December 20th and the Christmas Lantern for 1635 is finished. I would have preferred it not be 32 pages long, as it's been quite a lot of writing, but it's sorted and done and ready to be viewed for anyone buying into the $10 tier of my patreon.
I'll give a taste, though, since that's only fair:
Well, these things take a lot out of a person, so I'll rest now and apply myself to lighter work coming into the Christmas holiday. Unless I fail the effort, there will be another issue ready to go on the 21st of January, though the preview of that issue is going to have to wait until the 7th of January. I just won't have the time to get it together for the 1st of that New Year.
For those who may be finding it hard to enlarge the text in the image so it can be read, I'll provide what it says below:
My story tells of a cold night, in the third week of Advent. As I write these words, not two days have passed since I stood at the door of the Badger’s Head in North Bovey, content enough, as I could be. A mug of cider warmed my hand, its steam rising rich and fragrant, and my belly was full in that manner that makes one feel settled. I looked out at the well-repaired bell of St. John the Baptist Church, its brass gleaming in the fading light, where the workman’s hammer had been at it all day. The sound of that hammer striking its metal had filled the village from morning to night, a friendly and familiar noise, and a welcome one, with Christmas drawing near.
I could hear the sound of music drifting from within the tavern, the shuffling of feet upon the floorboards and the rising laughter spilling out into the chill of the night. William Moore gave my shoulder a clap as he came forth into the cold, on his way home, and I called after him, "And a merry Advent to you, Bill," to which he returned the greeting in kind. I heard the quiet crunch of frost under his boots as he went. All told, it was a fine night.
There then appeared a huge form, as large in my mind as a pony, padding down the middle of the street with no more care than if it were the most common of creatures. It was a wolf, black as midnight itself, its tongue hanging between teeth that glistened bright by the light of the Badger’s lamp. Had I my staff, I might have touched the beast with it, without lifting my feet. Then it was gone from my sight, vanished from the village, down the road eastward.
I knew it at once—the great black wolf, that savage creature that had been terrorising the West Counties since the summer past, and was said to have claimed three lives. It had passed me by just then, not a sound, not a growl—and I felt as if my heart might leap out of my chest, so fiercely did it beat. But when I got hold of myself again, where would you think I was? Why, I was running east along the road, the River Bovey on my right and the bridge over Dickford Water before me. And there, in the fresh snow, were the prints of the wolf, leading me onward.
Now why I should have done such a thing, after but six months being a mage of my own purpose, I cannot say. In my inward eye, I saw the wolf pass me over and over, seeming to remember the gleam in its eyes, the unnatural sheen of its black coat, its loping gait along the village lane—and I told myself, turn back, find others and tell them what you’ve seen. But deep down, I knew, if I didn’t stay on its trail now, it would slip away into the country as it had done so many times before.
I could not in good conscience let the creature roam where it pleased so long as I might yet tell whither it went—or so I persuaded myself—though I had neither my staff nor so much as a dagger about me. All I carried was the knife with which I cut meat or lopped branches from gathered firewood, and that other resource I scarcely trusted, my magic. And as I crossed Dickford Water Bridge, the brook was frozen clean across, its surface smooth and pale beneath the snow. The wolf had padded right over it, without breaking its stride, its footprints lying wet and dark upon the planks before me. I make no doubt that, at the time, I believed myself a brave fellow indeed.
East of the stream the ground rose sharply, and with it went any hope I nursed of passing near enough to a farmhouse to cry out for help. The brush thickened where the wolf had taken to the ridge, and I followed after him all the same, knowing full well that the village of Sanduck lay quiet in the valley beyond. My thoughts were crowded then with the certainty that the stories were true, and that the danger was no fancy either—yet I told myself I was no child and drew my cloak tighter about me. The snow crept over the tops of my low boots, numbing my feet as I went, but even so I would not give up the chase.
