Baelfren

Salty tears prickled his face. He struggled to breathe through the snot congealing in his nose as his bottom lip trembled. I’m not crying. It’s sweat. Honest. He knew it wasn’t. His throat clenched as his face crumpled into a mass of wrinkles like one of the ancients.

Something tugged at his sleeve. He looked down at Farlyne’s narrow face, her white hair wrapped around his arm like a blanket as she rested her head against him. So weightless, it was as if a ghost had run its hand through living flesh. His fingers tingled with cold at the thought of her pale, placid skin touching his. He pulled his arm away from her grasp. He didn’t want to deal with her, not now, not ever. He had his own problems, his own life, and she was getting in the way. Farlyne stared ahead, as though his arm had not left her. Her head hung loosely to the side, hair streaming like a glacial waterfall down her shoulders.

Baelfren grunted and looked ahead to meet the disapproving gaze of the elder performing the death rights. It wasn’t fair; he was paying attention; Farlyne distracted him. He rubbed the snot on his sleeve and straightened up. The elder continued his rituals. A leather band held the skin tight around his parent’s bodies, permanently wrapping them in the seal skin sacks. The ice would freeze around them, as it had in life, protecting them from decay. It would hold them still in time, together, without him. Baelfren’s nails dug into his palms. They’d left him. Alone. With no warning. No reason.

A shiver ran down his spine as the wind pushed open the flaps to the elder’s tent. Someone quickly closed it and the tent returned to its humid, packed state. All the villagers could fit cramped and stuffed in together like a school of fish ready to be devoured. But that didn’t make it warm. Nothing was ever warm for them. He’d heard stories, myths really, of far-off countries where it was warmer, even too hot. As though heat were possible beyond the flames of a fire. No, the ice is life.

A lump caught in his throat. He wanted to run, to escape the confines of the tent and those around him. No one was looking. He could leave, run outside, breathe in the cold, stormy air. A lump caught in his throat and he coughed, the sound swallowed by the piles of furs and fabric around the walls of the tent, yet still loud enough for an adult to snarl and shush him. Baelfren scowled back. Why should he be hushed? It was his parents' funeral, his sadness. His emptiness.

The elder cleared his throat and stepped back from the bodies. Eight adults hoisted the pallet bearing his mom and dad on their shoulders. The crowd parted, making a thin line towards the door. The pallet passed, then the elders. Baelfren braced himself, his hands balled into fists. He inhaled, air struggling past his clogged nose. As the last elder passed, he stepped forward.

His toes screamed as an adult stepped onto his foot, shoving past him with a stream of others following. Baelfren pushed into the crowd to walk behind the elders, where relatives and family should be, where he should be. But he was too small. He shoved and kicked, trampling on toes, but still, they pushed him back. Growling, he ran at a man’s side before hitting the floor with a thumb, bruising his bum. The adults paid him no mind and left the tent, leaving him to wallow at the back of the line. Outside, the air bit at his damp cheeks and snot froze in his nostrils. He lifted his hood and sprinted past the adults to the front of the procession, ploughing through the deeper snow to cut ahead of the train of people. He reached the front as the bearers lowered his parents into the hole, dug deep to the frozen ground beneath. His breath came in clouds before him, coating his lips in moisture, which soon chapped and broke his skin. He rubbed his face on the back of his gloved hand and lifted his neckerchief over his mouth and nose.

As they lowered the bodies into the pit, voices rose into the sky. The adults sung around him, their voices muffled behind neckerchiefs, furs, scarfs and gloves as they kept themselves warm. The water from their song congealed in the fabric, making it hard to breathe, but it’s better than freezing to death, like his parents. The song was simple, Baelfren knew it well, they sang it at everyone’s funeral. It was about how happy life was and how great the afterlife would be. How the ice and snow would keep you safe for eternity in your never-ending rest. He lifted his voice to join, but only a squawk came out. He lowered his head in shame. His throat clenched, mouth dry. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

As the song crescendoed, the eight bearers shovelled snow over his parents. Their shovels moved in time with the music. Baelfren’s hands shook and balled into fists. He ran from the crowd, back towards the village, to silence. It was empty. Tent flaps lay tightly closed, their occupiers all out in the snow singing for their lost friends. I’m still here. Why do they ignore me?

