- Chapter 4: Curse of the witch-boy -
"Little one": that's what they used to call him.
These days, everyone just called him "witch-boy". An adequate name spoken with no small amount of fear, distrust and general distaste. A blemish upon the town of Nordberg it was; a curse to be spat out like bile; a cautionary tale of how you shouldn't just let anyone inside your gates.
Long gone were the days of sitting in Alma's lap, listening to her sing as the fire danced upon the hearth. Long gone were the days of eating hot soup and listening to Torvid's stories after a long day of tending the racks. All that was left was an empty house with no food, no people and no joy to fill it.
It all started just a couple of months before midwinter, when Alma fell sick.
"Just a sling o' the ol' flu!" Torvid had said with a reassuring smile. "A couple o' days' rest and she'll be fresh as snow!"
Taking his words to heart, the witch-boy chose to believe him. And so they waited for the fever to let up.
It didn't.
With Alma confined to her sickbed, Torvid continued to tend the racks. The witch-boy did what he could to help, but as time wore on he began to spend more and more of his time at home, taking care of Alma: bringing her water, cooling her head, helping her eat and so on. He even tried to cook for her once. The result was less than stellar. Even so, Alma ate it – as much as her stomach would allow, at least.
Sometimes, during the evenings, he would sit beside her bed and listen to her sing. Once the coughing became too much for her, he took it upon himself to sing in her place. Straining his voice as best he could, he would try to replicate the songs that he had heard her sing so many times before. Needless to say, it sounded nothing like Alma's practised melodies, but seeing her smile and applaud his efforts made the strain on his vocal cords all worth it.
Even in sickness, Alma's eyes were as kind as ever.
Days turned to weeks. Still, the fever persisted.
As the daylight hours continued to grow shorter, it became increasingly clear that Torvid wouldn't be able to provide for them at this rate. Desperate to shore up their food stock, he began to sail out during the evenings to fish. This went on for about four weeks, until one day Torvid didn't come back from his fishing trip.
They found his boat drifting among the glaciers.
Drowned, they said.
The funeral was as brief as it was simple: Just a handful of mourners gathered down by the wharf. With Alma unable to attend, it fell to the witch-boy to place Torvid's keepsakes in the boat before sending it out to sea, as was the tradition in Nordberg.
Kelda was there as well, despite her father's wishes. She watched from within the meagre crowd as the witch-boy trudged his way up to the boat and placed the keepsakes within it. Having made the delivery, he proceeded to place a hand on the gunwale. In a moment of brief hesitation, the young boy let his hand linger on the vessel as he remembered the kind old man who had been like a father to him. Then, without so much as a word, he pushed the boat away from the shore, out into the icy waters.
Seeing the vessel slowly float away from the shore, the witch-boy clenched his fists, bowed his head and began to weep softly into the sea.
"Look at 'im, actin' all sad!" Kelda heard one of the grown-ups whisper. "Bet'cha he 'ad somethin' to do with dis!"
"I've 'eard tales o' wicked water spirits down south!" another one supplied. "Think he can control them?"
Kelda made no effort to contain her rage as she turned and delivered a swift punch to the groin of the nearest scoffer.
Over the course of the next few weeks, Alma's condition only worsened. When she wasn't eating or sleeping, he would often catch her staring at the door, as if hoping by some miracle that Torvid would suddenly appear through it, smiling and laughing as he apologized for being late for dinner. Then, as soon as she noticed him looking at her, she would shift her focus and force her lips into a bittersweet smile.
He never could figure out if the smile was genuine or not, nor could he ever seem to grasp if she was smiling for his sake or her own.
By the time midwinter rolled around, their pantry was all but empty. Needless to say, the neighbours weren't much help. Between Torvid's untimely passing and Alma's worsening sickness, the townsfolk seemed to have made an unspoken agreement to keep their distance. Desperate to stock up their food supplies, the witch-boy took to the streets. When working or begging didn't do the trick, he turned to the only alternative he could think of.
It wasn't long before things began to go missing all over Nordberg: a couple of fish from the market, a few pieces of jerky from the hunter's rack, a bottle of mead off the mayor's shelf.
Of course, everyone suspected the witch-boy – rightly so, for once – but as long as it meant keeping Alma fed, he didn't care.
He considered leaving on more than one occasion, thinking that if he did the townsfolk might not be so afraid to help Alma. In the end, he couldn't bring himself to do it. The idea of leaving her all alone in an empty house with no one to look after her was just too much.
Sickness or not, if this really was the end of it, then he would stay by her side until it came.
Alma's final night came just a few days before midwinter's eve. It was a night like any other. The witch-boy fed her, wiped her forehead, sang to her as they watched the fire dance upon the hearth and held her hand as she fell asleep with a smile on her face, never to wake again.
A curse upon their household: That's what he was to the rest of Nordberg. A plague just waiting to happen.
Midwinter's eve. For most people in Nordberg, it was a time of celebration: warm food, strong drink, bright lights and good times. A celebration of life, community and hope; the notion that no matter how dark things might get, there was a light at the end of the tunnel – something to reach for, something to hope for.
A hard sell for someone who had just lost the only people who ever seemed to care about them.
It had been three days since Alma's funeral and while the rest of Nordberg had moved on to prepare for the midwinter celebration, the witch-boy wasn't so lucky. The memory of Alma's voice – her food, her hugs, her singing – still haunted him with their absence. With every passing day, he could feel the coldness in the air slowly creeping its way into his heart.
There was no place left for him in Nordberg. That much was obvious. It was only a matter of time before the townsfolk got sick of him and decided to throw him out.
Part of him almost wished they would try. It would give him a nice excuse to test out his new club.
He could use the distraction.
The sound of approaching laughter and cheerful voices told him the other kids weren't far.
Perhaps he would get to test out his new club sooner than expected?
Bjork was the first to round the corner. As soon as he laid eyes on the witch-boy, he motioned for the others to stop.
"Look! It's the witch-boy!" he whispered, loud enough for everyone to hear.
"What do you think he's up to?" one of the boys chimed in.
"Nothin' good, I bet!" Bjork said as he crouched down to make himself a fresh snowball. "How's about we p lay some target practice?"
The witch-boy said nothing as he rose to his feet and turned around to face them, eyes glowing with wicked intent. As he tightened the grip on his club, he could feel his fingers itching with arcane fury just waiting to be unleashed. With that, he stepped forward to give the people of Nordberg a midwinter celebration they wouldn't soon forget, still unaware – though not for long – of the keen, yellow eyes watching from the shadows.
