by Colette » Mon Nov 10, 2025 7:32 pm
The weather was turning when Mother Cathcart went to work. The wind howled out of the west driving a harvest of autumn leaves in its wake. The village of Venre suffered the blizzard of red and brown leaves as stoically as the hundred other misfortunes that afflicted it. Once it had been picturesque, nestled as it was in pine clad hills beside the clear waters of an alpine stream. That bucolic beauty was marred now, marred by the burnt gables that were all that was left of the outlying cottages. They stood like a row of rotten teeth against the forest wall, empty and forlorn. Colette remembered the night they had burned, the night the trollocs had come.
It happened without warning. Colette had been at the Inn, stealing a few minutes away from her termagant mother, when the doors had burst open. Tol Efrim, one of the winter shepherds, had stumbled in, eyes wide and half vacant with panic. The music and merriment had cut off like the falling of a mummer's curtain. Tol had stood shock still, jaw working as he fought against a stutter that had bedeviled him all his life.
“T…tt…ttt…”
Something black flew through the door and struck Tol with a sound Colette would never forget. A wet hard sound, like Oron the butcher’s cleaver made when it sectioned a heffer. Tol had staggered across the room, a great black spear transfixing his body. She hadn’t been able to scream. It was like when you struck your head on a doorjam and for a moment the pain was too much to even be given voice. Someone else managed it, old Mistress Halfner, her terrified shriek so high and girlish it hurt Collette’s ears. A lot of things had happened at once then, even in her nightmares they weren’t clear. The windows shattering, people screaming and trying to flee, master Keldan ripping the old battleaxe down from the mantle. The trollocs. Those came back in vivid detail. Great hulking forms, nightmarish mixes of human and animal, the way their armor of leather and rusted chainmail rattled as they moved. The stink of them. Light burn her the stink. The reek of old blood and the retching musk of a foxes burrow. Something acrid too, like vinegar burnt on a pan that clawed at the back of her throat like sick up…
Colette shivered as she dragged herself away from the memory. That was months ago, the burned houses were just empty timbers now. Nothing to fear. There was fresh evil to be faced now, not as dramatic, or violent, but far more relentless. As summer had turned to fall the sickness had come. First it had been men, drunks, old bachelors, shepherds. They grew nauseous, then their bowels loosened, weakness and confusion took them, then their eyes and skins turned yellow. Death followed. That had been bad, but it had spread. To younger men, then to the children. Mother Cathcart worked night and day, brewing cures over her iron stove, none of which seemed to do more than slow the blight. Colette had been dragooned to help, all but dragged out of her mother’s ceaseless lessons on letters and deportment to pick herbs, mushrooms, and gather endless firewood. Why Mother Cathcart needed so much she had no idea. It seemed that no matter how much wood an oil was brought to her, the old woman always wanted more. Colette supposed it was for boiling her concoctions. They simmered night and day on her stove, dispensed to anxious mothers and wives as soon as they were ready. It didn’t seem to Colette that they were doing much to prevent the spread, but she supposed some people would grasp for any straw.
“Are you paying attention girl?” Mother Cathcart demanded. Colette blinked, her hands still moving automatically as she cut the thick boddied mushrooms into neat cubes which she scraped into pots. Looking down she saw that she was done and that she had been working her knife against the dark stained wood of the chopping block. When she had first met the woman, Colette had thought the old reader was near death. She had been stooped and wrinkled, her eyes rheumy and near sighted. Since the plague though, it seemed she had found a new lease of life as though the challenge of it had given her new purpose. She stood straighter, and her eyes seemed bright, it even seemed like the grey cap of wizened hair had something of a red blush to it. Mother Cathcart had been a great beauty once it was said, and for the first time Colette could believe it.
“Yes Mother,” Colette lied, whipping the knife on her apron. She felt like she was the dark reflection of the Reader, her strength and vitality drained by the plauge. It wasn't so much the long hours, or the tedious labour, nor was it the constant wood smoke, or the noxious fumes from the potions Mother Cathcart brewed. The hoplessness was what ground her down, the endless parade of villagers coming to the hut, hope and terror warring on their faces, the agonized fear that the termors they felt, or the yellowing of their skin, spelled their doom. Some families had fled already, the tenant farmers, day laborers, all those who could leave without abandoning their land, more would follow soon, the village would die even if it's people lived as a scattered diaspora. Those who choose to stay came for their potions, the only hope they could afford. It didn't seem to help, and every death ground Colette's spirits even lower.
Colette opened her mouth, prepared for the thousandth time to tell the old Reader that she had had enough, that she was going to head for Cairhien, or Marone, or any other place other than here. This place couldn't be saved, no amount of labor, no quanity of potion, was going to roll back this terrible yellow tide. As the first syllable passed her lips, the light seemed to flicker, as though a cloud had passed across the sun and Mother Cathcart seemed to tense. A strange sound seemed to hang in the air, it tugged at Colette’s memory as though she had heard something like it somewhere before. Her skin squirmed in gooseflesh and the hair on the back of her neck stood on end.
“That is enough for today, return tomorrow,” the old healer declared all but chasing her out of the hut. Colette blinked in exhausted confusion as she found herself on the mossy path to the old hut. Something had happened, something …wrong. She pulled her shawl around herself as she walked down the path past those terrible burned hovels. Something very wrong indeed.
