FIRE, ICE, FLESH, AND BLOOD
FIRE, ICE, FLESH, AND BLOOD
By
Chantria Karmiti
Email: Chantrial@aol.com
I can see her, even now, standing on her hill. Just like a faeirie lantern,
shining like a star come to
earth. She wasn’t nearly that beautiful when I glimpsed her when I was a
child. Oh, no, when I was a child,
she was just a frightening story that came to life one night when I was
sneaking out to steal apples from oldman Jensten’s orchard. But never this.
The crone’s moon gave no light to the darkened land, and the stars hid shyly
behind a wind-torn
veil of cloud. The usual night time cacophony of sound; insects, nightbirds,
the occasional dog’s bark,
wolves’ howls, frog’s chirps, and coyote’s coughs, all filled the endless
night. Standing alone on the hill
rising to the west of the town, a pale, luminous figure gave the ebon night
it’s only light. An old white dress
clung in tattered ruins to her sleek form while raven’s wing black hair
floated about her face and body,
caught in a slight breeze that didn’t touch the rest of the world. As empty as
the sky, black eyes stared
impassively at the town through a net of hair. The white, white skin, as
luminous as the mother’s moon, burned as if from a cold inner fire.
If only I could remember my name. I had one once, I am certain of it.When I
was alive. I had to
have been, because I died. At least, I saw them bury me, the flesh and blood,
any way, and all of them were
strangers. I remember staring down at my own headstone.
Maybe, if I could remember where it is, I could find my name there.
Do names have power over the dead? That might not matter, if I am not truly
dead, but how am I
to know, if I don’t have my name so that I can find out? Maybe my body is
simply beneath the earth, but I am not dead.
Oh, well. Until then, the town’s people have given me a new name. They call
me Banshee.
It’s so quiet. That’s the only way that can tell she’s real, and not
the end of a night with too
much drinking. But I didn’t drink anything today, did I? It’s hard to tell,
while I’m staring at her.
All of the animals, even the wolves, are keeping their distances from her.
The livestock are
huddling together at the far sides of their pens, and the horses are snorting
and rolling their eyes until
they’re showing white. Horses can smell faerie, but I don’t see why the others
are shying from her. She can’t leave the hill, and she’s so...beautiful.
Only the nigh insects seemed content to keep up their den. The rest of the
world was as still as the woman on the hill, waiting for none could tell what.
Movement, right on the edge of the town. The woman’s eyes flicked to the
source, which soon resolved itself into the form of a man.
It’s like there’s a cord pulled taunt between her and me. Since she can’t
come to me, I have to go
the her. It never felt like this before, but this time, I’m not afraid.
I can feel it within, what it is that draws them to me. The cold fire that
always burns within, and
shines out. It calls to them, pulls them to me like a moth to flame.
Wait, I remember why I was afraid. I saw Gareth going to the Banshee that
night, and they found
him dead on her hill the next day. I have a wife, and a new daughter. She
might kill me, like she did
Gareth! But...looking at her now, I can’t believe she’d hurt me, leave my wife
alone and my daughter fatherless. And that cord keeps pulling tighter.
He came closer, but slowly, as though he fought the force that pulled him.
His blue eyes, barely
recognizable in the dark, were wide, but his face relaxed. He kept his eyes
riveted on the form that drew
him, and a calm seemed to settle over him. Though still slow, the jerking
movements eased, becoming fluid and smooth.
They always come. I need something from them, and perhaps it is that need
that helps to draw
them here. But I don’t know what it is. And neither do they. But they try to
help me, the kind ones. The
others want something. But no matter what their intent, the same thing
happens. My touch burns them, and
I chill them. My Fire consumes their souls, and something else freezes their
hearts. I am nothingness. No, I am Fire and Ice.
Even through the black, his shaggy, sandy blond hair was apparent, and the
wrinkled, plain farmer’s
clothes. He held something, wringing it in his hands. He was climbing up the
hill, and the other worldly wind
that touched only the woman picked up. The ruined dress whipped around her
and her hair flared out. The
cold inner flames burned more brightly than ever, glowing through the
translucent skin and shinning out of
the endless eyes. Slowly, faint smile touched her lips.
She’s smiling. But she looks sad. She looks like Kabriel did when her lover
was drowned by the
kelpie, or Tenet when her sister Mikenril was taken into the faerie dance.
Maybe she’s some poor soul that
was stolen by the fey, and she needs help out. Skira helped Sacorin get back
home to the Seelie Court when
they found out Sacorin was a changeling. Maybe I can do the opposite of Skira,
and help humans out.
Naerne will understand. My lovely wife has always pitied those taken by the
fey, and watched our little
Koranna like a hawk lest she be stolen. Yes, Naerne will understand.
Is he a farmer? Does he have a wife, a child? This one is young, but he
could. They never say
anything, not a one of them. Do they have real names, or given ones, like what
they call me? There is so much I would ask them, had I a voice.
Perhaps that is all that I need. But I may never find out. They never accept
my touch. Is it because
of what they are? They are what I once was. They are Flesh and Blood.
Up close, she’s got the look of the Court, like Sacorin had. But lots of
others in Sathelm have that
look, and they’re either breeds, or simply have that look. I can’t say. Except
for Sacorin, I’ve never seenone of them, myself.
Her eyes are so sad. And empty. Her dress, what’s left of it, feels like
spider webs. I can’t go back now. Not now that I’ve seen her this close.
He was smiling, too. He dropped the hat he had been holding. His lips moved,
but no sound came.
Her dress and hair were touching him, passing through him. She was reaching
out, her hands stretched out
as far as she could. He reached up, clasped her hands. For a moment, they had
substance, and a triumphant
smile lit her face. But the life fled from his eyes as the substance left her,
and the smile faded as the inner flames flared up and he slumped to the
ground.
"Banshee wails. A young man dies tonight."
I always hear the whispers as I pass, while they huddle in their beds or at
their hearths.
"Be good, or Banshee will call you from your bed one night."
I am a story to frighten children into behaving and a tale for the adults
when the winter winds
howl. But I am more than that. I am Emptiness, waiting to be filled. Waiting
for a certain one.
He will come one day, a different sort of man. He will whisper my name. He
will give me what I
need, fill my emptiness, and my Fire won’t consume his soul, and my ice won’t
chill his heart. We will join
together, and we will make one, my Fire and Ice to his Flesh and Blood.
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