Die Frau kämpfte sich durch den kniehohen Schnee, und das Bündel Altholz auf ihrem Rücken wog fast so schwer wie das Kind, das sie im Leib trug. Rasselnd verließ der Atem ihren Mund, um dann sofort im bitterkalten Südwind zu gefrieren. Klein und stark stapfte sie vorwärts. An ihren Schultern und Beinen wölbten sich die Muskeln, die sie in achtundzwanzig Jahren Überlebenskampf in ihrer rauhen Heimat mühsam erworben hatte. Früher hatte sie sich stets auf die Hilfe und den Beistand ihres Volkes verlassen können. Doch nun war sie allein, und dieses neue Kind, ihr drittes, würde sie gebären müssen, ohne jemanden zur Seite zu haben.
Dies sollte ihr letzter Marsch durch das Tal sein. Die schweren Winterstürme der letzten Wochen hatten sie in ihrer Unterkunft festgehalten, ihr mit Frost und Eis den Weg nach draußen unmöglich gemacht und ihren wertvollen Vorrat an heiß brennendem Zeitholz nahezu aufgezehrt. Sollten der Frau das Holz und die Trockenvorräte ausgehen, müßte sie sterben; und ihr Kind mit ihr. Erst gestern hatte das Wetter sich ausreichend beruhigt, so daß die Frau aufbrechen und sich durch den Schnee zu den Zeitholzbäumen vorarbeiten konnte. Mittlerweile war der Wind wieder aufgefrischt, und der Schnee fiel dichter. Sie wußte, daß ihr nur noch wenig Zeit blieb, ihre Unterkunft zu erreichen. Das Wissen darum, daß sie sich nach der Geburt ihres dritten Kindes erst einmal nicht weit fortbewegen könnte, trieb sie zusätzlich an.
Obwohl die Frau sich aus freien Stücken für dieses Leben in Einsamkeit entschieden hatte, nagte doch die Sorge an ihrer Seele.
Und die Unruhe um ihr Kind plagte sie. Die beiden vorangegangenen Schwangerschaften hatten ihr große Pein bereitet, vor allem in den letzten Wochen. Doch die Frau hatte ihre Kinder dann doch ohne viel Jammern und Klagen zur Welt gebracht. Ihr Körper hatte sich danach rasch erholt und war stets sauber verheilt. Aber bei dem neuen Säugling fürchtete sie die Wehen mehr als den einsamen Winter, der ihr bevorstand. Ein ungewöhnlich großes Kind ... und sehr wütend. Nachts, wenn sie zu schlafen versuchte, trat und schlug es manchmal so zornig mit den Füßen und Fäusten gegen die Wände ihres Leibes, daß sie vor Schmerzen stöhnte und sich in dem vergeblichen Bemühen, dem Wüten des Kindes zu entgehen, von einer Seite auf die andere warf.
Die Frau hielt kurz inne, um die Holzlast auf ihrem Rücken geradezuschieben. Sie wünschte, sie könnte das Gewicht des ungeborenen Kindes ebenso leicht verlagern. Letzte Nacht hatte es sich bis ganz nach unten geschoben, so als suche es den Geburtskanal. Die Niederkunft schien unmittelbar bevorzustehen. Vielleicht schon heute abend, spätestens aber morgen. Die Frau spürte, wie ihre Beckenknochen bei jedem Schritt vom Druck des Säuglingskopfes auseinandergeschoben wurden. Das Gehen bereitete ihr immer mehr Mühe.
Sie spähte über den Schnee zu der dichten Reihe der Nadelhölzer, die sich dreihundert Schritte vor ihr erhob; sie hatte die Unterkunft nach bestem Vermögen errichtet. Abgeschirmt von den hohen Stämmen, befand sich das Lager an der windabgelegenen Seite eines felsigen Hügels, dessen Kuppe über die Wipfel hinausragte. Diese Kuppe bildete die erste Erhebung eines langen Höhenzugs, der auf die fernen Eisdachalpen zulief. Schon lange bevor man ihr die Schwangerschaft ansehen konnte, hatte die Frau sich von Freunden und Familie davongestohlen und war durch den Awarinheimwald gewandert, bis sie diese einsame Stelle gefunden hatte, die weit nördlich von ihrer Heimat lag. Vom ersten Herbstmonat an, dem Totlaubmond, hatte die Frau ihre Tage damit zugebracht, so viele Beeren, Nüsse und Samenkörner wie nur möglich zu sammeln. Doch sosehr sie auch suchte, sie hatte nur geringe Mengen von Malfari gefunden, jenen süßen und faserigen Knollen,
die ihr Volk für gewöhnlich über den Winter brachten. So hatte die Frau sich gezwungen gesehen, immer wieder nach draußen zu gehen. Und die Furcht davor, ihr Kind und sich selbst nicht ausreichend zu ernähren, hielt sie nächtens wach. Die Reste einiger abgemagerter Kaninchen, die sie in Streifen geschnitten und getrocknet hatte, stellten ihren gesamten Fleischvorrat dar. Die Frau seufzte und rieb sich gedankenverloren den Bauch. Während sie versuchte, die grimmigen Schmerzen in den Beinen und im Unterleib nicht zu beachten, sehnte sie sich verzweifelt nach ein paar Hühnern oder einer Ziege, um ihren Speiseplan zu erweitern.
