Before anyone else showed up I found a seat at the center of the room not too close to the back so as to seem disinterested, and not too close to the front so as to appear overeager. I quietly unpacked my textbook, a ruled notepad, and a black pen, and fitted a pair of black rimmed glasses over my nose. On the first line of the notepad I wrote “Monday, 16th September, Lecture 1.” Realizing I wasn’t a twelve year old I yanked the page out of the bindings and crumpled it up. First blood.
That went on for a few minutes until my first few classmates started to arrive. Blissful silence soon drowned in a cacophony of eager voices. But I kept myself glued to the textbook so as to not give anyone the impression that I actually wanted to introduce myself or socialize.
One man, however, caught my eye as he walked into the lecture room. Despite being behind two other guys, this one stood out because of the awkward gaze in his eyes; he needed to find a seat before he was forced to sit next to someone he didn’t like by default. I recognized that look. I’d worn the same alarm on my face before many times. The need to avoid the fate of having my seat allocated to me is what motivated me to get to class early this morning.
He wore a pair of dark jeans and a round neck black top with sleeves so long they mostly obscured his hands. Beneath his top I spied the outline of his body—lean and healthy with a defined chest—and craning my eyes upwards things only got better. He had a symmetrical face, a buttoned nose, kissable lips, beautiful hazel eyes and a messy, brown shoulder-length mane parted right down the middle which fell on either side of his head.
The hazel-eyed mystery scanned the room for a free seat. As luck would have it, he found one next to mine. I felt the vacuum his body caused as he slid past me and into the seat to my right. Through my periphery I kept track of his movements. He too produced a textbook, notepad and pen.
“Hey,” he said. His smoky voice drew me in but not before completely blindsiding me.
“Uh, hey,” I replied.
An extended hand poked out from his black sleeve. “Damien.”
I lightly shook his hand and smiled out of the corner of my lips. “Amber.”
“A coincidence?”
“Because of my hair? I don’t know. We’d have to ask my parents.”
A good looking man who comes prepared is a rare breed, but I wasn’t entirely won over yet. He kept glancing at my hair and that meant one of three things; he’s trying to figure out if I dye, he’s never seen a ginger girl before in his life, or he’s wondering whether the carpet matched the drapes. The frequency of his peeking suggested a combination of the three.
Professor Simmons, a man with a receding brown hairline ending in wisps reminiscent of a bride’s veil behind his head delivered a lecture which had more in common with a sermon than a class. This was Religion and Mythology, sure, but did he need to make the lecture feel like mass?
Damien wasn’t much of a talker, despite his friendly introduction, and he fled the lecture hall quicker than I did when class ended. I can’t say his disappearing act didn’t leave me hanging, but for once it wasn’t a bad thing.
CHAPTER 3
Time flies when you’re having fun. Religion and Mythology proved to be exactly as entertaining a class as I thought it’d be. Professor Simmons made the morning drag on, but the other two lecturers leading my course—Professors Robertson and Irwin—displayed more energy and humor, respectively, which balanced things out. I looked forward to my next classes already.
College in general, however, was no different now than what I remembered. I still got stares, and hushed whispers seemed to follow me everywhere. Like having a black cloud hanging over you which everybody saw and talked about. School treatment of introverts, I guess, will be the same throughout the ages. But at least now I had the experience of being well travelled; that had to count for something, right?
I headed to Rosella Avenue after classes had ended. Eliza covered the morning shift and I handled last couple of hours of the day, and then closed. This afternoon wasn’t busy. Customers trickled into the store only on occasion giving me ample time to finish my class reading and prepare for my first assignment; an essay on organized religion. At about 7pm I closed up and made my way home down the chilly streets stopping to pick up some Thai food on the way.
My home on Cherryhurst Lane was only a twenty minute walk from the bookstore, fifteen if I hustled. Like other houses on my street, my home was white; although the local climate turned anything white into a dull grey over time. Comprised of two floors, an attic and a basement with plenty of bedrooms and toilets, my home was not modest in size.
When my folks left they didn’t take much with them so the ghosts of a family still lived in my house, and the house got even lonelier when Eliza moved in with Evan. Still, two places existed within my home—two sacred places—without which I couldn’t live. The first was the attic, the other my backyard.
Both locations served a ritualistic and a personal purpose; my Coven would use the attic for private rituals and we’d use the backyard whenever we wanted to be closer to nature. They always seemed charged with a kind of energy only I could detect, but couldn’t understand.
While the evening air kept the day’s warmth I would step out to the wooden deck, lay a blanket on the grass and write in a notepad going back inside only once the cold crept in. After the long first day of college I’d just had, going home and spending time among my thoughts, my dream diary and a computer was all I wanted to do.
I became quite the wordsmith as time went on, at least I thought so, but in truth I wrote for myself. Every short story I’d ever scrawled into a notebook and fleshed out on word processor were all personal to me and my dreams. Writing little stories was my own form of therapy.
Settled in my backyard under light emanating from a fixture above my kitchen window, with my laptop, a glass of wine and my Thai food, I transformed my dream into the makings of a short story.
