Excerpt from "Prologue" to Northwood
by Liz Szabo '18
The forest was dark and silent as the old man walked through, his compass clinking against his wand in his pocket. He was a wearing a black robe with the hood drawn over his face, but if you were to lift the hood, you would see a face lined with cracks of sadness, dull and clouded eyes from years of staring but not seeing. His strong jaw and pointed chin suggested good looks when he was youthful, and that strong jaw was clenched with one other emotion besides sadness- determination. His feet were weary and sore from traveling miles in search of something, but he had blocked out the pain.
The end product, he knew, would be worth it.
It was very early in the morning, just after midnight, when the sun's rays hadn't yet pierced the gloom. A bird was awake, and called sorrowfully through the silence--in this area of the forest, not much was alive, and there was little hope to be felt. The flowers on the side of the path were wilted and gray, and a soft layer of snow and ice covered everything. The tree branches were sagged down with their frozen weight, and the dead limbs stretched their fingers onto the path, clawing and consuming everything in their way. A dry breeze whistled around the trunks, but there was a heavy feel to the air that foretold an oncoming r
He held his wand out in front of him, reaching out like a blind man. He sent out a signal, probing for the hidden treasure. As usual, there was no response, so he heaved a sigh and hefted his bag down, taking a canteen from the leather sack and lifting it to his lips.
But before the water reached his mouth, he spotted something on the edge of the path, almost covered by an overhanging snowdrift: a neat pile of rocks that formed a sort of pyramid. A universal marker that said, "Something is here." His heart beating with adrenaline, he shoved the canteen back into his bag and stepped into the forest past the rocks, his wand out again.
But this time his search was answered. He felt something tug in his chest, and let it guide him around a grove of evergreens and into a clearing. Here the feeling was strongest, and he whispered a spell: "Demonstre."
Slowly a veil was lifted from his eyes, and a cottage not unlike his own appeared before him. It was small and made of black brick, the walls sagging under its own weight. The windows were cracked, and inside looked to be dark and abandoned. Some faded wooden steps led up to a squat door, and the man could see a silver knocker on it, the only thing besides the ice that shone in this wood.
Out of the chimney floated a spiraling cloud of smoke.
The old man took a deep breath, allowing himself to revel in his find for a moment, and then the corners of his mouth sank down again. He walked carefully up the creaking wood steps to the door. The knocker, in the shape of a serpent's head, stared at him with inset ruby eyes. Its forked tongue flicked at him maliciously. He picked up the freezing metal and let it drop on the door.
It was several moments before anything happened. Then the door was thrust open, and silhouetted against the light of a roaring fire was a very strange-looking man. He was wearing a long, ornate robe that was embroidered with shimmering blue thread around the hem, and his dark hair hung around his face and chin. Everything about him was dark, except the sickly shade of his skin: the robe's fabric, his shiny eyes and teeth, his matted hair, and the rings that glinted on his fingers.
The two men took each other in. Finally the strange man spoke. "You have been looking for me."
The old man took this as an invitation to step in and push his hood down. "I have," he replied. The warmth from the fire spread out across the room and sank into his bones, warmed his numb fingers. "I hoped you could be of assistance."
"First I need to know what service you request," said the black-eyed man, whom the old man knew as Zuzak. "It must be something very important, for you to walk all those miles in search of me, when you yourself are an accomplished warlock."
"Accomplished," said the old man with a laugh that sounded like a cough. "Nothing compared to you. Yes, it is... Unique. I hear you've been practicing dark magic."
Zuzak, towering above the weak man so that his head almost brushed the ceiling, raised his eyebrows. "You're very blunt. Don't you know who could be watching?"
The end product, he knew, would be worth it.
It was very early in the morning, just after midnight, when the sun's rays hadn't yet pierced the gloom. A bird was awake, and called sorrowfully through the silence--in this area of the forest, not much was alive, and there was little hope to be felt. The flowers on the side of the path were wilted and gray, and a soft layer of snow and ice covered everything. The tree branches were sagged down with their frozen weight, and the dead limbs stretched their fingers onto the path, clawing and consuming everything in their way. A dry breeze whistled around the trunks, but there was a heavy feel to the air that foretold an oncoming r
He held his wand out in front of him, reaching out like a blind man. He sent out a signal, probing for the hidden treasure. As usual, there was no response, so he heaved a sigh and hefted his bag down, taking a canteen from the leather sack and lifting it to his lips.
But before the water reached his mouth, he spotted something on the edge of the path, almost covered by an overhanging snowdrift: a neat pile of rocks that formed a sort of pyramid. A universal marker that said, "Something is here." His heart beating with adrenaline, he shoved the canteen back into his bag and stepped into the forest past the rocks, his wand out again.
But this time his search was answered. He felt something tug in his chest, and let it guide him around a grove of evergreens and into a clearing. Here the feeling was strongest, and he whispered a spell: "Demonstre."
Slowly a veil was lifted from his eyes, and a cottage not unlike his own appeared before him. It was small and made of black brick, the walls sagging under its own weight. The windows were cracked, and inside looked to be dark and abandoned. Some faded wooden steps led up to a squat door, and the man could see a silver knocker on it, the only thing besides the ice that shone in this wood.
Out of the chimney floated a spiraling cloud of smoke.
The old man took a deep breath, allowing himself to revel in his find for a moment, and then the corners of his mouth sank down again. He walked carefully up the creaking wood steps to the door. The knocker, in the shape of a serpent's head, stared at him with inset ruby eyes. Its forked tongue flicked at him maliciously. He picked up the freezing metal and let it drop on the door.
It was several moments before anything happened. Then the door was thrust open, and silhouetted against the light of a roaring fire was a very strange-looking man. He was wearing a long, ornate robe that was embroidered with shimmering blue thread around the hem, and his dark hair hung around his face and chin. Everything about him was dark, except the sickly shade of his skin: the robe's fabric, his shiny eyes and teeth, his matted hair, and the rings that glinted on his fingers.
The two men took each other in. Finally the strange man spoke. "You have been looking for me."
The old man took this as an invitation to step in and push his hood down. "I have," he replied. The warmth from the fire spread out across the room and sank into his bones, warmed his numb fingers. "I hoped you could be of assistance."
"First I need to know what service you request," said the black-eyed man, whom the old man knew as Zuzak. "It must be something very important, for you to walk all those miles in search of me, when you yourself are an accomplished warlock."
"Accomplished," said the old man with a laugh that sounded like a cough. "Nothing compared to you. Yes, it is... Unique. I hear you've been practicing dark magic."
Zuzak, towering above the weak man so that his head almost brushed the ceiling, raised his eyebrows. "You're very blunt. Don't you know who could be watching?"
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