Sie hätte gar nicht erst versuchen sollen, dieses Kind auszutragen. Wenn die Frau bei ihrem Volk geblieben wäre, hätte man ihr das auch nicht erlaubt. Dies war ein Beltidenkind, empfangen während der ausschweifenden Gelage des Frühlingsfestes. Die Zeit, da ihr Volk, die Waldbewohner, in den Hainen, wo Berge und Forst zusammentrafen, mit den Menschen von den Eisdachalpen zusammenkamen. Dort begingen sie das Wiedererwachen des Lebens zur Tauzeit mit religiösen Feiern, und denen folgte unweigerlich das Gelage. Man trank buchstäblich alle Weinkrüge leer, die von den langen Winternächten übriggeblieben waren, die man nicht in heimeliger Runde am brennenden Kamin verzecht hatte. Und in der Beltidennacht ging es regelmäßig hoch her, waren dies doch die einzigen Stunden im Jahr, da beide Völker in ausreichend weinselige Stimmung gerieten, um sich einander so nahe zu kommen, wie man sich dies an anderen Tagen nicht vorstellen konnte.
Während der letzten drei Beltiden war er der Frau aufgefallen, und von Mal zu Mal hatte sie ihn mehr gewollt. Wie in jedem Jahr stieg er auch in diesem Jahr mit seinem Volk zu den Hainen herab. Seine Haut war so hell und fein wie die Eisgewölbe seiner Heimat, und sein Haar glich dem goldenen Sommerschein der Sonne, die von beiden Völkern angebetet wurde. Als mächtigster Zauberer seines Volkes führte er zusammen mit den Beschwörern der Waldläufer die religiösen Feierlichkeiten durch. Die Macht und Zauberkunst dieses Mannes hatten die Frau schon immer sehr beeindruckt und auch etwas geängstigt, aber seine Erfahrung, sein gutes Aussehen und seine Anmut bewunderte sie. Bei der letzten Beltidennacht vor acht Monaten hatte die Frau genug Wein getrunken, um alle Hemmungen abzustreifen und Mut zu gewinnen. Sie zog immer noch die Blicke der Männer auf sich, stand auf dem Gipfel ihrer Schönheit und körperlichen Reife, und ihr dichtes nußbraunes Haar fiel ihr in Wellen den Rücken hinab. Als der Zauberer sah, wie sie über die Lichtung auf ihn zukam,
kniff er erst die Augen zusammen und riß sie dann weit auf. Aber er lächelte und streckte ihr die Hand entgegen. Sein Blick hielt den ihren fest, sie nahm seine Finger in die ihren und genoß es, wie samtig weich sie sich anfühlten ganz im Gegensatz zu ihren von der Arbeit schwielig gewordenen Händen. Für einen Zauberer besaß er sehr viel Wärme und Freundlichkeit. Er flüsterte ihr auch zärtliche Worte zu, ehe er sie zu einer abgelegenen Stelle unter den funkelnden Sternen führte.
Der Schnee, der in den letzten Stunden leicht gefallen war, kam nun in immer dichteren Flocken herunter. Die Frau riß sich aus ihren Tagträumereien und mußte feststellen, daß sie durch das wirbelnde Weiß die Baumreihe kaum noch erkennen konnte. Sie mußte sich beeilen. Das Kind zog sie nach unten, und sie geriet ins Taumeln, als sie schneller vorwärtszukommen versuchte.
