Alia feared the wind.

The wind that delighted in disturbing her nights. She heard the wind howling, as it danced over the moorland that spread around her house like a bed of heather. Lilac flowers, buried deep in the wet ground, smothering all other plants, their murmur like the whisper of the ocean waves.

Alia knew that the heather loved the wind, bowed to it, honoured it. But she hated it and feared it, for she heard not only the howling. Not just the creaking of the lonely poplars, driven low by the weather.

No. Alia hated the wind because it called her name.

Growing up in the middle of nowhere, she rarely felt real fear. Even though her house was isolated, she wasn’t worried about being robbed or attacked. Her father and two brothers were strong as oaks, and no one wanted to feel the touch of Sobhan and Kaelir’s feasts.

But the wind didn’t care. No fist would stop it, no spell would dispel the foreboding mist it carried over her house, always at night.

The mist was dark, as if made of shadows. Thick, but still light, like a gossamer in late summer. Alia felt that it wanted to love it. Love her… physically. When she opened the windows during these nights, nights that breathed with wind and shadows, the dark mist crawled under her neckline, under her dress. Desiring her body like something… alive.

And that was not the worst of it.

Her name was carried on the wind. She heard it, softly at first, then, as time passed, the howling became more pronounced and louder.

And it seemed that only she could hear it.

Her solitude among the creaking trees had always been beautiful and soothing – as far back as she could remember. Her friend Sonna, lived in the village; a lively – and lovely place – … Sonna often confessed that she would go mad here. But Alia loved being alone among the poplars, which was better than being alone among people. The poplars knew only one song, the sad, nostalgic wail of long years gone by. And she liked that they couldn’t lie, couldn’t gossip, couldn’t hurt anyone. Her heart was broken once, and since then she has retreated into her leafy hiding place, her bark shelter. In her loud dirge of the autumn season.

Poplars loved the wind.

And the wind frightened her, for it seemed to want to love her. And love was the last thing she had the courage for.

“Alia?”

If the trees couldn’t calm her racing heart, what could? What can bring her peace?

“Alia…”

She lifted her head to see three pairs of eyes looking at her with kind and amused attention.

Sobhan; dark-skinned, handsome and always ready to laugh. Kaelir, with his blond hair and serious face. And their father, Lathar. They didn’t seem worried… but why should they be? She would never tell them about the wind and the mist. Maybe they would think her a dreamer… but then there was a big chance they would worry. And she didn’t want that. Maybe she was a dreamer after all. Mist and wind… it sounded like a fairy tale and she had grown out of fairy tales long ago.

She stabbed at the well-cooked slice of meat and then buried her fork in a mash of potatoes.

“I won’t allow Sobhan to cook anymore,” Lathar knitted his thick, blonde brows.

“Why?”

“You haven’t even eaten a spoonful” Sobhan didn’t look worried about her lack of appetite for his efforts in the kitchen.

“I… I ate in town” the food was good, she just couldn’t force it down her throat. Too much fear, too much discomfort from the night.

But Kaelir was the most observant of all.

“You seem worried these days. If that idiot bothers you again, I will rip his legs off his ass and feed him by his toes.”

“Kaelir…” Lathar’s eyebrows rose this time.

“He didn’t. He has avoided me since we… parted ways. I think he feels guilty.”

“He doesn’t,” Kaelir also kicked his potatoes with his fork. Dangerously. The potatoes… surely felt it. “I swear he didn’t when he betrayed you. I should have pulled his spine by his…”

“Enough,” Lathar stood and took his plate, shaking his head.

“Father…”

“That man is history. Alia has already forgotten him. I advise you to do the same.”

Alia was grateful to him. That he hadn’t allowed her to speak. She wanted to forget Ducan. But the wound was still fresh and what he had done, throwing her away like an old pair of shoes, was too cruel. She thought she knew him. But she didn’t know him at all. And he knew her only too well, but even though he knew what would hurt her the most… he did it anyway.

The more terrifying was the mist. Her body betrayed her. She longed for touch, but not like this. She wanted the warmth of the one she loved. But it was primal and carnal, as if it was reaching into her dreams and pulling out something forbidden. Haunting her with a promise of fulfilment she was not ready for.

She was afraid to go to sleep… but even more… afraid to wake up.

Tell them.

No.

It’s a mirage…

… or… it’s magic.

Magic was something only witches knew, and even they admitted that their innate abilities came from the goddess, the Allmother. She endowed women with various blessings. Women – the givers of life, but also her mirrors on earth. The Goddess was life, death, old age and youth – but she was also a woman who gave birth to all of humanity. The witches were given a small part of her power and used it in her name to heal, to see the future, to help.

But there was also a darker side to magic.

It had been lost to time… but still lingered in the old tales. Witches called it wild magic, and it was held by creatures and immortals, beings of legend. This magic could harm and kill, even if it was disguised as something good. It was magic that shouldn’t exist in the world created by the Goddess… but it did, hidden. Concealed, waiting to crawl out from under fern leaves and between mushroom colonies.

Most people in Avras didn’t believe in it. It was too vile, too distant, and people wanted good things in their lives. Even if the same people told old stories to their children, to teach them caution… but also, unwillingly, to spread the darkness.

Alia was sure that it was not a goddess, not a witch, who had tormented her the last few nights.

Sobhan went with Kaelir to the cowshed, Lathar seemed to want to say something, but even when he opened his mouth, he closed it quickly.

There was nothing more to say.

Ducan was the past. And she hated to think about what might have been.

She went to the stream to wash the dishes. Evening was falling fast, and the stream was carrying the first signs of autumn – copper and vermilion leaves. The stream, a close friend of her household, was something she held close to her heart. Wetting her feet in its cold waters in early spring was her favourite pleasure, and even the Manlan Festival, held in the month of Mlon to mark the first day of spring, was less anticipated by her than the first cold bath in the stream.

Sonna would not agree. For her, Manlan was the only time she could be truly wild. Alia would agree with her, the festival was untamed – they were celebrating life, after all, and the victory of the goddess over the winter king.

The touch of old and new. Of the life-giving goddess and the cruel magic of the myths.

An hour later, she was reading a book in her bed by candlelight. Safe. Cradled in the protective glow, in a bubble of light. The wind didn’t speak… yet. But she heard the poplars, talking, wailing. They bowed to the wind, danced with it, curtsied. And they were her friends, intimate companions.

But she felt that the wind was not.

And they could betray her with it.

Even if they had no human hearts and no human desires… they were old, older than her house.

And no one should trust the really old things completely.