He stomped towards their tent. His tent. There was no ‘their’ anymore. He flung the flap open and ducked inside. The darkness enveloped him. Dead furs lay still and cold around the tent, untouched from the day before. The fire lay bare, the cooking pot empty. Their father had frozen before he had put any food on that day. Baelfren’s stomach growled. He wrapped his arms around himself as the tears, no longer restrained, cascaded down his cheeks. He collapsed to his knees, his cries rushing from his throat like waves crashing against the shore. He was alone.

Baelfren lost track of time, losing himself in his grief until a freezing breeze brushed against his back. An eerie, elongated shadow unfurled before him, stretching from his feet, across the fire, to the back wall of the tent. The wall of blankets swayed in the breeze. The sewing of a crane in the sunset, flying from a shining lake, glistened in the light. Sewing by his parents.

The tent flap closed, shutting out the freezing air and enfolding the tent once more in darkness.

“Baelfren…” Farlyne whispered, tiptoeing to his side. The air sucked towards her, as though she was a whirlpool sucking in life, though instead of life she took heat. Baelfren shivered and tightened his grip on his arms, his toes scrunched up in his shoes as though getting smaller would cause less heat to escape. “Baelfren, I caught a fish. I’m going to light a fire and make some food for us. Hope that’s okay,” Farlyne said. She moved away from him and busied herself before the fire.

Baelfren crouched like a gargoyle, not willing, no… Not able to move. Why? His parents were dead, but so? They left him. He did nothing wrong. He didn’t need them. He was thirteen. He could look after himself. Then… because of Farlyne? Because he despised her? Because she was to be his responsibility, which he wanted no part of? That because of her he couldn’t play with his friends but would have to be a parent? Be a father to his younger sister?

No… That wasn’t it either. He was trapped, as though frozen like his parents in time, dead and still. He shook his head; the tears stopped coming now, they’d stopped a while ago, run dry like in the stories of the lake being swallowed by the sun. This frozen wasteland was a blessing. With its plentiful water and food, that remained fresh. You could prepare. Survive. The heat was less controlled, less thoughtful.

The heat wouldn’t have frozen his parents. ‘Stop it, stop it, stop it!’ But no matter how he willed it, his body would not budge. He was going to die like this, like his parents. Trapped in the cold, unable to move, to think, soon he wouldn’t breathe.

A warm glow flickered in his vision. Heat tentatively stroked his arms, moving closer. His raw cheeks and red eyes stung. His muscles slackened. His cheeks dried, the winter's cold teeth evaporated from his clothes, his skin, his hair. The tent smelt like old times. Of wood smoke and boiling fish. Baelfren jumped, he’d left all his outdoor clothes on, not even beating the snow from them. He shifted from his gargoyle form, rushing to his feet and outside, leaving the tent door open as he reached for the beater to whack the snow from his clothes.

The snow had already gone, melted inside the tent. With a frown, he lowered the beater to the ground and retreated inside. A dark patch stretched on the ground where he had sat. He knelt and removed his gloves, touching the damp surface of the tent floor.

“I’m sorry,” Baelfren croaked, waiting for his parents to berate him.

“It’s okay. You were upset. Do you want to hang them up now?” Farlyne sang.

With a nod, Baelfren removed his coat, shoes and remaining mitten. He hobbled to the fire and hung them on the rack next to Farlyne’s, brushing his father’s jacket, which still hung untouched since...

He sat on his log by the fire; the heat stroking his skin. A bowl came into his line of vision and he looked up into Farlyne’s purple eyes.

“Eat, it will help.” She placed the bowl in his hands, giving his fingers a tap as she retreated to her stool and nursed her fish soup.

‘I didn’t know she could cook.’

