Spiral Path (Night Calls Series Book 3) (44 page)

Though I have written previous stories, and plan to write
still more tales, Alfreda Sorensson is my gift back to the universe. Try to
leave the world a little better than you found it.

It’s what Allie would do.

—Katharine Eliska Kimbriel, September 16, 2014

Spiral Path

Night Calls 3

Katharine Eliska Kimbriel

ISBN: 978-1-61138-440-6
Copyright © 2014 Katharine Eliska Kimbriel

First published: Book View Café September 16, 2014

Production Team:

Project Coördinator: Katharine Eliska Kimbriel

Copy Editor: Jennifer Stevenson

Proofreader: Sherwood Smith

Formatter: Vonda N. McIntyre

Cover design by Atomic Fly Studios:
http://www.atomicflystudios.com/

Cover illustration © 2014 Mitchell Davidson Bentley

This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Digital edition: 20140910vnm

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Katharine Eliska Kimbriel reinvents herself every decade or so. It’s not on purpose, mind you—it seems her path involves overturning the apple cart, collecting new information & varieties of apple seed, and moving on. The one constant she has reached for in life is telling stories.

“I’m interested in how people respond to unusual circumstances. Choice interests me. What is the metaphor for power, for choice? In SF it tends to be technology (good, bad and balanced) while in fantasy the metaphor is magic—who has it, who wants or does not want it, what is done with it, and who/what the person or culture is after the dust has settled. A second metaphor, both grace note and foundation, is the need for and art of healing.

“A trope in fantasy is great power after passing through death. Well, at my crisis point, I didn't die. That means that I’m a wizard now. Who knows what I may yet accomplish?”

Kimbriel was a John W. Campbell Award nominee for best new SF Writer.

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NIGHT CALLS

Sample Chapters

Katharine Eliska Kimbriel

www.bookviewcafe.com

Book View Café Edition
September 17, 2013
ISBN: 978-1-61138-320-1
Copyright © 1996 Katharine Eliska Kimbriel

I wasn’t there when Papa killed the wolf. But then girls
usually aren’t allowed to hunt them.

This was an ongoing argument in our household, the hunting
thing, and that night was no different. As always, I lost. Promises to stay
back, demonstrations of stealth, even stories of bravery while wringing chicken
necks — nothing worked. Papa may boast that I’m eleven going on forty, but I’m
the only daughter; that means burping babies and grinding wheat instead of fun
things like tracking critters.

It was worse when Dolph and Josh came back, laughing and
shouting, covered with blood, stumbling over their words as they both tried to
tell Momma what had happened. I was by the fireplace stirring the soup when they
came in, and I kept my back to them while they told their story.

“And then when we chased him out of Faxon’s sheep pen —”

“First we had to send for the surgeon, for his little girl —”

“Boys, you’re bleeding!” Momma finally said weakly, lifting
a kettle of hot water from a pot hook swinging above the burning logs.

“It’s just sheep’s blood, Momma, don’t worry,” Josh said
quickly, brushing at his coat and starting up the kitchen stairs. “That ol’
wolf only got a few snaps off before Papa ran him through with his spear.”

I couldn’t resist a smile; Josh’s voice always squeaked when
he got excited. He might have two years on me, but I’m a
lot
older than he.

“Papa was great. Everyone else was millin’ around swinging
torches at it, but Papa just charged right in. Stuck that ash spear right
through the wolf and pinned him to the ground.” Dolph got to the heart of the
story, as always. “He thrashed a long time,” Dolph added thoughtfully, moving
to the basin of water Momma poured for him. “Snagged a few people, but nothin’
too bad. He sure chewed that little girl up early on, though.”

“Never heard of a wolf going after a person,” I muttered,
giving the soup another swish before moving to pull Papa’s wine crock from the
ashes.

“Shows you haven’t heard everythin’, doesn’t it?” Josh
hollered from above.

“I haven’t, either,” Dolph started, taking my part like he
always did.

