Melinda Crow

Very few things were certain in Sommarwood.

I twisted the peacock feather, the one I had picked up only yesterday, between my fingers. It wasn’t uncommon to find them scattered across pathways, hunters using the bird’s invasive nature as an excuse. Though, from the few weeks I had been here, I began to realise there was nothing too uncommon to this village.

As the bristles ran across my hand, surprisingly smooth for the condition I found them in, raindrops racing against the windowpane occupied my focus. Trailing down the glass as if they had somewhere to be, disappearing as they reached the bottom. Nature tended to follow the same simple objective, to keep moving regardless.

I couldn’t stand idly for too long. A part of me could have dedicated my time to a daydream, a train of thought that never came to a halt. That wasn’t a part of me I was allowing to emerge - at least not for any significant length of time. The fact that my roommate was attempting to levitate the feather out of my hand was a distraction just strong enough to drag me into reality once again.

The slight tug of her spell wasn’t enough to force it upwards, only causing a gentle shifting of the bristles. The slight shake of applied pressure was visible. A dry laugh escaped my throat, as much as I tried to ignore the situation completely, and I lost grip on the feather that now hovered above my palm.

“Melinda! Did you-?”

“Yeah, I saw that,” was all I responded with, after the frizzy haired lady in front of me trailed off, the tone fading from her voice in a matter of milliseconds. Truthfully, I hoped that Karina would be out for longer.

With a nod, an indication she understood my lack of enthusiasm, green eyes (that were still coated with half worn-off glitter and smudged mascara) moved to another subject of the room. Her footsteps lightened, chunky leather boots left unlaced by the door for once. The feather returned to its spot on the windowsill, a subtle and uninterrupted cascade down.

Rain continued to thud and pound against any surface it could, growing in its intensity as the sky shifted to a greyish, cloudy scene. Something to break the near silence, the unmentioned bitterness that had lingered throughout dormitories One and Two for days. I doubted the quiet atmosphere would raise in volume any time soon, as much as Karina attempted to fix what she had broken.

Slipping my satchel over my head, I let it rest against the bobbling wool that covered my arms and shoulders. I wasn’t sure why I held onto a garment with such tattered sleeves, one with deep stains I could only disguise with badges and brooches. My cardigan, once a vivid mix of deep purples and intense blues, remained as one of the few possessions I dragged along with me. It should have left my grasp a while ago, realistically.

The scent of grease drifted across the common room, soundless besides the sizzle of some kind of meat against the frying pan. My opportunity to slip away. I was sure the other three could at least try to settle their differences over eggs, toast and bacon, but the incessant movement of the clock’s hands served as a reminder to me of what my plans were today.

I was told to look for a carved statue of a woman, located in the smallest clearing of our nearest woodland.

Slight chatter resumed, acting as the hallway’s sigh of relief as I slid the lock off of our common room’s door. Even the subtle clicking of that same door closing behind me felt like a disturbance of the area’s hushed ambience. The stubby heels of my shoes tapped as they transitioned from carpet to solid wood floorboards, my escape signalled outside.

The morning of a Saturday usually saw less footsteps through the dorm room pathways. Even at this proximity to midday, voices were lowered. Unaware of any event that had occured throughout the night, I continued walking. My tendency to hesitate on small details was a hindrance, and I had no time to hinder myself today.

My plans were far from impossible to tick off of my list. Arrive at the forest by noon, followed by a visit to my partner’s house, which was scheduled for “one, on the dot”. Find the statue, then make my way to where the more extravagant houses of Sommarwood could be found.

A step, then another, each tap of my heel creating a hollow-sounding echo. Spanning four stories, a spiral staircase guided me to the distant ground floor of the building. Moss seeped through bricks in what was, considering its age, an otherwise polished tower. Glass panels had been installed into wall slits, a merging of history and modernity.

Its shadow, blocking the light for a noticeable distance, made the outside world seem even drearier. Flowers yielded under the sky’s conditions, limp from the ever-growing puddles of water surrounding them. At least the leaves of the forest, still clinging onto their branches as autumn tried to rip them away, provided a semblance of shelter after only a short walk.

Tugging on my cardigan, pulling it tighter over my body, was an almost instinctual move. That and a hooded top had next to no protection from what October began to bring, the absense of my usual coat apparent from my temperature. It was slashed, ripped beyond repair (or at least any kind of easy repair) on the very same night I was invited to where I headed today.

I had only been in this forest once before. Whispy shadows, casted by nothing I could make out, had given me a type of lightheadedness I rarely experienced. Speckled sunshine, that slipped through the gaps left by wilting trees, did nothing to brighten the pathways it decorated. This time, the clouds above resulted in an even darker path to walk, the usual woodland animals keeping their distance from the mud-turned-sludge.

“Dull” wasn’t the right word, the scenery was miserable but far from uninteresting. Neither was “eerie”, as the woods held a warmth, less threatening than it was fascinating. The way the breeze whistled, becoming the hum of something fantastical as it passed, kept most fears distant.

From where I stood, I could see glimpses of a woman cast in stone, partially obscured by an aging oak tree. Gesturing to me, her hand remained permanently beckoning an invisible audience forward. The clearing was steps away, welcoming my presence.

Mesmerising, in a way. The smallest details were chiselled precisely, delicate features adorning her. A flowing dress, trimmed with lace and ribbon, preserved in a frozen form. Against her cheeks, water and grime combined into now dried streams.

My hand landed against the solid bark of the tree, a grip to prevent myself from any sort of fall. No other eyes were to be seen, at least from my second-long glance. All I could notice that showed a recent presense from the living in this area was the poor attempt to attach deer’s antlers to the statue I was now eye to eye with.

Was I meant to stand idly, staring down a fancy rock as I waited?

Puddles formed beneath where I stood, entrenching my still body as if I was the one carved from stone. Something had to come, the image of the walk back worse than waiting. A rustle of leaves, a snapping twig, anything.