Baelfren’s mouth watered as the piscine scent drifted to his nostrils. Its warmth seeped into his fingers, spreading to his hands and wrist. His hand moved cautiously towards the spoon, as though it were an animal that would spook away from his touch. He brought a spoonful of the broth to his lips.

He winced as the liquid scalded his tongue burning down his throat.

“Blow on it first, silly,” Farlyne said.

Baelfren blew on his second try, letting the broth congeal a little on the spoon before wrapping his mouth around it. It tasted of home. Of salt and sea. Of life and death. Its warmth spread down his throat and into his stomach, warming his hollow self from the inside. For that’s what he was now. Vacant, like an empty ship's hull. His parents were his life. Sure, he liked his friends, but he always came home to them. Now…

His throat clenched, and he dropped the spoon in the bowl. A dry sob shattered through his body. Farlyne placed her bowl on the floor and came to kneel before him. She put her hands on his knees and gripped hard, bringing his attention back to the present.

“It’ll be okay. You’ll see. You’re going to want to leave and we’re going to make a life together. Our own life. You’ll be happy. I promise.”

Baelfren’s eyes narrowed. A tightness enclosed his chest. He stared into those violet eyes, eyes that seemed to hold the world within. How often had his sister’s predictions come true?

“Did you…” Baelfren’s voice disappeared within himself, as though uttering the words could smash the fragile world around them.

“Did I what?”

“Did you know? Did you know they were going to die?”

Farlyne leant back, her eyes darting back and forth as she studied him.

“Did you?” He repeated.

Farlyne rose and returned to her seat, taking her bowl in her hands.

“No, not exactly. I had… dreams… dreams of our future, but… it was only ever us two together, not them. I didn’t think…” Her voice trailed off, her attention taken up by the broth.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“What?”

“That they weren’t in your dreams. Maybe we could have stopped whatever happened to them.”

“Baelfren-”

“No, we could’ve stopped them from going out that day. No one knows why they died, but if we’d known that they would, we could have kept them in, they would have been safe and warm.” He rose to his feet, like a soldier rising to battle. “I could’ve looked after them. And look, you knew how to fish and everything. You could have done all that for them and they wouldn’t have left us.” His head spun with possibilities, of how they could have managed with their parents staying home if only she’d said. “Why didn’t you? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You never wanted me to. I told them, they listened. But you don’t.”

Baelfren knocked his broth on the ground in a messy, damp heap.

“I would have! If it was something this important, I would have! How can you be so stupid? Why did you not help them? You should have! You should have kept them home and taken care of us. But you let them die. You let this happen.” He turned and stormed towards the bed of furs, throwing himself into their embrace and burying his face. He screamed into the pillow, the sound echoing in his ears, but muffled from the world, as though Baelfren were trapped in a cave.

***

His eyes burned at the rim. He rubbed his head, conscious of the birds inside, pecking. His skin prickled as he flung the cover back. Snow drifted into the tent through the open door flap, its icy breath freezing everything within its reach.

Baelfren leapt up and flung his coat around his shoulders. He sprinted from the tent, knocking into the statue like form of Farlyne. She sat cross-legged, unmoving. Her hands bare, skin white as bone. Her hair had frozen in clumps down the side of her face.

“Farlyne!” Baelfren shouted, shaking her shoulders. The cold bit at his skin, her coat crinkled under his touch, solidifying like a dead body.

Baelfren grunted and grabbed Farlyne round the waist, dragging her into the tent. He flung her by the firepit. With fingers swollen with cold, he buckled the tent flap and rushed to make a fire. The wood on top of the pile was damp, touched by winter's hands. He dug below, letting logs roll around the tent. He threw the dry logs into the fire pit and let the sparks fly. Once the wood had caught, he slung a blanket around Farlyne and shoved her hands into gloves. Rubbing and blowing on them to bring the life back.

“Come on, Farlyne,” he panted, staring at her closed eyes and numb face. She didn’t move. The small billow of breath escaping her nostrils the only sign of life.

