Chapter I
June 18 2004
Buffy walked through the deep snow, her snowshoes clattering and scraping over ice and branches as she followed the track through the woods. The sound of her progress was muffled by the soft, freshly fallen snow, giving her an odd feeling of isolation and peace. The woods were lovely, dark and deep...
She followed the trail as best she could. Someone had come this way recently, but the snowfall was gradually erasing the track. Would they find her in a few weeks, frozen solid? She had heard that hypothermia was a peaceful way to go. But the only thing that would find her would be the wolves. Or the rats. She pushed on.
It was foolish to have wandered off alone like this. She took foolish risks. She was lucky though, and tough. And ambivalent about risking her life.
The woods opened into a clearing. It took her a moment to notice three small huts a short distance away. This was where the trail led. She started walking toward the nearest hut, stopped as she noticed a dark form lying in the snow. It was a deer. She looked closer. It was dead, two fang marks in its throat. It was still warm. The snow melted on its fur as it lay there. The door to the hut opened, and a man walk out.
He had long black hair, braided at the back. An Indian, apparently. She was at an Indian village or hunting camp. The man stopped abruptly as he saw her, shouted and seemed about to run back inside, then stopped. Two other men and a woman ran out to join him, knives drawn, one with an axe. They all stopped and stared at her for a moment, then relaxed. Evidently, they had been expecting someone else. Something else.
She pulled back her hood, shook the snow out of her blond hair.
"Hi. Sorry I scared you. I got lost in the woods, and I ended up here. Can you give me directions to get back to the highway? I can hitch a ride into town."
They exchanged glances, seemed at a loss. Then another woman, an older woman who had been peering out from the doorway, walked out, scolded them and shooed them back inside. Then, she gestured for Buffy to come inside too. One of the men objected, but sullenly relented when she curtly told him ... something. They were speaking their own language. Buffy followed the woman into the hut.
Inside, six people contemplated her. The old woman stepped outside and returned with the carcass of the deer. One of the men examined it gravely, then took it to the far side of the hut and began to skin the animal. Buffy looked away and shifted uncomfortably. The old woman offered her a seat and a cup of the bitter tea they were all drinking.
"Umm ... I don't suppose anyone here speaks English?"
Several of the men exchanged glances. They conferred briefly, then an older man spoke to her. He spoke in a slow, deliberate, and strangely quiet voice.
"It is dangerous for you to be here. We are wondering why you came here, on this night."
She felt a moment of dislocation. Dangerous. Everywhere she went, it was dangerous. Did she gravitate to danger, or did it follow her?
"I was hiking through the hills. My GPS died, and it started snowing." She had wanted to be alone. Then she was alone. Lost. Now it was dangerous.
"You can stay here tonight. Stay in this house. When it is safe to leave, we will take you back to the town."
"There's something out there."
"There is a storm out there. Snow and wind and cold. It is not safe."
"Something killed the deer."
"Drink your tea. There is a blanket here you can use. Try to sleep."
When the other man had finished skinning and cutting up the deer, he washed his hands. The old woman placed the meat in a large pot and with three of the men, left the hut. Buffy was left alone with the old man and a woman in her early twenties, watching the old woman and the men through the window as they moved to the other hut.
The old man offered Buffy the blanket and indicated a cot by the wall. She thanked him but began to lay out her sleeping bag on the cot. The old man nodded, wrapped himself in the blanket and sat in a chair facing the door. The woman went to another cot and lay down, clearly agitated.
With the heat of the fire and the day's exertions in the cold weather, Buffy began to nod off. As she drifted to sleep, she heard the old man say, "This is a bad place. It is a place of death and suffering."
-----------------
Buffy slowly woke up. The hut was barely lit by the coals of the fire. It was still night time. She had a nagging feeling. In her bladder. She silently swung her legs out of the sleeping bag and began to lace up her boots. She was putting on her jacket, then stopped to listen. She could hear a low murmuring singing. She crept to the window. She was certain it was coming from the other hut. She paused to listen to it for a few minutes, then turned toward the door and almost screamed. The old man was standing directly in front of her.
"It is not safe to go outside."
"I won't go far. I'll be quick. But I have to take care of something, and it can't wait."
The man gestured toward a pot on the far side of the room.
"Ahh, thanks, but I think I'll just ..."