A soft, cool breeze reached the witch’s warm skin. She turned her face to into the wind and closed her eyes, smiling, but the air soon turned putrid and assaulted her senses. The witch glimpsed a mounting darkness oozing through the forest, the draft transforming into a cutting chill.
The witch rose to her feet and advanced toward the black smog. Tiny white flecks descended from heaven, but as they touched the witch’s skin they left an ashen stain instead of a melting snowflake. From the heart of the gloom there came a figure, tall and wreathed in shadow.
“Who’s there?” asked the Witch, curling her hands into fists.
“Don’t you recognize Death?” The voice sounded like nails on a chalkboard.
“Death has no place here. This is a sacred glen.”
“Death is everywhere,” said the voice, “It comes for all; you as well.”
“You know nothing of me.”
“I know plenty, witch.”
A bird fell from the sky with a thump and burst into a cloud of ash. Then another and another, until soon dead birds dropped like the rain and grey specks filled the air. The witch’s face warmed. Her knuckles turned white. Slow moving tendrils licked at her feet, and the tall, bony figure followed close behind as if hovering over the ground. The wolf’s den had been consumed, as had half the forest.
The witch raised her right hand and drew a circle in the air before her, tracing the lines of an invisible five point star. The pentacle shone fiercely, and the trees above the witch separated. Golden sunlight flooded the glen, fighting the darkness until the shadows receded and the dark figure came into full view.
The face beneath the black hood bore no distinguishing features; only grey skin sagging over a bony face with a gaping hole for a mouth. The witch clenched her jaw. Fire burned through her veins. She would destroy death, or else the reaper would take everything she loved.
I wrote and rewrote the same few paragraphs over and over until they sounded exactly as I wanted them to. Then, noting how my fingers were starting to cramp from the cold, called it a night and went back insi
de, into the warm of my bed for a well-deserved sleep.
CHAPTER 4
Every morning before my first class I’d sit beneath one of the tall Sycamores just outside of the campus building, reading and listening to the likes of “Jack Off Jill” and “Nirvana”. I held my book up like a barrier shield between myself and other students, preferring to keep to myself prior to the start of the day.
On Wednesday morning, about twenty minutes before class, I was sitting under the Sycamore when a distinguished quick shadow broke my attention. A large Raven came to a landing nearby. Despite the music in my ears, the big, black bird’s presence and cawing captivated my attention. I got the impression the bird needed something.
The Raven remained perfectly still, watching me from a few feet away as if to analyze me. I stopped the music and listened to the animal caw. The sounds were short, quick and almost rhythmic. Curious, I extended a hand toward the bird, but it fled into the wind kicking up a quick gust with its ascent.
I stuffed the book into my bag and followed the bird’s flight path as best I could. Occasionally I’d catch glimpses of the Raven soaring above the trees. I followed wondering whether I was going mad or the bird was taking me somewhere.
My walk led me away from campus, down a hill and toward the banks of the Geordie, or George P Raven River—named after the man who founded Raven’s Glen. The river’s soft sloshing reached my ears. The Raven disappeared among the thicket, but its song lingered at the edge of my senses in an almost ethereal way, drawing me to the riverbank.
Where the grass turned to mud and mud met the river I spied the Raven once more, majestically perched on a branch. I dropped my bag on the dry grass and stepped lightly. The bird didn’t move from the low hanging branch it had claimed. I came so close I could’ve touched the bird if I reached far enough. My heart skipped a beat. A strange fight or flight instinct gripped my chest and held me down.
The Raven took flight and left me by the riverbank, hugging myself, gasping and choking on my own breath. I staggered towards the nearest tree and held myself up. Like something out of a nightmare, I tried to scream but no sounds escaped my lips save for struggled wheezes. My heart refused to relax, soon trees, rocks and river started to blur into each other. I almost passed out. But the crushing sensation left quickly and mysteriously.
I stared at the slushing water and scanned the skies for the elusive Raven. Only questions glared back at me from the tree-line across the river; questions and an ache in my chest from a piercing cold which the morning air couldn’t produce.
Like a ship lost at sea, I scoured the surface of the water for answers as to why I’d been called but found only rocks and floating vines. I moved closer to the river and stood on precariously slippery grass, my eyes transfixed on the frothing currents.
In an instant all became irrefutably clear; my answers weren’t above the water, but under. I dashed into the river and waded through the icy cold like a girl possessed. Liquid ice swirled around my body. The black leggings I wore stuck to my skin. The material of my black dress soaked up water and weighed me down as I strode deeper into the river.
My entire lower half went numb in an instant, but a mystery called to me from beneath the murky water. My chest tightened again, an alien pressure threatening to cave in my rib cage if I didn’t comply. All I wanted to do was to get out of the water, to escape the cold, but something didn’t want me to leave. I was where I had to be.
So I did the only thing which made sense, and plunged into the freezing water.