He sighed and wrapped her tighter in the blanket, cleared the snow from the tent and coaxed the fire, placing last night's leftovers over the flame to heat. They sat in silence as Baelfren stirred the broth, warmth gradually filling the tent. Droplets fell from Farlyne’s hair, so Baelfren rung her hair out, drying it with a towel until all that remained evaporated with the fire’s warmth. He ate his broth but left hers in the pot. It was useless to put it out before she moved.

He had to get more food for later, but should he leave her?

He tossed the idea back and forth. To fish or not to fish? If he didn’t, they’d have no food for later. But if he left her unattended with a fire in the pit… He looked around the tent, seeing for the first time all the dangers. The fur, which if touched by naked flame, would light up and spread the fire, until their entire tent, everything they need to survive, was lost. He could ask someone to sit with her, take advantage of their fire and some alone time. Tallow might be interested.

It would only take a few minutes to see Tallow and ask him to pop around. Farlyne and the tent would be fine until then.

Baelfren darted from the tent, thrusting his gloves on as he moved. The village buzzed with activity. Adults dragged canoes out to fish, aired furs and maintained and repaired tents. Tallow’s tent, as usual, was alive with chaos. He had four siblings, all younger, one barely over being a babe. And he hated it. Baelfren smiled. Shouts and cries emanated from behind the fabric.

“Tallow,” he called, “how’s it going?” Baelfren stopped near the tent. He twiddled his fingers within his gloves.

Tallow emerged, his hair in disarray and eyes clammy with sleep.

“Baelfren, what are you doing here?”

“Nice to see you, too. Sounds like the usual chaos in there, huh?”

Tallow looked around and stepped into the cold. He shut the tent flap and pulled his hood over his head. His eyes darted around and he lowered his voice, as though someone was coming to intervene in a secret plot.

“It’s just, I didn’t expect to… What do you want?”

“I need to go fish, but Farlyne can’t be alone at the tent. I wondered if you fancied some peace if you could-”

“No.”

“I didn’t finish asking you-”

“It doesn’t matter. I’m very busy, sorry. Maybe someone else will help.” Tallow spun around and fumbled with the tent flaps, fingers blundering.

Baelfren leaned forward to help.

“No,” Tallow complained, his teeth gritted. “I don’t need your help.” He looked around them once more. “Look, I can’t be around you anymore. No-one can. I don’t want the magic that killed your parents to take mine.”

“Magic? What are you talking about? The cold-”

“Don’t be an idiot, Baelfren. Your parents froze, yes, but why? And why were they holding each other when they did? They knew how to stay safe in the snow and ice. They wouldn’t just freeze. It’s that sister of yours, Baelfren. Everyone’s talking about it. Her… Sleeps… They’re not natural. She has magic, and she used it.” Tallow shook his head. “I’m sorry, Baelfren. I am.” He turned back to the tent and slipped inside. Baelfren listened for the tap and slide of the inside locks being pulled into place before the usual tent chaos ensued. The sound of the previous silence finally reaching his ears. Were they listening?

Baelfren shuffled his feet and turned from the tent, heading back towards his home, but his feet were like lead. He dragged them through the snowdrifts like a dead weight.

Magic. What do they mean by that? His parents froze to death in the snow. That’s it. Magic isn’t real. And if it was, why would it kill his parents? Why wasn’t anyone coming to help them?

When he slipped inside, the fire was burning low, and Farlyne had still not moved. He slumped across from her and fed the fire. He paused with the last log for the fire in his hands and looked up at Farlyne.

‘Is this magic? What she’s doing now? Her dreams?’

Baelfren’s head banged with questions, as though someone was hacking away at his skull from the inside. Magic was dangerous. But Farlyne wasn’t magic, she just fell asleep in strange places and was hard to wake up, that’s what mother said. But… was mother telling the truth. Farlyne said she’d seen things and sometimes… they came true. Which could be magic? And if Farlyne can do that magic then could she…’

“Magic killed my parents… The entire tribe is talking about it,” he whispered.

