From “The Hunt”
by Ava Mulholland Brueck
The midnight air whipped against the uncovered skin of her face, an unrelenting frost that sunk deep into her bones. Despite the large coat and wooly mittens that she wore to try and keep warm, the air tonight was a special kind of cold, a harsh squall that billowed through her skirts and bit her cheeks. It was a rebellious act, standing outside when there was such risk, and it really would be smarter to head inside now. She knew the legends, the warnings that surrounded nights like tonight. She knew the myths of fairies and drudes, and knew they would rise once again tonight, the malicious kobold and the dark elves, even the dead themselves. The wild hunt would take place tonight, undoubtedly.
It would be a night of demons, and she was well aware of the stories of those who had been abducted. Some said they were drawn by the freedom of the hunt, or maybe by the mystery, walking out into the night in bare feet and underclothes, fully entranced with the hunt’s malignant glamor. The victims would leave in the middle of the night, never to return from the dark reverie. Some tales said they were driven mad, intoxicated with the hunt’s illusions. Others said that they were found dead in the snow, at the edges of forests, hearts eaten by the nachtkrapp, and bodies wasted by disease, with hands and faces blackened from the winter’s frigidity. The hunt was an evil thing. That had been made clear to her since she was young, and she would do well to be careful. Especially tonight, when the hunt’s deafening horn was likely to sound off any minute now, hundreds of demons eagerly waiting to embark on a night of mayhem and dark enchantment.
The freezing wind continued to push against her, aggressive gusts that buried themselves under the layers of her clothing and sent an eerie chill up her spine. She should’ve turned to head inside by now, where the warmth of the tavern was tangible, even from where she stood in the stinging gale. The boisterous laughter inside only grew more inviting as she lingered. And yet, she was drawn to the night, the twinkling stars above her, the crunch of ice beneath her feet, even the dark forest that lurked just a few hundred yards from the taphouse. The flurries of snow drifted around her, in contrast to the biting wind and frigid air. It was tranquil, a lovely sort of silence, and so she lingered, standing in the sheets of snow, and breathing deep, as she basked in the lull of the moment.
It lasted for a good while, that serene feeling, and the longer she stood there, the longer everything else seemed to disappear. The cold on her skin was forgotten, the boisterous pub behind her was all but invisible. It was at that point, that she was suddenly filled with dread, a sinister feeling that overcame the rest of her senses. The sharp wind returned in full force, and the noises of the wood erupted, reverberating inside of her skull. As she startled, and looked around, she realized that in her own sort of daze, her feet had wandered all the way to the edge of the forest, and she was just a few meters away from the shadowy thicket. A creeping sense of foreboding overcame her, and she nearly stumbled over herself running back to the clamor of the tavern, for she knew she would be safe there. But still, just inches away from safety, her fingers danced along the alehouse door, and she hesitated upon reentry. There was something out there, in the forest; she was certain. And it seemed malevolent, evil. Yet she was drawn away from the welcoming pub door once again, back into the darkness.
That probably should have scared her the most, the fact that as fast as it had appeared, the sinister chill down her spine was rather recklessly abandoned. She knew she should be careful, and increasingly wary as she wandered further into the brush. The wind howled and hissed through the icy branches, frost covered leaves glinting ominously in the moonlight. The forest’s dark boughs curved into wicked canopies over her head, and her face was quickly scratched by looming branches and thorns, but as she progressed into the dark canopy, the shiver on the back of her neck slowly faded. She knew not where she was going, and maybe it should have alarmed her, but it felt like she was being led, drawn by the pit in her stomach, and was helpless to do anything but follow the strange sensation.
She knew what lurked in the forests, of course, and she knew all the folklore and warnings of the wood. She knew of the alder-king, luring children and maidens much like herself, spiriting them away with his touch of death. She knew of the many draugr, the malicious spirits and cannibals, the wights and trolls and deadly revenants. The accounts of the forest’s dark lore had always kept her away from the wood and the cold and the wild. She had always feared the sprites and spirits, the twisted tales of death and ire. Not once had she felt a desire to venture through those woods, she had never been drawn to adventure like the heroes of old. Therefore, she found it strange, as she continued through the thicket, that she was not afraid. She pushed through the frosted bushes, snow shifting onto her shoulders, wind whistling a haunting tune in her ears. The legends that had kept her safe for all those years seemed more and more unimportant, superficial. Something inside of her knew where to go, and a strange sort of desire burned throughout her body as she grew close, pushing her to go faster. Branches tickled her neck and scratched her ankles as she kept up her pace. The wind continued to howl, but this time it felt more desperate, a haunting melody that sent a shiver down her spine. It felt like the call of the weisse frauen, a bereaved sort of keening, that desolate yet frantic. The wind was alive, a malevolent beast, that forced itself through the thicket. It began to push against her, fight her. An especially violent burst of wind knocked her off of her feet, seemingly intent on stopping her progress. Something in the back of her mind agreed, that she should turn back, and leave the forest. But something stopped her from leaving. The wind left her cold and raw, but still she stood up, scraped hands and knees unnoticed, irrelevant. Somewhat hesitant, she crept forward. And this time, nothing stopped her. Though the cold breeze still brushed against her, its strength was greatly diminished, and she dismissed it easily.
The desire inside of her began to burn, with a frantic intensity. Foregoing all caution, she crashed through the bushes and trees, no longer bothering to watch where she placed her feet, or what direction she ran. She felt it was the right path, that she would make it to her destination no matter what, despite not knowing her surroundings. She stumbled over gnarled roots and clumsily sprinted through the darkness, only the dappled light of the moon guiding her path. Adrenaline spiked beneath her skin, and her hands tingled, urging her to go faster once more. She dimly registered that her face was scratched, that her hair was unkempt and that one of her gloves was missing, blindly racing through the knee-deep snow. She hit a patch of ice in the dark, and her stomach plummeted as she careened down the slippery hill, sliding through frozen branches, which snagged her clothing and tore at her hands and face.
When she finally skidded to a stop, at the base of the slope, she had one boot left, and her hood had fallen from her shoulders. Her hair was full of twigs and snow and mud, and she was soaked to the bone, making the wind all the more freezing. Her clothing was torn in multiple places, and chunks of cloth were scattered in the path behind her. The branches of the trees stretched up and around her, like great wicked claws. They reached towards her and towards the light of the moon, all but snuffing it out completely. She was bleeding, bruised, yet still she stood tall, and continued to brave the darkness. She was almost there.
It was not more than ten minutes of continued exploration before she started to feel it. It was raw power, ethereal and graceful. It was lilting music and thriving grapevines and gruesome sport. She could hear the gleeful laughter, the enchanting serenades of deep and ancient voices mixing into pleasant melodies. Running through the brush with renewed energy, she followed the passionate music, unlike anything she had ever heard before. It was far too perfect to be human. All the shadows of the forest seemed to melt away, pushed back by the all-encompassing music the closer she got. Her bloodied hands went unnoticed as she thrust away thorn bushes and sharp icicles from her path, determined in a way she had never felt before. Finally, she shoved past one last mass of twigs and snow, and found herself in a bright clearing. She knew she had made it when she looked up, and before her, in all of its grandiose glory, was the wild hunt.
To Be Continued…