Her voice died in her throat as, in the distance, a howl broke out. Not so far really. Close. In the woods. Not a wolf. Something far more ancient, something vicious and evil. The sound of rage, hunger, wickedness, gloating contempt filled the air.
The singing from the other hut faltered. Stopped. The howl echoed through the woods, then faded into silence. After a moment, the wind picked up, rattling the windows, howling through the trees outside the hut. The woman whimpered. The old man sighed. Buffy turned to him.
"It's coming here?"
"I think it will wait for tomorrow, the dark of the moon. Tonight it wants to frighten us."
Buffy walked over to the pot. Snow had begun to fall, a heavy snowfall driven by the winds of the storm.
"Did it kill the deer?"
"No."
Buffy slept.
----------------
She woke up the next morning and the people had returned from the other hut. She packed her sleeping bag, offered to help the old woman make tea, was shooed away, sat on the cot. The old man was out. No one present responded to her good mornings or wanted to talk to her, but they gave her tea and a kind of porridge they were having for breakfast. She offered to share some of the sugar and items from the camp meals she had packed, but the old woman signaled her to put them away. She seemed offended, or maybe frightened.
As she was putting the food away, she came across the notice. She'd printed it out at the internet cafe a few days ago and stuffed it in her pack.
Sunnydale High School Reunion. Mark your calendars.
Whose idea was that? Didn't everyone want to forget Sunnydale High, forget Sunnydale?
She wanted to forget. Didn't she? Memories.
How had they gotten her email address? Willow, maybe, or Dawn. A reunion. Go back to your old stomping grounds and reminisce about your long lost youth. Not at Sunnydale High, the old or the new. You were lucky if you survived. That's something worth remembering. Maybe it could be the theme of the reunion.
It probably wasn't Willow. She spent her time on the astral plane now, not in cyberspace. When has she last seen Willow? Willow had slipped away. They had drifted apart. Life had pushed them in different directions. Cliches.
Willow was a teacher and a healer now. A wise woman. Willow was with her own kind. Witches. She had found her place, and she was happy there. What happy memories of high school would bring Willow back to Sunnydale? Even without the evil, high school hadn't been fun for her.
How many would show up? Would they remember the vampires, the demons, the deaths? Or would they talk about the football games, the friendships and the good old days as they showed off their baby pictures and talked about their life's accomplishments? Some of her old classmates were doctors, lawyers, important people. Others had gone on to college, found jobs, married, built a life for themselves, started a family. Ordinary accomplishments. Somehow, Buffy hadn't done any of those things.
-----------------
Presently, the old man returned, jogging her from her daydreaming. It was still snowing outside, and he entered with a great gust of icy wind and snow. She put the printout back in her pack.
"We'll have to wait a little while until it calms down."
The storm continued into the morning. Buffy paced, fidgeted, finally questioned the old man.
"You know what that was last night."
"Probably a wolf. Coyote, maybe."
Buffy held his gaze. He wasn't being honest with her, but they both knew it.
"The storm isn't going to let up, is it?"
"It's a bad storm. I haven't seen one like this in a long time. There's no telling how long it will last."
"Do you have a radio here? We could listen for the weather."
"The storm won't last forever. You'll just have to talk with me for now."
"Tell me a story, then."
The old man looked at her for a long moment, then began.
"My people have lived on this land from the time when the hills were young. We listened to the voice of the land and the trees, and we heeded the teachings of the spirits, and cared for and protected this place. When the white man came, the land suffered. Trees were cut, rivers were poisoned. This alone was a terrible blow, but even worse, my people lost something. Many no longer heard the voices of the spirits, or hearing them, they chose not to listen. And so evil spirits made their home here, and it became a place of fear and death. My people have fought for generations to reclaim this land from the white man and it is now ours. Now, we must heal it. This, we have started to do. We have returned to the old ways, though it is hard for some. That is why we do not bring radios here, or generators, and why we do not speak English here. It is ... bad luck."
"But, you're speaking English to me now."
"We cannot turn a guest away on a stormy winter night, and we cannot leave you in silence. It may be bad luck for me to talk to you in your own tongue, but I am an old man and I have lived a full life."
"You think that speaking English is going to get you ... something bad is going to happen to you?."
"Tonight, we will attempt to free our home from the grip of evil spirits. It is the worst time of all for bad luck."
Buffy stared at him.
"Do not concern yourself. You are our guest, and we will protect you."
"I can stand up for myself."
"I do not doubt your courage. Let us hope that it is not needed."
