The Revelation - Part Two - Winter
Posted: Thu Nov 13, 2025 8:52 pm
Winter fell on Verne like a hatchet. The snows came early, blowing down out of the Spine of the World to gather the moisture of the river into a slushy gray blizzard. Colette wrapped the coat she had taken from a dead woman around herself. It had been a fine thing once, a prized possession stitched from dozens of mink pelts. Now it was tawdry and soiled, its white fur tangled with burrs and smudged with ash and mud. A fitting metaphor for Verne: a town of four hundred souls when you counted the shepherds and farmers, reduced now to less than half that. Those who remained were the poor, the desperate, those with nowhere left to go. And the dead, of course. So many dead.
It was too cold now to bury them, and wood was too scarce for pyres. Of a night, the sour and haggard village council would debate what to do with the bodies, throw them in the old quarry, or break holes in the ice and give them to the river? There weren’t enough healthy men to do either, but talking was better than weeping. For now, the bodies were stacked in a barn behind Mother Cathcart’s hut, with as much dignity as an old sheet, a hessian sack, or a horse blanket could provide.
Colette gathered firewood, her daily task now that the last of the mushrooms had been found. Perversely, there seemed fewer cases now; winter, it was said, often deterred illness, though no one could say exactly why. It did not stop it completely. And so, every day, Colette gathered wood. Her boots crunched through the snow as she picked up fallen sticks, breath ghosting the air in ragged plumes. She piled them onto a sled until it grew too heavy to drag, then hauled it back to Mother Cathcart’s hut before beginning again.
Food was scarce. Too many had died to bring in the harvest properly, and much of what had been gathered had been sold or carted off by those desperate to escape the pestilential air of the place. Hunger gnawed at Colette constantly, a dull ache behind every thought.
It was hunger that had driven her farther into the woods today, toward the old Martel farm. Jonas Martel had died just after the first snowfall, shortly after coming to Mother Cathcart for a potion to try to save his wife. They had both perished, and their young daughter had left town with an aunt. The farmstead was abandoned now, a squatting gray shape of stone and half-timber beneath windblown thatch. The place was eerie: the paddock and kitchen garden deserted, dusted with snow, silent except for the hiss of wind through the gaps in the boards.
Colette’s eyes drifted to a pig’s body, half decomposed and frozen into the mud, a delicate rime of frost blooming across its flanks like pale fungus. Her stomach clenched. Shame flushed her cheeks.
The cottage’s battered door had warped as autumn slunk into winter, and it banged ceaselessly in the chill wind. Colette caught her finger in it trying to undo the latch. She hissed and sucked the sting from her skin, nearly turning away. Nearly. But then the Pattern tugged at her, subtle as a breath against the back of her neck, and the latch gave way. Snow sifted down from above. She ducked her head, coat shielding her from the worst of it, and stepped inside.
The interior was dim and close, thick with the scent of stale herbs and cold rot. The cottage had been a neat place once; she could see the bones of order beneath the collapse. Dried herbs lay scattered across the floor among desiccated sheaves of wheat. A bookshelf had toppled, spilling books where their pages fluttered like trapped birds in the draft. The fireplace was a dead black maw, veiled in spiderwebs. The kitchen was tidier, though the flour in its jars had long since molded. Several hams hung from a beam above, glossy with ruin.
Colette found a wicker basket with several apples, dried to wrinkled husks. She bit into one. Sour juice flooded her mouth, making her lips pucker. Still, it was food. She gathered the rest into her shawl and stepped into the cottage’s single bedroom.
She stopped. Breath snagging in her throat.
Jonas Martel and his wife Agatha lay in the single bed, wrapped in each other’s arms beneath neatly tucked blankets. Their skin was the jaundiced yellow of the plague. Their bodies had withered, eye sockets hollow, lips drawn tight over teeth. They looked as shriveled as the apples in her arms.
Colette dropped to her knees. Bile surged upward. Her stomach, empty as it was, clawed at itself. After a trembling moment, she forced the nausea down. She felt like an intruder, like she was spying on the dead, and the thought shamed her, stripping away the last flicker of appetite.
She turned to leave only to freeze again.
The room was clean. Unnaturally so. Pieces of needlepoint hung on the walls, scrimshawed bone figures sat on shelves, and a crude wood carving of a family rested on the bedside table. Everything was exactly in its place.
Everything except one.
A small tuft of fur protruded from beneath the bed. Colette knelt and touched the fluffy tail. Grimly her hands moved along the frozen tail to the animal's body. The cat was cold and stiff. Drawn by some grim instinct, she pulled it out, every nerve twisting with disgust. It must have been a handsome creature once, but the cold had swollen its body into something distorted and wrong.
“What in the name of the Light…?”
The cat’s gums and eyes were bright yellow.
Plague yellow.
That made no sense. Animals didn’t sicken from the plague. Colette stared at the corpse, mind numbed by cold and dread. There was something here. Some lesson. Some warning. Her breath trembled as she lifted the bedclothes and peered beneath.
A simple glass bottle lay there, the kind that might have once held cider or ale. But the muddy gray sludge frozen inside was unmistakable.