CHAPTER 5
The murky river water stung my eyes. I blindly reached into the mud with my fingertips and dug with a purpose. The cold didn’t bother me as much as the pain my fingers were in from burrowing into the rough riverbed, but there would be no stopping me now. I had to go deeper.
Out of nowhere a pair of hands pulled me out of the water and carried me toward the grass. Frozen air bit at my skin, stinging my face and nose; my body trembled and teeth chattered. Who dragged me out of the river I didn’t know, but my heart beat hard against my temples and I tried not to cry. I wrapped my hands around the neck of the person carrying me and buried my face into his chest. What an idiot!
I regained myself when warmth caressed my cheeks. Dazed, I scanned the interior of the car I found myself in. In the driver’s seat I spied Damien, starting the engine and rubbing his hands together, blowing into them on occasion.
“Are you alright?” asked Damien.
“God its cold,” I said.
“Here,” he took my hands in his and brought them closer to the air blower. A tingly warm rush overcame me, but some time would pass before color returned to my blue lips. I rubbed my shoulders to try and regain some warmth.
“Thank you,” I said, brushing wet hair out of my face.
“What were you doing in the river?” asked Damien.
“I… wanted a swim?”
“It’s freezing out there. You could’ve caught hypothermia.”
“I know, thank you, seriously. I think you just saved my life.”
“Great way to meet, I’m just glad you’re okay.”
“I will be. Shit, I missed class.”
“Class finished an hour ago.”
“Seriously?” I swallowed hard. Talk about lost time.
Damien started the car. “Don’t worry about it. I’ve seen you reading. You’re way ahead already.”
I realized in that moment I’d been gripping something in my hand. My knuckles were white. Looped around my hand I found a bracelet made of semi-precious gems; amethyst, amber and rose quartz, stones threaded through a tough black throng. Amazingly the wristlet hadn’t ripped coming out of the rocks.
Damien drove us out of the parking lot and into the street.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“To get warm; fuck class today.”
The car’s interior exuded the familiar odor of river water and mud. “I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it, okay? I want to help.”
“Even weirdoes like me who dive into cold rivers for no apparent reason?”
“I wouldn’t call you a weirdo.”
“What would you call me, then?”
“Can I use two words?”
“Go ahead.”
“I’d call you pretty, and also eccentric.”
Despite a certain lack of inner warmth, my cold cheeks flushed pink. I gave Damien my address. Getting to my place didn’t take us long. Raven’s Glen is a small, rural town where folks don’t usually need cars to get from A to B—although most families still own two each. Damien stopped the car in my driveway and glanced at me.
“This is your stop,” said Damien.
I didn’t want to leave the comfort of his jacket or his car. I had to repay him. “Come inside?” I asked.
Damien shook his head. “I couldn’t.”
“Please? I have towels and stuff you can use. I’ll make you something warm to drink.”
The car grumbled and shut up. Damien nodded, and I beamed on the inside.
CHAPTER 6
Without waiting another cold, damp moment I grabbed a quick change of clothes from my bedroom and lead Damien into the attic. We left wet footprints all over the floors but I didn’t much care. In the attic I opened one of the many chests lining the outside edges of the room and handed Damien a bunch of clothes. I wasn’t about to leave him cold and waiting while I changed.
“Here,” I said, “These are my dad’s clothes. I think some of them will fit you.”
I dashed to the stairs leading down from the attic and pulled Damien along with me.
“There’s a bathroom down the hall. Get changed, warm up, and I’ll meet you downstairs.”
Damien did as I asked and got changed a few doors down from me. The thought of having him in my house, naked, helped me warm up. Amber Lee, calm the hell down.
We met up downstairs and I threw our clothes into the drier before heading into the kitchen. Damien waite
d, sitting at my kitchen table, while I prepared two cups of steaming hot chocolate.
He shuffled uncomfortably on the chair. He was like a fish out of water, completely out of his element in my dad’s rainbow colored Miami palm tree shirt and acid wash jeans. I realized now why my dad buried them in the attic and wondered how he ever managed to snag my mom.
“I think it suits you,” I said.
“You know,” said Damien, examining himself, “I could get into this look. What do you think?”
“I think you should stick to black. Black is hot.” I immediately regretted those words, but taking them back would’ve just made things awkward.
I set the warm, chocolaty deliciousness on the table.
“I’m glad you found me. I’m not used to being a damsel in distress,” I said.
“I could tell.”
“Could you?”
“You have an independent demeanor. You like being alone, I take it?”
“That obvious?” I asked, throwing him a grin from over my shoulder.
“I don’t think I’ve seen you speak to anyone other than a professor all week.”
“And somehow my efforts are thwarted by a meddling young man who can’t take a hint,” I joked. Damien’s smile lit up the room. I caught a glint in his hazel eyes.
“Thanks,” said Damien, pulling his mug closer to him.
I sat down and took the first sweet sip. Much to my delight, my body immediately reached the point of cozy.
“So,” said Damien, “Are you going to tell me why you went swimming in the river? People don’t just go for swims mid-morning in freezing cold temperatures.”