June 18 2004
Buffy walked through the deep snow, her snowshoes clattering and scraping over ice and branches as she followed the track through the woods. The sound of her progress was muffled by the soft, freshly fallen snow, giving her an odd feeling of isolation and peace. The woods were lovely, dark and deep...
She followed the trail as best she could. Someone had come this way recently, but the snowfall was gradually erasing the track. Would they find her in a few weeks, frozen solid? She had heard that hypothermia was a peaceful way to go. But the only thing that would find her would be the wolves. Or the rats. She pushed on.
It was foolish to have wandered off alone like this. She took foolish risks. She was lucky though, and tough. And ambivalent about risking her life.
The woods opened into a clearing. It took her a moment to notice three small huts a short distance away. This was where the trail led. She started walking toward the nearest hut, stopped as she noticed a dark form lying in the snow. It was a deer. She looked closer. It was dead, two fang marks in its throat. It was still warm. The snow melted on its fur as it lay there. The door to the hut opened, and a man walk out.
He had long black hair, braided at the back. An Indian, apparently. She was at an Indian village or hunting camp. The man stopped abruptly as he saw her, shouted and seemed about to run back inside, then stopped. Two other men and a woman ran out to join him, knives drawn, one with an axe. They all stopped and stared at her for a moment, then relaxed. Evidently, they had been expecting someone else. Something else.
She pulled back her hood, shook the snow out of her blond hair.
"Hi. Sorry I scared you. I got lost in the woods, and I ended up here. Can you give me directions to get back to the highway? I can hitch a ride into town."
They exchanged glances, seemed at a loss. Then another woman, an older woman who had been peering out from the doorway, walked out, scolded them and shooed them back inside. Then, she gestured for Buffy to come inside too. One of the men objected, but sullenly relented when she curtly told him ... something. They were speaking their own language. Buffy followed the woman into the hut.
Inside, six people contemplated her. The old woman stepped outside and returned with the carcass of the deer. One of the men examined it gravely, then took it to the far side of the hut and began to skin the animal. Buffy looked away and shifted uncomfortably. The old woman offered her a seat and a cup of the bitter tea they were all drinking.
"Umm ... I don't suppose anyone here speaks English?"
Several of the men exchanged glances. They conferred briefly, then an older man spoke to her. He spoke in a slow, deliberate, and strangely quiet voice.
"It is dangerous for you to be here. We are wondering why you came here, on this night."
She felt a moment of dislocation. Dangerous. Everywhere she went, it was dangerous. Did she gravitate to danger, or did it follow her?
"I was hiking through the hills. My GPS died, and it started snowing." She had wanted to be alone. Then she was alone. Lost. Now it was dangerous.
"You can stay here tonight. Stay in this house. When it is safe to leave, we will take you back to the town."
"There's something out there."
"There is a storm out there. Snow and wind and cold. It is not safe."
"Something killed the deer."
"Drink your tea. There is a blanket here you can use. Try to sleep."
When the other man had finished skinning and cutting up the deer, he washed his hands. The old woman placed the meat in a large pot and with three of the men, left the hut. Buffy was left alone with the old man and a woman in her early twenties, watching the old woman and the men through the window as they moved to the other hut.
The old man offered Buffy the blanket and indicated a cot by the wall. She thanked him but began to lay out her sleeping bag on the cot. The old man nodded, wrapped himself in the blanket and sat in a chair facing the door. The woman went to another cot and lay down, clearly agitated.
With the heat of the fire and the day's exertions in the cold weather, Buffy began to nod off. As she drifted to sleep, she heard the old man say, "This is a bad place. It is a place of death and suffering."
-----------------
Buffy slowly woke up. The hut was barely lit by the coals of the fire. It was still night time. She had a nagging feeling. In her bladder. She silently swung her legs out of the sleeping bag and began to lace up her boots. She was putting on her jacket, then stopped to listen. She could hear a low murmuring singing. She crept to the window. She was certain it was coming from the other hut. She paused to listen to it for a few minutes, then turned toward the door and almost screamed. The old man was standing directly in front of her.
"It is not safe to go outside."
"I won't go far. I'll be quick. But I have to take care of something, and it can't wait."
The man gestured toward a pot on the far side of the room.
"Ahh, thanks, but I think I'll just ..."
