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Spirits and Shadows

 Spirits! Candle could see them everywhere, clustering in the dark corners and hovering hungrily in between doorframes. The midwinter solstice made them bold. They pressed eagerly in-between spaces, reaching out spindly fingers to grasp at the unaware villagers. This time of year Candle could see the features that were usually indistinct. The otherworldly gleam of their eyes was visible, even in the bright noon light. They came in all shapes and sizes, scaled and furred and scarred and smooth. Some were small and rodent-like, others bigger than a man. The most disturbing ones were vaguely humanoid but with twice the usual number of limbs. They looked, Candle thought, as if they had been imagined by some mad god. A mad god who had taken bits and pieces of living creatures and sewn them all up together in the dark. They hated the living.

 The spirits watched hungrily as the procession of laughing villagers wound through Hanternos like a merry snake. As the celebrants passed by, trailing magic and laughter many bared their fangs and hissed, fading back into nothing. Others went quietly and thoughtfully, dissolving into the midwinter day. Candle, made of flesh and blood, watched both spirits and revellers alike from a dark patch high in the branches of a silver tree. Each villager left a string of magic in their wake, some thin and insubstantial, some intense and cable-like. She watched with interest as the many lines crisscrossed each other creating a complex tapestry of protection around the village. It was the shortest day of the year, and the longest night was coming. Tomorrow it would be a new year. It was Candle's birthday. No one had mentioned it to her yet, but then her special day was usually lost in the frenzy of excitement surrounding the winter celebration.

 At the outer corner of the boundary wall, the revellers made a laughing pivot, jostling amongst themselves as they paced out the boundaries marked by stone walls. Two rowdy siblings pushed each other and the younger of the two fell, scraping his knee. He fell to the ground howling, and though the cut was not deep a few drops of blood fell to the earth. His father hauled the child to his feet, roundly scolding both siblings, while the procession streamed around them.

Candle sat bolt upright. She could clearly see the large gaping hole in the magical net. It was connected to the whole by only a few gleaming strands. As she watched a small slithery spirit crept between the gaps of the glowing strands and disappeared under the nearest house. She stood on her branch, straining to look, and wondering what she should do.

She slipped down out of the tree, and crept after the procession, taking care not to be seen. The procession would end in the village square, by the well where food and drinks had been laid out, so she skirted ahead, keeping foliage and houses between her and the merry mob. She swiped a couple of custard tarts from the table and climbed onto a nearby thatched roof. As the chanting crowd swept into the square she spied the blonde head of her sister and aimed a custard tart at her beautifully braided head. It hit her square and Ishbel turned away from her friends, her eyes narrowed in annoyance.

"Ishbel!" hissed Candle, and waved to attract her older sister's attention. Ishbel's eyes widened as she saw Candle leaning precariously off the roof.

"I'll be right back," Ishbel said to her friends, a smile frozen on her face. She sauntered over Candle's roof and leaned against the wall casually, not looking at her. "What on earth are you doing here, Candle?" She spoke, angrily, out of the corner of her mouth, "If father and mother see you they will be furious-"

"Ishbel, just listen! There's a hole-"

"If you go back to the manse right now no one will be any the wiser-"

"Ishbel, you're not listening! There's a hole in the -"

"What in the Ancestors name are you going on about? Are you having another episode? Oh no- Rasmus has seen us."

Candle scuttled back up the roof, cutting her leg on a sharp piece of straw. She disappeared around the ridge, struggling to find purchase on the thatch with her hands. A moment later she was knocked off the roof by a blast of wind. She landed awkwardly on her haunches and her brother hauled her up, holding her up painfully by one wrist so their noses were opposite each other. Candle's feet dangled in the air.

"Put her down," said Ishbel, coming round the corner. In the square on the other side of the empty house, the revelry continued. "She was just going back to the manse, weren't you, Candle?"

Candle gulped.

"The procession missed a spot," she said, urgently, "by the eastern wall."

"Don't be ridiculous," said Rasmus, his voice low and dangerous. He shook her a little, then glanced at Ishbel and dropped her to the ground.

"Scat," he said, "And be grateful I don't tell father you were out."

Candle ran, there was no point trying to reason with her brother. She ran towards the manse, but then swerved to the left and hopped over the northern boundary wall. She had no intention of going home, although she would probably regret the disobedience later. Her parents remembered her only when she was before them. They did not much care what she did as long as she remained unseen.

Sitting in the shade of the wall she ate her custard tarts with great relish. They were a little squashed but still good. Under a nearby bush, she fetched out a bag containing the spoils of an earlier act of thievery - before the dawn bell she had stolen a pitcher of elderflower cordial, a cherry cake and two loaves of fresh bread from her parents' large pantry at the manse. She had lifted some brushes and paint from her sister's studio and some heavy paper from her mother's. Her whole family might be intent on ignoring her birthday but Candle intended to have a private celebration of her own up on the mountain slopes.

Sixteen years old and still the Ancestors had not accepted her. Her eyes remained stubbornly blue, the colour of the damned and the undead. Her hair was the colour of peat and she was small and unremarkable to look at. Her Ancestors continued to reject her. Her offerings were all refused no matter how beautiful or how heartfelt. Candle took a vicious bite of her tart. Without the guidance of her Ancestors, she thought bitterly, a slide into depravity was inevitable.