Seine Hände waren stark und sicher über ihren Körper gefahren, und da hatte es sie nicht verwundert, daß ihr Leib unter diesen Berührungen sein Kind empfangen wollte. Ein Kind von einem Zauberer wäre etwas Erstaunliches und Ungewöhnliches. Beide Völker begrüßten zwar die Feierlichkeiten und duldeten auch die Gelage und die gemischten Paare, die sich in der Beltidennacht fanden. Aber ein daraus entstehendes Kind wurde sowohl von den Baum- als auch den Bergmenschen als etwas Widernatürliches angesehen. Ihr Leben lang hatte die Frau miterlebt, wie vier bis sechs Wochen nach dem Fest einige Frauen hinaus in den Wald gingen und dort die nötigen Kräuter suchten, um ihren Körper von der Frucht zu befreien, die sie in jener Nacht empfangen hatten.
Doch irgendwie hatte die Frau es nicht über sich gebracht, den dampfenden Sud zu trinken, den sie sich immer wieder kochte. Endlich hatte sie beschlossen, das Kind in ihrem Bauch auszutragen. Wenn der Säugling erst einmal das Licht der Welt erblickt hätte und die anderen sehen könnten, daß er genau so aussah wie alle anderen auch, würden sie ihn auch annehmen. Bei einem Kind von diesem Zauberer konnte es sich um keine Widernatürlichkeit handeln; es würde, da es einen Magier zum Vater hatte, nur schöner und mächtiger als andere Kinder sein.
Doch dazu mußte die Frau die letzten Monate ihrer Schwangerschaft allein verbringen, sonst hätte ihr Volk sie gezwungen, das Kind aus dem Leib zu entfernen. Und heute fragte sie sich, ob der Kleine wirklich so prachtvoll werden würde, wie sie ursprünglich geglaubt hatte; oder ob sie nicht vielleicht einen Fehler begangen hatte.
Die Frau biß die Zähne zusammen, um der Pein zu widerstehen, und zwang die Füße, einen Schritt nach dem anderen durch die Schneewehen zu setzen. Sie würde es schaffen. Ihr blieb auch gar nichts anderes übrig; denn sterben wollte sie nicht.
Plötzlich schwang ein eigenartiges Wispern im Wind mit, der immer stärker blies.
Sie blieb stehen, und jede Faser in ihrem Körper schien sich in flüssiges Feuer zu verwandeln. Die Frau schob sich mit den behandschuhten Händen eine feine Strähne aus dem Gesicht, spähte angestrengt in das Halbdunkel und lauschte auf alles Ungewöhnliche.
Da war es wieder. Ein leises Flüstern, herangetragen vom Wind ... wie ein Wispern mit Schluckauf ... Skrälinge!
»O nein«, stöhnte die Frau, und Furcht klumpte ihr den Magen zusammen. Nachdem sie für ein paar Momente wie erstarrt im Schnee gestanden hatte, zerrte sie an den hinderlichen Gurten, mit denen das Holzbündel am Rücken befestigt war. Sie mußte die Last unbedingt loswerden. Ihre einzige Aussicht, mit dem Leben davonzukommen, bestand darin, schneller als die Skrälinge zu laufen. Sie mußte die Bäume vor ihnen erreichen. Im Wald gefiel es ihnen nicht.
Den nächsten Absatz weiterlesen auf Englisch?
Textauszug aus: Sara Douglass, Die Sternenbraut Erster Roman des Zyklus
Unter dem Weltenbaum, Piper-Verlag 2002
englische Leseprobe
The
woman struggled through the knee-deep snow, the bundle of dead wood
she had tied to her back almost as great a burden as the weight of the
child she carried in her belly. Her breath rasped in her throat before
frosting heavily in the bitterly cold southerly wind. She was short
and strong, her legs and shoulders finely muscled by twenty-eight years
of hard-won survival in her harsh homeland. But she had always had the
help and company of her people to aid her. Now she was alone and, this
her third child, she would have to bear without assistance.
This
would be her last trip across the valley. The severe winter storms of
the past few weeks had kept her iced into her shelter so that her supply
of the precious hot-burning Timewood was almost exhausted; if she did
not have enough wood and dry stores remaining for her confinement, then
she would die and her child would die with her. Only in the past day
had the weather broken sufficiently to allow her to struggle through
the snow to reach the Timewood trees. Now the wind was growing harsher
and the snow heavier and she knew she had only a short time to reach
her shelter. The knowledge that once the baby was born she would not
be able to travel far from her shelter drove her on.
Although
her current solitude was a path she had chosen freely, worry ate at
her bones.
And
worry about her child also gnawed at her. Her previous two pregnancies
had been uncomfortable, especially in the final weeks, but she had borne
those children with little fuss. Her body had recuperated quickly and
had healed cleanly each time. With this child she feared her labour
more than the lonely winter ahead. It was too large, too ... angry.
