my family was a distant ancestor who had known how to work with wood; they had not only bolstered our walls with planks that still stand to this day, but they even crafted a crawlspace between our roof and ceiling.
More impressive still, are my family's books, tomes written by heretics that lay in secret places I was told never to speak of. At the time I didn't think my lineage's literacy to be impressive, but our understanding of written script extends only to these books. I imagine the language they are written in may be the last remnants of some long-dead tongue my relatives spoke.
Sadly, the handful of hidden texts contain little in terms of clarifying my kin's esoteric beliefs. Rather, these books are thorough enchiridions on subjects as varied as the concept of human knowledge. Entire lifetime's of experience are scrawled on those aging vellum pages, and I was always instructed to treat the books with the utmost of care.
Medicine, knapping, foraging, woodcarving, hunting... there is truly no subject untouched by the tome's seemingly limitless knowledge. My parents explained that when you learned something new, you would add it to the book. When I asked how I would do that when all the books were full, my father laughed and placed his hand upon my head.
"Ne caren þe þerof, sune. Þou shælt eken þe bokes whæn þou art elde and hornesse, biforen þou farst to þan nixt life. Þou hæfst muchel tyme biforen þat be-falle."
Still, I found it odd at just how uniform each tome's writing was. Calligraphy in our runic script was incredibly particular, leaving no room for individual error or flare on the sigils being inscribed. Stranger still, none of the text's were signed, for many, I imagined this was their entire life's work- and yet they were so humble they didn't even think to add their name, less they take up too much room for the next writer.
Two days now I have awoken when I thought it to be morning, only to be greeted by darkness. The clouds are too thick for any light to reach us from the heavens- I hope my daily separation of these entries are still accurate... Regardless, the wind is baying louder than ever, and I refrained from foraging yesterday, so I will use some of the tallow I have left to fuel my lamp in case I lose my way.
Cold is an absolute, I think. The townsfolk are so steadfast in their ways, so blindingly trusting of the words written on their scriptures. God did not make the cold, the cold predated God, he created the celestial lights to halt the cold's ceaseless encroachment, yet still, we have winter. Why would God not give the moon the same warmth of the sun? I think it may be because he is not all-powerful, I already know he is not all-loving. He does not love the daemon's who dwell below, and he did not love my parents.
This is not an admission of heresy, it is merely a statement of fact. Curiosity and exploration is in our nature, a nature that we were created to have. -So why then has God's guidance gone silent? Now more than ever we are a lost people in need of direction- if he was all-knowing would he not know that weak-minded people like my kin would not be swayed by his word? Would he not know that when his scripture's ceased, so too would his worship?
Uzzah was stricken down when his act of blasphemy was committed, and his was an act of reverence, mine is a statement of sorrow and malice. Either my word's speak truth, or God truly cannot hear me, he can only ward off the cold, not overpower it when it comes for his creations...
I found nothing beneath the all-consuming blanket of ice and frost. I will live another day, yes, another week, yes, even the month, perhaps- but if I cannot forage, I can only stare down my inevitable, looming starvation. Perhaps I was not abandoned- I thought myself Lot but I may be his wife... Perhaps I have already looked back to the old ways... How slowly the salt crawls.
If I am to be damned, I will not leap headfirst into perdition pleading the cold for mercy that will not come. No, I will survive, I will persevere, I will consult those heretical tomes. I will bathe in the sapid drippings of the fruit from that forbidden tree. If I see this winter to its end, then I will beg my lord for forgiveness.