Upon the crest of the ridge the cold took on a keener edge and the night deepened about me. The moon shone bright enough to rim every drift with silver, so that the world looked cut from glass. Each footprint was as broad as my palm and driven deep into the snow, as if the wolf bore the weight of two creatures in one hide. Then presently we dropped down to a lane, the wolf but minutes before me, a track I had known since childhood, where we gathered holly at this season of the year. It was little more than a muddy run, following the line of ground where Farmer Bowes had once grazed his sheep. As I went, I felt the sharp, woody spines of gorse catching at the cloth of my loose breeches and pricking my legs, its tendrils flat beneath the snow.
My story tells of a cold night, in the third week of Advent. As I write these words, not two days have passed since I stood at the door of the Badger’s Head in North Bovey, content enough, as I could be. A mug of cider warmed my hand, its steam rising rich and fragrant, and my belly was full in that manner that makes one feel settled. I looked out at the well-repaired bell of St. John the Baptist Church, its brass gleaming in the fading light, where the workman’s hammer had been at it all day. The sound of that hammer striking its metal had filled the village from morning to night, a friendly and familiar noise, and a welcome one, with Christmas drawing near.
I could hear the sound of music drifting from within the tavern, the shuffling of feet upon the floorboards and the rising laughter spilling out into the chill of the night. William Moore gave my shoulder a clap as he came forth into the cold, on his way home, and I called after him, "And a merry Advent to you, Bill," to which he returned the greeting in kind. I heard the quiet crunch of frost under his boots as he went. All told, it was a fine night.
There then appeared a huge form, as large in my mind as a pony, padding down the middle of the street with no more care than if it were the most common of creatures. It was a wolf, black as midnight itself, its tongue hanging between teeth that glistened bright by the light of the Badger’s lamp. Had I my staff, I might have touched the beast with it, without lifting my feet. Then it was gone from my sight, vanished from the village, down the road eastward.
I knew it at once—the great black wolf, that savage creature that had been terrorising the West Counties since the summer past, and was said to have claimed three lives. It had passed me by just then, not a sound, not a growl—and I felt as if my heart might leap out of my chest, so fiercely did it beat. But when I got hold of myself again, where would you think I was? Why, I was running east along the road, the River Bovey on my right and the bridge over Dickford Water before me. And there, in the fresh snow, were the prints of the wolf, leading me onward.
Now why I should have done such a thing, after but six months being a mage of my own purpose, I cannot say. In my inward eye, I saw the wolf pass me over and over, seeming to remember the gleam in its eyes, the unnatural sheen of its black coat, its loping gait along the village lane—and I told myself, turn back, find others and tell them what you’ve seen. But deep down, I knew, if I didn’t stay on its trail now, it would slip away into the country as it had done so many times before.
I could not in good conscience let the creature roam where it pleased so long as I might yet tell whither it went—or so I persuaded myself—though I had neither my staff nor so much as a dagger about me. All I carried was the knife with which I cut meat or lopped branches from gathered firewood, and that other resource I scarcely trusted, my magic. And as I crossed Dickford Water Bridge, the brook was frozen clean across, its surface smooth and pale beneath the snow. The wolf had padded right over it, without breaking its stride, its footprints lying wet and dark upon the planks before me. I make no doubt that, at the time, I believed myself a brave fellow indeed.
East of the stream the ground rose sharply, and with it went any hope I nursed of passing near enough to a farmhouse to cry out for help. The brush thickened where the wolf had taken to the ridge, and I followed after him all the same, knowing full well that the village of Sanduck lay quiet in the valley beyond. My thoughts were crowded then with the certainty that the stories were true, and that the danger was no fancy either—yet I told myself I was no child and drew my cloak tighter about me. The snow crept over the tops of my low boots, numbing my feet as I went, but even so I would not give up the chase.
Upon the crest of the ridge the cold took on a keener edge and the night deepened about me. The moon shone bright enough to rim every drift with silver, so that the world looked cut from glass. Each footprint was as broad as my palm and driven deep into the snow, as if the wolf bore the weight of two creatures in one hide. Then presently we dropped down to a lane, the wolf but minutes before me, a track I had known since childhood, where we gathered holly at this season of the year. It was little more than a muddy run, following the line of ground where Farmer Bowes had once grazed his sheep. As I went, I felt the sharp, woody spines of gorse catching at the cloth of my loose breeches and pricking my legs, its tendrils flat beneath the snow.
(continued in magazine)
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