Mother Cathcart’s cure.
It must have fallen as Jonas died. Fallen where the cat could reach it. A chill rushed through her, deeper than winter. She dropped the bottle. The apples spilled from her shawl and rolled across the floor.
Without a thought of food or firewood, Colette fled into the growing storm.
It was too cold now to bury them, and wood was too scarce for pyres. Of a night, the sour and haggard village council would debate what to do with the bodies, throw them in the old quarry, or break holes in the ice and give them to the river? There weren’t enough healthy men to do either, but talking was better than weeping. For now, the bodies were stacked in a barn behind Mother Cathcart’s hut, with as much dignity as an old sheet, a hessian sack, or a horse blanket could provide.
Colette gathered firewood, her daily task now that the last of the mushrooms had been found. Perversely, there seemed fewer cases now; winter, it was said, often deterred illness, though no one could say exactly why. It did not stop it completely. And so, every day, Colette gathered wood. Her boots crunched through the snow as she picked up fallen sticks, breath ghosting the air in ragged plumes. She piled them onto a sled until it grew too heavy to drag, then hauled it back to Mother Cathcart’s hut before beginning again.
Food was scarce. Too many had died to bring in the harvest properly, and much of what had been gathered had been sold or carted off by those desperate to escape the pestilential air of the place. Hunger gnawed at Colette constantly, a dull ache behind every thought.
It was hunger that had driven her farther into the woods today, toward the old Martel farm. Jonas Martel had died just after the first snowfall, shortly after coming to Mother Cathcart for a potion to try to save his wife. They had both perished, and their young daughter had left town with an aunt. The farmstead was abandoned now, a squatting gray shape of stone and half-timber beneath windblown thatch. The place was eerie: the paddock and kitchen garden deserted, dusted with snow, silent except for the hiss of wind through the gaps in the boards.
Colette’s eyes drifted to a pig’s body, half decomposed and frozen into the mud, a delicate rime of frost blooming across its flanks like pale fungus. Her stomach clenched. Shame flushed her cheeks.
The cottage’s battered door had warped as autumn slunk into winter, and it banged ceaselessly in the chill wind. Colette caught her finger in it trying to undo the latch. She hissed and sucked the sting from her skin, nearly turning away. Nearly. But then the Pattern tugged at her, subtle as a breath against the back of her neck, and the latch gave way. Snow sifted down from above. She ducked her head, coat shielding her from the worst of it, and stepped inside.
The interior was dim and close, thick with the scent of stale herbs and cold rot. The cottage had been a neat place once; she could see the bones of order beneath the collapse. Dried herbs lay scattered across the floor among desiccated sheaves of wheat. A bookshelf had toppled, spilling books where their pages fluttered like trapped birds in the draft. The fireplace was a dead black maw, veiled in spiderwebs. The kitchen was tidier, though the flour in its jars had long since molded. Several hams hung from a beam above, glossy with ruin.
Colette found a wicker basket with several apples, dried to wrinkled husks. She bit into one. Sour juice flooded her mouth, making her lips pucker. Still, it was food. She gathered the rest into her shawl and stepped into the cottage’s single bedroom.
She stopped. Breath snagging in her throat.
Jonas Martel and his wife Agatha lay in the single bed, wrapped in each other’s arms beneath neatly tucked blankets. Their skin was the jaundiced yellow of the plague. Their bodies had withered, eye sockets hollow, lips drawn tight over teeth. They looked as shriveled as the apples in her arms.
Colette dropped to her knees. Bile surged upward. Her stomach, empty as it was, clawed at itself. After a trembling moment, she forced the nausea down. She felt like an intruder, like she was spying on the dead, and the thought shamed her, stripping away the last flicker of appetite.
She turned to leave only to freeze again.
The room was clean. Unnaturally so. Pieces of needlepoint hung on the walls, scrimshawed bone figures sat on shelves, and a crude wood carving of a family rested on the bedside table. Everything was exactly in its place.
Everything except one.
A small tuft of fur protruded from beneath the bed. Colette knelt and touched the fluffy tail. Grimly her hands moved along the frozen tail to the animal's body. The cat was cold and stiff. Drawn by some grim instinct, she pulled it out, every nerve twisting with disgust. It must have been a handsome creature once, but the cold had swollen its body into something distorted and wrong.
“What in the name of the Light…?”
The cat’s gums and eyes were bright yellow.
Plague yellow.
That made no sense. Animals didn’t sicken from the plague. Colette stared at the corpse, mind numbed by cold and dread. There was something here. Some lesson. Some warning. Her breath trembled as she lifted the bedclothes and peered beneath.
A simple glass bottle lay there, the kind that might have once held cider or ale. But the muddy gray sludge frozen inside was unmistakable.
Mother Cathcart’s cure.
It must have fallen as Jonas died. Fallen where the cat could reach it. A chill rushed through her, deeper than winter. She dropped the bottle. The apples spilled from her shawl and rolled across the floor.
Without a thought of food or firewood, Colette fled into the growing storm.