Little Ghosts by Anne Wolfe

Little Ghosts

They have been walking all night.

It is the opposite of what Mother and Father always said to do if they got lost, of course. But they had stayed still as stones all day, and heard every shouting voice fade away without finding them.

One of the voices had come quite near; now they are walking in the direction it had seemed to come from.

There are no noises of animals, either. No birds in the trees, no fish in the stream. No hope that one of Mother’s friends among the badgers could hide them in a warm burrow ‘til spring.

That is another reason to be walking— it is keeping them warm. All the air is full of ice, and the ground is worse. Their shoes have soaked through, by now, and their feet are all blisters.

At least the blisters feel warm, Elurín whispers, and just then they hear a voice in the distance.

They run toward the voice, every blister forgotten, and at last its source comes into view.

A boy is sitting between the roots of a linden tree. He is crying, curled up like a baby; he cannot be older than they are. He is probably younger.

Are you looking for someone? asks Eluréd.

Yes, says the boy, sniffling. I’m looking for my brother. He was just here, but he didn’t see me— do you know where he went?

I didn’t see him, says Elurín, and Eluréd concurs.

They all lapse into silence, though the boy continues to sniffle.

A bright noise of horns is calling in the distance. The boy’s head snaps up in fear— he has stopped sniffling. Even their own breath seems to be silenced.

It must be the evil armies— signaling to their soldiers, perhaps, or revelling in their horrible victory.

The boy almost seems to be growing. He quivers. A blister sprouts on his finger, and spreads to cover all his hand— the linden tree is burning, and he burns with it—

He is small again, maybe even smaller than Elwing. He does not cry. The forest is as cold as before.

We will help you, says Eluréd. Perhaps your brother is with our parents! says Elurín.

The boy smiles. It reminds them of the sun; brighter, even, though only in metaphor.

He stands, and joins them. They walk; eastward, they know, now that the sun is rising. It is where the loudest voice had come from.

Their shoes must have dried while they talked. The blisters feel healed, and even the usual aches of tired feet have all faded away.

The soft echoes of a horn still beckon from the west, but none of the three will heed it.