The weather was turning when Mother Cathcart went to work. The wind howled out of the west driving a harvest of autumn leaves in its wake. The village of Venre suffered the blizzard of red and brown leaves as stoically as the hundred other misfortunes that afflicted it. Once it had been picturesque, nestled as it was in pine clad hills beside the clear waters of an alpine stream. That bucolic beauty was marred now, marred by the burnt gables that were all that was left of the outlying cottages. They stood like a row of rotten teeth against the forest wall, empty and forlorn. Colette remembered the night they had burned, the night the trollocs had come.
It happened without warning. Colette had been at the Inn, stealing a few minutes away from her termagant mother, when the doors had burst open. Tol Efrim, one of the winter shepherds, had stumbled in, eyes wide and half vacant with panic. The music and merriment had cut off like the falling of a mummer's curtain. Tol had stood shock still, jaw working as he fought against a stutter that had bedeviled him all his life.
“T…tt…ttt…”
Something black flew through the door and struck Tol with a sound Colette would never forget. A wet hard sound, like Oron the butcher’s cleaver made when it sectioned a heffer. Tol had staggered across the room, a great black spear transfixing his body. She hadn’t been able to scream. It was like when you struck your head on a doorjam and for a moment the pain was too much to even be given voice. Someone else managed it, old Mistress Halfner, her terrified shriek so high and girlish it hurt Collette’s ears. A lot of things had happened at once then, even in her nightmares they weren’t clear. The windows shattering, people screaming and trying to flee, master Keldan ripping the old battleaxe down from the mantle. The trollocs. Those came back in vivid detail. Great hulking forms, nightmarish mixes of human and animal, the way their armor of leather and rusted chainmail rattled as they moved. The stink of them. Light burn her the stink. The reek of old blood and the retching musk of a foxes burrow. Something acrid too, like vinegar burnt on a pan that clawed at the back of her throat like sick up…
Colette shivered as she dragged herself away from the memory. That was months ago, the burned houses were just empty timbers now. Nothing to fear. There was fresh evil to be faced now, not as dramatic, or violent, but far more relentless. As summer had turned to fall the sickness had come. First it had been men, drunks, old bachelors, shepherds. They grew nauseous, then their bowels loosened, weakness and confusion took them, then their eyes and skins turned yellow. Death followed. That had been bad, but it had spread. To younger men, then to the children. Mother Cathcart worked night and day, brewing cures over her iron stove, none of which seemed to do more than slow the blight. Colette had been dragooned to help, all but dragged out of her mother’s ceaseless lessons on letters and deportment to pick herbs, mushrooms, and gather endless firewood. Why Mother Cathcart needed so much she had no idea. It seemed that no matter how much wood an oil was brought to her, the old woman always wanted more. Colette supposed it was for boiling her concoctions. They simmered night and day on her stove, dispensed to anxious mothers and wives as soon as they were ready. It didn’t seem to Colette that they were doing much to prevent the spread, but she supposed some people would grasp for any straw.
“Are you paying attention girl?” Mother Cathcart demanded. Colette blinked, her hands still moving automatically as she cut the thick boddied mushrooms into neat cubes which she scraped into pots. Looking down she saw that she was done and that she had been working her knife against the dark stained wood of the chopping block. When she had first met the woman, Colette had thought the old reader was near death. She had been stooped and wrinkled, her eyes rheumy and near sighted. Since the plague though, it seemed she had found a new lease of life as though the challenge of it had given her new purpose. She stood straighter, and her eyes seemed bright, it even seemed like the grey cap of wizened hair had something of a red blush to it. Mother Cathcart had been a great beauty once it was said, and for the first time Colette could believe it.
“Yes Mother,” Colette lied, whipping the knife on her apron. She felt like she was the dark reflection of the Reader, her strength and vitality drained by the plauge. It wasn't so much the long hours, or the tedious labour, nor was it the constant wood smoke, or the noxious fumes from the potions Mother Cathcart brewed. The hoplessness was what ground her down, the endless parade of villagers coming to the hut, hope and terror warring on their faces, the agonized fear that the termors they felt, or the yellowing of their skin, spelled their doom. Some families had fled already, the tenant farmers, day laborers, all those who could leave without abandoning their land, more would follow soon, the village would die even if it's people lived as a scattered diaspora. Those who choose to stay came for their potions, the only hope they could afford. It didn't seem to help, and every death ground Colette's spirits even lower.
Colette opened her mouth, prepared for the thousandth time to tell the old Reader that she had had enough, that she was going to head for Cairhien, or Marone, or any other place other than here. This place couldn't be saved, no amount of labor, no quanity of potion, was going to roll back this terrible yellow tide. As the first syllable passed her lips, the light seemed to flicker, as though a cloud had passed across the sun and Mother Cathcart seemed to tense. A strange sound seemed to hang in the air, it tugged at Colette’s memory as though she had heard something like it somewhere before. Her skin squirmed in gooseflesh and the hair on the back of her neck stood on end.
“That is enough for today, return tomorrow,” the old healer declared all but chasing her out of the hut. Colette blinked in exhausted confusion as she found herself on the mossy path to the old hut. Something had happened, something …wrong. She pulled her shawl around herself as she walked down the path past those terrible burned hovels. Something very wrong indeed.