“She’s right,” came Papa’s voice. We all looked up, and
there he was, standing tall at the wooden door, dark stains blotching his worn
breeches and shirt. “Wolves don’t usually bother people. That one might’ve been
sick. You boys get some sundew infusion from your momma and pour it all over
your arms and legs. I saw you touching its mouth — didn’t you think? You know
animals carry the foaming sickness in their spit.”

“We didn’t get nipped, Papa,” Dolph protested. “We were
careful.”

“How about the cuts and scratches you got working in the
field today?”

Well, Dolph didn’t have an answer for that, of course, so
Momma made me steep some sundew. She practically made them bathe in it, but
they were acting like it was nothing, and not scrubbing very hard.

When I finally brought Papa his wine, I couldn’t resist
asking what he’d done with the wolf.

“Strung it up by the leg in a tree, darling,” he said,
sipping slowly at the warm liquid. “The coat’s owed to the kill, so I’ll get it
tomorrow.”

“Can I help?” Stupid to ask, I knew, but I wanted to help so
bad.

Papa studied me over the rim of his cup, his sky-blue eyes
gleaming in the soft light. “A lot of blood and gore, skinning a wolf,” he said
finally.

“I’m not afraid of a dead wolf,” I declared.

“Bet a live one would’a spooked you,” came Josh’s scornful
voice as he stomped down the oak stairs to get some dinner.

“Not Allie,” Dolph said quickly, smiling at me.

I grinned back at him and then scowled at Josh. “I’m not
scared of no wolf! At least not with a spear by me.” Turning back to Papa, I
added under my breath, “There’s lots of things scarier than an old wolf.”

“‘Any wolf,’ Allie, not ‘no wolf.’” Papa’s words were gentle.
He didn’t scold the boys much, but he always corrected me. He smiled, then, and
reached to tug on one of my braids. “Ripe as wheat, you are, child, and not
just your long locks. You can help me skin the wolf, if you do your chores
first —”

“Oh, I will! I will!” I nearly upset the wine, tossing my
arms around him, but Papa just laughed and hugged me. Momma started in right
away, of course, but he waved her off.

“Child’s old enough to help with the pelts this winter,
Garda. No sense waiting until the snow flies. She’ll be fine with me, and
Dolph’s old enough to supervise the harvest.”

I danced back to the soup pot, and when Papa told the boys
he needed them in the hay fields, not
watching
him and me skin a varmint, well, I’m sure I started floating. Let Josh watch
little Ben and Joe! I was gonna skin me a wolf.

oOo

The sunrise was patched like a red ’n’ gold quilt, but I
didn’t pay it no mind. I was up in the dark, collecting eggs by feel and
setting the milk out to wait the cream rising. Momma shooed me away and said
she’d get it — that was her way of apologizing for last night. She doesn’t like
things like wolves and bears; that sort of thing scares her. But she doesn’t
want to make me frightened for no reason — I heard her tell a neighbor that once.

“Watch your step out there, Alfreda,” she said by way of
parting. “There’s more between heaven and earth than any man knows, I’ll tell
you.” I must have looked as confused as I felt, because she waved me off, her
worn, pale face looking a little disgusted. “Get me some onions and garlic from
the garden on your way back!”

And so I was free. There was nothing like walking through
the long yellow grass, following the golden shadow that was my father. People
always said Dolph and I were like him, both in looks and manner, and it was a
compliment. He was the smartest man in our village. Even smarter than Father
John, I thought, although Momma was always running to the priest. I don’t think
Papa’s family ever had any use for gods. Momma’s family was Old Irish and Old
German, but something went wrong somewhere, and the goddess wasn’t enough for
her. Why she chose the priests she never actually said, but if gods helped
Momma more than the oldest ways, that was all right with Papa. “Whatever
works” — that’s what he always said.

“Do you think something ate the wolf, Papa?” I called as I
tried to keep up.

“Hope not, child. A wolf pelt is worth a lot. We should be
in time, the sun’s just rising.” His deep voice carried easily through the
underbrush, although I’d lost sight of him.

“How much farther?” I asked, catching my cotton dress on an
ash shoot.

“Not f — Alfreda, stay where you are.”