It was an age before Farlyne opened her eyes. She wriggled her hands and feet. Baelfren watched as her pupils dilated and fluctuated.

“Baelfren,” she muttered. “I’m sorry, I slipped off again. Did you get yourself some breakfast?”

“Did you do it?”

“Do what?”

“Our parents, did you kill them?”

The tent froze in time. The life of the camp around them fell into silence. Even the wind ceased to move as the air grew thick.

Farlyne bent her head, brow furrowed.

“Why would you think that?”

“It was magic, you know. Magic that killed them. Everyone says so.”

“Tarrow says so.”

“How would you know that?” Baelfren asked, voice rising with anger.

“Baelfren-”

“No, don’t say anymore. You’re a witch, aren’t you? You have magic and… and you killed our parents. With your magic.”

“No, I-”

“I don’t care if it was by accident or on purpose. It was you, wasn’t it? And now… Now we’re alone and it’s your fault. How could you? Why would you?”

“I have dreams, Baelfren. Just dreams,” Farlyne screamed.

“Dreams, dreams that come true. Premonitions, even. That is magic. And if you can do that, then how do I know you can’t do other things?”

“Baelfren, I’m your sister.”

“And yet I hardly seem to know you. You can cook. When did you learn to do that? How can I have lived in the same tent as you and not have known this? If you hid that from me, then who’s to say you couldn’t have hidden something else. Something dangerous!”

“Baelfren-”

“No, you did this. You and your magic. You killed them.”

Farlyne crumbled before him. Tears streamed down her cheeks, her wails shattered the air louder than any storm.

Baelfren didn’t care. Why should he? It was her fault. Her fault they were alone. Her fault he had to look after her. So she was being so motherly. Looking after him as though to apologise for what she’d done. Well, not anymore. He was in charge. And he was finished.

“We’re going to split everything for the tent fifty-fifty. And when we leave camp tomorrow, that’s it. I will not live with you. I will not help you. We’re finished. I am no longer your brother and you… you’re a monster and could never be my sister. My sister died when you started having these sleeps. You killed her like you killed our parents.” His blood rushed through his veins like a river meeting a cliff. His hands clenched into fists, his nails sending shooting pain through his arm as he dug them deep into his skin. “I’ll make amends with the tribe, be accepted by them once more. You can do as you please.”

“Baelfren, please.” She made to grab for his leg, but he stepped back, avoiding her grasp. “Please, I don’t want to be alone. They were my parents too and the tribe… They won’t help me.”

“You should have thought of that before you let your magic ruin our lives.”

He ignored her screams, her pleas. He packed everything he didn’t need that day, piling it beside his bed, ready for the morning, and left the tent. He would fish. He would fish all day until dark. Then he would sleep one last sleep before leaving her for good. He would find his own way. With her, he would be free to be normal, to enjoy his life. His own life. Alone.

***

Morning came, though Baelfren hardly slept. He lay in his blankets, listening to Farlyne’s sniffling, hating her. He kicked his blankets away, the cold slapping his body into alertness. He didn’t care. He didn’t bother with breakfast, nor did he allow Farlyne to. He packed the remaining innards of the tent. Throwing them onto the sledge outside and tying them tight. They only had one sledge, but tough. He had found it first. And besides, she could use her ‘magic.’

With Farlyne still inside, he un-pegged the tent. It collapsed in on itself. A lump crawled out where the tent flap used to be, narrowly missing being squashed by the tent poles. Pity.

Farlyne fumbled out into the snow, dragging a bag of belongings behind her. She looked at the sledge and hoisted up her bag.

“Don’t even think about it,” Baelfren barked. “This is it, remember. You’re on your own.”

“No, Baelfren, I didn’t-”

“I don’t want to hear it. Bugger off. Go on. Get walking. If you want to follow the tribe that’s up to you, but we no longer walk together.” He flung a smaller tent at her. “You can take this one. Should be big enough for someone like you.”

