So vivid were the tales, and so often repeated, that I recall them well. Some were sad; others made us laugh. Some taught us the consequences of choices; others the importance of friendship. Still, out of all she told us, one stands out, for Granny Marta swore this one was true.
Lucantha was born in mid-winter, on a night so cold that the Cherdan River froze right through to its stony bed. Not even Elder Kirkland had known such a time. Seven villagers perished that winter: four lost to blizzards, one to a falling tree and two of the cold within their own huts. Not Lucantha, though. Despite the prolonged chill, she thrived. She flourished, and grew sturdy and contented.
Maybe it was the manner of her entering the world, that night being so dreadfully cold. Perhaps it was simply chance. Whatever the reason, Lucantha never felt nor feared the cold. Indeed, she would seek shade on days when others basked in the sun’s warmth.
She was a good girl and well-liked by all who knew her. Many were the times she would delay her own tasks to help someone in need, and particularly so in the freezing winters. Whilst most huddled indoors, Lucantha, with just a light shawl around her shoulders, would walk out in the biting wind to take food or firewood to any sick or elderly neighbours. Proudly, her parents boasted of their fortune in having such a daughter.
Did they brag too greatly and too often? Did they aim too high in seeking a match for her? Some say it was so, for on the day that Duke Raslin and his party came hunting in the forest, Lucantha’s parents placed her in sight of Raslin’s son, Galbart. They must surely have known that Lucantha’s heart was already pledged to Wellund. They could not have been ignorant of Galbart’s reputation. Yet still they sent her out to him.
So taken with the girl was Galbart that he persuaded his father to offer a bride price far in excess of any village parent’s dream. And did Lucantha protest against the union? No, for she had always loved and obeyed her parents, and Raslin’s coin would enable them to leave the village and live in comfort into their old age.
Lucantha, then, hid her unhappiness and endeavoured to make the best of her new life, and at first all seemed well. Infatuated by his new wife, Galbart abstained from his usual strong ale and his formerly frequent visits to the local tavern girls. Indeed, his happiness should have been complete when Lucantha told him she was expecting a child.
Why then did Galbart’s demeanour change? What caused the terrible jealousy, the suspicion that this child might not be his? There was no reason save his own flawed temperament. Lucantha vowed she had not seen Wellund since the day she had met Galbart, but her husband could not be placated. Out he went with a hunting party, seeking not deer but Wellund himself.
Oh, Galbart and his men swore to the magistrate that it had been a terrible accident, that not one of them had known Wellund was in the woods that day and of course Galbart’s version of events was accepted, for was he not the son of the duke? Lucantha knew better though, and she wept for the loss of her true love. Enraged by her tears, Galbart struck her, and Raslin did nothing to stop him.
Galbart’s cruel blow caused Lucantha to fall, and the fall brought about a miscarriage. Distraught with grief for Wellund and for her child, Lucantha’s warm heart turned to cold stone. No longer could she walk out in the bitter wind with impunity, for she had nothing left inside to ward off the chill. Day after day she sat in her room, close to the fire in the huge grate.
For a time, Galbart gave her leave to mourn the child’s loss. Then, ‘I will come to you tonight,’ he told her.
Lucantha made no reply, but later, when Galbart and Raslin were drinking together after the evening meal, she climbed out of the bedroom window and walked, barefoot and wearing only a thin shift, into the forest. When Galbart discovered the empty room he tried to follow her tracks, but the snow swirled madly around him and soon hid her footprints from his sight.
He searched for many days, but never a trace did he find and shortly afterwards a terrible blaze destroyed the duke’s house. Some say Lucantha set the fire in revenge. Some say she set the fire simply to keep warm, for her soul now craved heat. Whatever the cause, the flames claimed the lives of both Raslin and Galbart.
And Lucantha? She still seeks warmth, and will come uninvited into any house unbarred on a midwinter’s night. Why is she refused entry? Well, it is said that any dwelling she enters will suffer the same fate as the duke’s house. So, finding a home sealed against her, she must leave and, when she does, the imprint of her bare feet can sometimes be seen near door or window before the snow falls again and hides the marks.
Over the years, I have recorded in writing all the yarns told to us by Granny Marta, and the story of Lucantha is the final tale. I have kept it till last, for it still has a strange hold over me. Now it is finished and as I sit here in Granny Marta’s cottage, with the door latched and the windows shuttered, I believe I can hear tapping at the wood and the panes. Is that a hand banging on the door, or just a tree branch disturbed by the gales? Is that a voice calling, begging to come in to the fire, or just the wind howling through the nearby forest? I tell myself the tales were just that – stories to entertain and instruct children during the long winter nights – yet I will not open the door until morning. Then, when daylight comes and I venture outdoors, will I see Lucantha’s footprints in the snow?
the end About the author
For as long as she can remember, Sue Hoffmann has enjoyed writing stories, poems and articles. During her teaching career she wrote scripts for school plays, poems for assemblies and various projects for her classes. She has had twenty-one short stories published in anthologies, newspapers, magazines or online and has won six writing competitions. Sue enjoys visiting local primary and secondary schools to lead creative writing workshops based on her ‘crossover’ fantasy novel, High King (2013, Circaidy Gregory Press). Her new fantasy novel, for children aged 8–11, is Timothy’s Gate, (2019, Circaidy Gregory Press). She is delighted to have a story included in the Fire and Ice anthology.
THE SEPARATION OF FIRE AND ICE
Mira Callahan
They tell you the process is like the separation of fire and ice.
You go into a room and they rid you of all your physical and mental imperfections. Scars are gone, your memory is wiped clean from anything traumatic that may have happened to you, and all your negative emotions and bad qualities are ripped away. Your body and mind become like fire: warm, inviting and an asset to humanity; the rejected sections are your ice: cold, malevolent and able to kill you with enough exposure.
My procedure is today and I am terrified. People have claimed to keep themselves intact through sheer willpower. But nothing gets past the Amici. Created by humanity a long time ago, these robots and supercomputers determined that the only way to preserve humanity forever is to make us perfect. And we went along with it. They watch us constantly, existing within everything from the rusted pipes in our homes to our food. They are always there, searching for any imperfections. If your brain is not fully developed yet, you can get away with mistakes as your imperfections will be removed when you are older. If you have received the procedure and an Amici determines you to be imperfect, you are terminated right then and there.