Her voice died in her throat as, in the distance, a howl broke out. Not so far really. Close. In the woods. Not a wolf. Something far more ancient, something vicious and evil. The sound of rage, hunger, wickedness, gloating contempt filled the air.
The singing from the other hut faltered. Stopped. The howl echoed through the woods, then faded into silence. After a moment, the wind picked up, rattling the windows, howling through the trees outside the hut. The woman whimpered. The old man sighed. Buffy turned to him.
"It's coming here?"
"I think it will wait for tomorrow, the dark of the moon. Tonight it wants to frighten us."
Buffy walked over to the pot. Snow had begun to fall, a heavy snowfall driven by the winds of the storm.
"Did it kill the deer?"
"No."
Buffy slept.
----------------
She woke up the next morning and the people had returned from the other hut. She packed her sleeping bag, offered to help the old woman make tea, was shooed away, sat on the cot. The old man was out. No one present responded to her good mornings or wanted to talk to her, but they gave her tea and a kind of porridge they were having for breakfast. She offered to share some of the sugar and items from the camp meals she had packed, but the old woman signaled her to put them away. She seemed offended, or maybe frightened.
As she was putting the food away, she came across the notice. She'd printed it out at the internet cafe a few days ago and stuffed it in her pack.
Sunnydale High School Reunion. Mark your calendars.
Whose idea was that? Didn't everyone want to forget Sunnydale High, forget Sunnydale?
She wanted to forget. Didn't she? Memories.
How had they gotten her email address? Willow, maybe, or Dawn. A reunion. Go back to your old stomping grounds and reminisce about your long lost youth. Not at Sunnydale High, the old or the new. You were lucky if you survived. That's something worth remembering. Maybe it could be the theme of the reunion.
It probably wasn't Willow. She spent her time on the astral plane now, not in cyberspace. When has she last seen Willow? Willow had slipped away. They had drifted apart. Life had pushed them in different directions. Cliches.
Willow was a teacher and a healer now. A wise woman. Willow was with her own kind. Witches. She had found her place, and she was happy there. What happy memories of high school would bring Willow back to Sunnydale? Even without the evil, high school hadn't been fun for her.
How many would show up? Would they remember the vampires, the demons, the deaths? Or would they talk about the football games, the friendships and the good old days as they showed off their baby pictures and talked about their life's accomplishments? Some of her old classmates were doctors, lawyers, important people. Others had gone on to college, found jobs, married, built a life for themselves, started a family. Ordinary accomplishments. Somehow, Buffy hadn't done any of those things.
-----------------
Presently, the old man returned, jogging her from her daydreaming. It was still snowing outside, and he entered with a great gust of icy wind and snow. She put the printout back in her pack.
"We'll have to wait a little while until it calms down."
The storm continued into the morning. Buffy paced, fidgeted, finally questioned the old man.
"You know what that was last night."
"Probably a wolf. Coyote, maybe."
Buffy held his gaze. He wasn't being honest with her, but they both knew it.
"The storm isn't going to let up, is it?"
"It's a bad storm. I haven't seen one like this in a long time. There's no telling how long it will last."
"Do you have a radio here? We could listen for the weather."
"The storm won't last forever. You'll just have to talk with me for now."
"Tell me a story, then."
The old man looked at her for a long moment, then began.
"My people have lived on this land from the time when the hills were young. We listened to the voice of the land and the trees, and we heeded the teachings of the spirits, and cared for and protected this place. When the white man came, the land suffered. Trees were cut, rivers were poisoned. This alone was a terrible blow, but even worse, my people lost something. Many no longer heard the voices of the spirits, or hearing them, they chose not to listen. And so evil spirits made their home here, and it became a place of fear and death. My people have fought for generations to reclaim this land from the white man and it is now ours. Now, we must heal it. This, we have started to do. We have returned to the old ways, though it is hard for some. That is why we do not bring radios here, or generators, and why we do not speak English here. It is ... bad luck."
"But, you're speaking English to me now."
"We cannot turn a guest away on a stormy winter night, and we cannot leave you in silence. It may be bad luck for me to talk to you in your own tongue, but I am an old man and I have lived a full life."
"You think that speaking English is going to get you ... something bad is going to happen to you?."
"Tonight, we will attempt to free our home from the grip of evil spirits. It is the worst time of all for bad luck."
Buffy stared at him.
"Do not concern yourself. You are our guest, and we will protect you."
"I can stand up for myself."
"I do not doubt your courage. Let us hope that it is not needed."