With Winnie wrapped up warmly at her side, Hecate opened the front door onto the grey scene and stepped out bravely into the damp air. The rain had lessened to a drizzle; no improvement in overall cheer, but less intrusive than a full on downpour.
She turned with a smile. “It’ll be all right. As long as it stays like this for half an hour, we’ll do quite nicely.”
She walked down the two steps to the pathway, her cane taking her weight and steadying her. It had been hand-carved the year before by a travelling gypsy she’d met, and his magic touch with his tools had brought the wood to life. Her hand wrapped around the smooth head of a cat, her fingers fitting perfectly between the ears. It was made of a deeply hued rosewood, and the colour seemed to become richer as time passed. Hecate loved it as not only a help to her movements, but an ornament to her life.
Beelzebub watched them until Dal closed the front door. He did not particularly care to get his paws wet, so Hecate knew where she’d find him upon her return—curled up in her chair.
She breathed in and they set off, maintaining a steady pace, in spite of her handicap. In fact, she was moving better now than she had done in quite some time, and cherished some private hopes of being able to take a few steps soon without her cane. But she was aware that her injuries had been most serious, and that she would have to be patient as her body relearned how to move and balance with one damaged limb.
The short walk to Winnie’s sister’s home was accomplished with ease, and Hecate chatted with the two of them for a few moments, but refused an invitation to tea. She thanked them, but told them that she and Dal would take their time walking back, so she’d see Winnie on the morrow.
Farewells were exchanged, and they turned back toward the Vale.
“You are well, Miss Hecate?”
It was Dal’s way of asking if she was all right. “Yes, thank you. And better for being outside, I think.” She took a deep breath, recognizing the scent of damp leaves, moist earth and the tang of salt from the ocean. “I’m sorry we can’t see the sea today. Although it’s probably as grey as the skies.”
“Most likely,” he agreed.
They chatted for a while about a book Dal was reading, and then, as they reached Doireann Vale, Hecate paused. “May we go a little further, Dal? Perhaps the clouds are thinner up toward the headland.”
“If you wish.” He nodded. “Not too far though.”
She grinned. “Of course.”
They walked up the road, a slight rise toward the top, where the view opened to the sea and the trees of the forest bent inland by the strong winds that battered them.
It was bracing, still very foggy although a few whitecaps were showing down at the base of the cliff.
“Low tide,” observed Hecate, looking at the strip of sand along the bottom of the sheer drop.
“Not a day to be fishing,” added Dal. “Although I’m sure the village fishermen are starting to pray that one will happen soon.”
“Indeed they must be.”
Hecate fell silent, letting the elements drift over her, opening herself to the wind and the water and the very pulse of the earth upon which she stood.
Dal let her be, knowing in moments like these, conversation would not be welcome.
Suddenly, she froze.
Then turned away from the coast to face the forest behind them. “Dal…”
He was at her side in an instant. “What? What is it?”
“Can you hear it?” She glanced at him. “Can you hear the cry?”
He frowned, turned his head a little, and then shook it. “I hear nothing but the wind and a few gulls…”
“Someone is in trouble, Dal. Someone needs our help.” She heard the sounds again and pinpointed the direction from which they came. “This way. Follow me.”
*~~*~~*
He was cold. So very cold.
The bones in his body felt as if they were made of ice, and even so, they ached so badly he moaned with the pain of it.
There was scant shelter; even in his delirium he knew to look for somewhere dry, but the ground itself seemed like wet wool, soft but lacking anything in the way of simple comfort.