Tears froze on Farlyne’s face. False tears, more like. Her magic probably worked wonders on the feelings of those around her. All these years he felt protective. For what? It was probably her magic telling him to watch out for her. Well, not anymore.

With the tent packed, Baelfren tied the sledge rope around his waist and set off. Farlyne’s sniffles followed, but he didn’t turn, he wouldn’t. This was it. She could make her own way. The rest of the camp lined up, beginning the long trudge through the snow to their next settlement amongst the trees, sheltered from the winter's winds. The front walkers made slow progress, but once they were in a rhythm and the tribe thrust forward, the lines rotated so each took a shift at the front. Baelfren took his turn with renewed energy. He would win back the tribe's trust. Wriggle his way back into their good graces and start his life again. He couldn’t stop Farlyne from following the tribe, nor following him. But he could ignore her.

A cold sweat built beneath his clothes, a dangerous sweat.

‘We rotate so that we don’t tire. Remember that Baelfren. Never sweat in the cold. That’s what father would say.’

Baelfren lowered his head and stood to the side, letting Farlyne take the lead. Her slight frame stood mere inches above the lip of the snow. Normally, mom or dad would take Farlyne’s turn and calve a path for the tribe, letting Farlyne walk behind them. But they weren’t here. Because of her.

The tribe halted behind them, fidgeting in line as the bitter wind picked up around them.

“Come on!”

“What’s the hold-up?!”

Farlyne pushed hard, fresh snow piling on top of her, but she couldn’t break through. Baelfren crossed his arms, a scowl over casting his face like a storm. Tallow shoved past him.

“Move over!” Tarrow pushed her aside. She fell face down in the snow, out of the tribe’s way.

The tribe laughed as they trundled past. Spitting and cursing, calling her witch and sorcerous. Baelfren moved past without a word. He glanced at her still body. She hadn’t even bothered to lift her head. He frowned, grinding his teeth as he turned away from her. His legs were heavy, his feet dragged as his shoulders hunched. Guilt. But why? He shouldn’t feel guilty about this. She had magic. She was a witch. She killed his parents. He clenched his fists and pushed forward. Besides, he had gone on without her. What did it matter if she lay dead in a snowdrift or fell behind and froze in the night? She wasn’t his responsibility anymore.

Images of his sister raced through his mind. How they’d laughed and played together until the periods of sleep came. Then, the hours she was awake were like nothing had changed, but she slept more and more until his sister no longer existed. She looked the same, acted the same mostly. But it wasn’t her. Was it?

“Baelfren, what’s the hold-up?”

His feet had turned to lead, his breath turning to ice in his hair. Tribe members squeezed past him.

‘I’ve stopped moving?’

He moved to the side of the trail, ignoring the disgruntled looks, and looked back at Farlyne.

“Ugh!” He groaned at the sky and loosened the sledge from his waist. He pushed through the deep snow until he reached Farlyne’s side and dragged her to a sitting position. Her hair was thick with clumps of snow, her face pale and lips chapped.

“Get up, Farlyne. You can’t lie here. Come on.”

He dragged her to her feet.

“Baelfren…” She groaned.

“Yes, it’s me. Who did you think?”

“I didn’t, you know I didn’t, right?” She asked. Baelfren stopped, his arm still around her shoulders. “I don’t know what happened to them. But I knew something might, or at least, I knew we wouldn’t be with them when we were older. I’d hoped... I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. You normally didn’t want to know. And… sometimes they’re not true. The things I see. They don’t always happen. I’d hoped…” A tear froze on her cheek. “I know I’m weird, and they don’t like me. But I didn’t ask for my periods of sleep. I don’t understand them and they scare me. I miss mom and dad.” She wiped her face on the back of her glove, her skin raw with ice burns.

Baelfren took her hands in his. The tribe disappeared into the snowdrifts, their path filling with snow each second. If they didn’t move soon, they’d lose the tent.

“Let’s leave. Just us two. We’ll start fresh, together.”