David Wise - Tales of Ravenloft

It was a queer autumn night. The leaves of the bonewhite birches ringing the camp had already paled and begun their death rattle, yet the air was warm and moist. It reminded Marielle of a story her elder sister had once told. The land was like a creature, Magda had said, a slumbering fiend, breathing long and languid breaths. In summer, the beast exhaled, spreading forth the heat of its abyssal fires. In winter, it drew back its breath, draining warmth from the world. Marielle wondered what event had stoked the furnace for this brief autumnal surge.

Restless, she picked up a stick and stabbed at the campfire. A fountain of sparks erupted, dancing ever higher into the night sky until at last they blinked and went out amongst the blanket of stars.

She turned her gaze to the others of her tribe. It was as if she were observing them from a great distance — as if they were real, but she, like the sparks from the fire, were somehow temporal and fleeting. Sergio, the tribe's eldest male, had spread his broad haunches across the rear step of his wagon. His billowing white shirt was open to the waist, exposing a sweaty mat of peppered gray hair. Three other men sat beside him on log stumps, whittling sticks and puffing on pipes. They murmured in deep bass tones so as not to disturb those who slumbered, occasionally chuckling at some private joke.

Annelise and her mother huddled beside a wagon nearby while Annelise nursed her newborn. Their faces were round and golden, forming the perfect trinity of mother and child, child and mother, mother and child. The tiny creature suckling hungrily was the only baby born to the tribe that year, but it was Annelise's third. Marielle wondered if she herself might ever know this joy. But there was no suitor in the tribe she fancied. Nor did anyone fancy her.

No twist or hump rendered her form imperfect; no angry marks marred her luminous skin. She was sinewy and smooth, with bewitching black eyes and long raven hair. But any desire she kindled among her cousins was tempered by fear or superstition. Dark, lovely Marielle. Better to look but not touch.

She had already killed once, some said, though none called it murder. Sergio had bespoken her to a cousin, a self-important simpleton whom Marielle despised. Before a fortnight had passed, the boy had died in his sleep. Sergio proclaimed that Marielle had inadvertently cast the evil eye upon him. No one dared to want her thereafter. Only Magda's threat of a curse had protected Marielle from harm.

But now Magda was dead. Marielle's last direct blood tie with the tribe had been severed. Magda's lover, a half-blooded Vistana named Scan, had been cast out of the tribe upon her death. Marielle wondered how long it would be before she suffered the same fate, before fear of her own wrath subsided and was overshadowed by Sergio's growing contempt.

Her tribe was small and insular compared to others in the land. By choice, they lived austerely. They formed few alliances and crept like shadows through the forests, struggling to escape the notice of malevolent forces. Magic such as Magda's drew unwanted attention, claimed Sergio. She had been more than a gifted seer. She knew how to draw upon the powers of the moon and could use it to weave spells upon those who wronged her. Marielle bore the same blood; the same power lurked in her veins. It was only a matter of time, said Sergio, before her presence would bring misfortune to them all.

Marielle moved closer to the fire. Her flesh grew hot, yet she did not move away. The flames offered the only comfort against the cold she felt within. She drew her skirts above her knee, first the gauzy red apron, then the green silk below, revealing a sleek and graceful limb. Her skin gleamed. She closed her eyes against the flickering light and imagined that her entire body began to melt into the fire.

Without warning, the vision took a path of its own. Her lashes fluttered apart. The scene around her had faded to black; her tribe and the wagons were gone. The fire still blazed as she sat before it. A single flame lapped gently toward her. It became a man's arm, white and cold. The arm lashed out, and the hand grasped her ankle, freezing her in place. Upon one smoke-white finger was a silver ring with a large ebony stone, flashing white, then black as the hand softened its grip and began to caress her skin, rising toward her thigh.

Marielle shut her eyes hard. When she opened them, slowly, her tribe and its wagons had reappeared. She gasped and sprang away from the fire, staring at the flames in disbelief.

A woman's voice called out to her softly. "Did you burn yourself, Marielle?"

It was Annelise, ever patient and kind. She alone gracefully tolerated Marielle's presence.

Marielle shook her head dumbly. She looked up and met Sergio's disapproving gaze. His companions stared too, eyes aglow in the night. They blinked in unison, unflinching.

"Just startled by a spark," Marielle lied. "I fell asleep. It's time to retire."

The others nodded, then turned their attentions to themselves. Marielle walked to her vardo and slipped through the back door, closing it gently behind her.

The tiny chamber was pitch black. She lit the lamp hanging in the corner, flooding the vardo with its amber glow. The wagon's opulence belied Marielle's low stature, for it had been Magda's before she died. A small portal was cut into each sidewall, one a mosaic of indigo and scarlet, the other leaded and clear. The arched ceiling had been painted to look like the night sky, with a smattering of bright yellow stars spread between three gilded and carved beams that spanned the roof like ribs.

A small mirror hung on every wall, not for vanity's sake, but for reassurance — to confirm to Marielle that she truly existed. She sat upon the narrow padded bench that doubled as her bed, examining her leg. It ached, but bore no mark.

Marielle spread a thin blanket across the bed and peeled off her clothes, then put out the light and lay down. Shadows played across the tiny windows overhead, echoing the dance of clouds across the moon. For more than an hour she lay there, listening to the sound of her own breathing. Her heart raced. Sleep was impossible.

Finally, she gathered the courage to recreate the vision, to imagine it once more so that she might come to understand its meaning. Magda's powers of inner sight had been uncanny; at times she could detect the remotest sign and discern its portent. In contrast, Marielle's skill was raw and undeveloped. Even when she unraveled an image and found its truth, she might not know whether it was a guidepost to the future or a glimmer of something past.

Marielle pulled the blanket away from her body. The moonlight shone through the leaded window, flickering upon her skin like an ivory fire. Slowly, she closed her eyes.

The white hand slid up from the vardo's floor to the edge of the bed — an albino python, forearm snaking behind. The skin was smooth and hairless, gleaming like translucent marble. The nails were hard and pale gray, like steel.

For a moment, the fingers touched her ankle tentatively, probing, exploring. Then they drew tight like a noose. Upon the ring finger was the ebony stone. In her mind's eye Marielle stared into the gem. It was a black pool, calling, drawing her beneath its surface to the mysteries below. Marielle felt herself slipping into its cool depths. She drank in the liquid. A silver heat flared in her lungs, then spread to the surface, rolling across her breasts and belly in a wave that came suddenly, then disappeared.

The hand moved, so slowly at first that she failed to notice its progress. The fingers slid like silk along her leg. When she pulled her focus from the ebony pool, she saw that the ring and the hand had reached her knee. The fingers were spread wide. The arm was now draped along her calf. The hand inched forward like a spider, drawing the arm behind it.