Sometimes at night when she was trying to sleep it twisted and beat
at the sides of her womb with such frantic fists and heels that she
moaned in pain, rocking herself from side to side in a futile bid to
escape her child's rage.
She
paused briefly, adjusting the burden of wood on her back, wishing she
could ease the load of the child as easily. Last night the child had
shifted down into the pit of her belly, seeking the birth canal. The
birth was close. Perhaps tonight, perhaps tomorrow. She could feel the
bones of her pelvis grating apart with the pressure of the child's head
each time she took a step, making it hard to walk.
She
squinted through the snow to the thick line of conifers about three
hundred paces ahead. She had done her best with her camp. It was sheltered
well behind the tree line in the lee of a rocky hill that, jutting above
the peaks of the trees, was the first in a long range of hills leading
away into the distant Icescarp Alps. Well before her pregnancy had begun
to show, she had slipped away from her friends and family and travelled
the Avarinheim to reach this lonely spot far to the north of her usual
forest home. From the first of the autumn months, DeadLeaf-month, she
had occupied her days with gathering and storing as many berries, nuts
and seeds as she could. As hard as she looked, however, she had found
only small amounts of malfari, the sweet fibrous tubers that provided
her people with most of their winter sustenance. She had been forced
to go without, and fears of what malnourishment might do to her and
the child kept her awake at nights. The remains of a few scrawny rabbits,
dried into leathery strips, was all she had for meat. At best she would
go hungry while she was tied to the shelter and her young baby. At worst
... She sighed and absently rubbed her belly, trying to ignore the fiery
ache in her legs and pelvis, desperately wishing for a few chickens
or a goat to supplement her winter diet. But they had been left behind
with her people.
She
should never have tried to carry this child to term. Had she remained
with her people she would not have been allowed to. It was a Beltide
child, conceived during the drunken revelry of the spring rites, a time
when her people, the forest dwellers, and the people of the Icescarp
Alps assembled in the groves where mountain and forest met. There they
celebrated the renewal of life in the thawing land with religious rites
followed, invariably, by an enthusiastic excess of whatever wine was
left over from long winter nights huddled by home fires. Beltide was
the one night of the year when both peoples relaxed sufficiently to
carry interracial relations to extremes that neither people normally
practiced throughout the rest of the year.
Every
Beltide night for the past three years she had watched him, wanted him.
He came down to the groves with his people, his skin as pale and as
fine as the ice vaults of his home, his hair the fine summer gold of
the life-giving sun that both their peoples worshipped. As the most
powerful Enchanter of his kind he led the Beltide rites with the leading
Banes of her own people; his power and magic awed and frightened her
but she craved his skill and beauty and grace. This last Beltide night
past, eight months now, she had drunk enough wine to loosen her inhibitions
and buttress her courage. She was a striking woman, at the peak of her
beauty and fitness, her nut-brown hair waving thick down her back. When
he'd seen her striding across the clearing of the grove towards him
his eyes had crinkled and then widened, and he had smiled and held his
hand out to her. Eyes trapped by his, she had taken his outstretched
fingers, marvelling at the feel of his silken skin against her own work-callused
palm. He was kind for an Enchanter, and had murmured gentle words before
leading her to a secluded spot beneath the spinning stars.
"StarDrifter,"
she whispered, running her tongue along the split skin of her lips.
The
snow that had been drifting down for the past few hours was now falling
heavily, driven by an increasing north-east wind, and she roused out
of her reverie to find that she could hardly see the tree line through
the driving snow. She must hurry. His child dragging her down, she stumbled
a little as she tried to move faster. Then, despite the heavy load of
wood shifting painfully along her spine, her thoughts drifted back to
that Beltide night.
His
hands had been strong and confident on her body, and she was not surprised
that her womb had quickened with his child. A child of his would be
so amazing, so exceptional. Yet although both peoples accepted the excesses
and the drunken unions between the races on Beltide night, both also
believed that any child conceived of such a union was an abomination.
For most of her life she had been aware of the women who, some four
to six weeks after Beltide, went out of their way along the dim forest
paths to collect the herbs necessary to rid their bodies of any child
conceived that night.
But
somehow she was not able to force herself to swallow the steaming concoction
she brewed herself time and time again. And finally she had decided,
without knowing why, that she would carry the child to term. Once the
child was born, once her people could see that it was a babe like any
other (except more beautiful, more powerful, as any child of an Enchanter
would be), they would accept it. No child of his could be an abomination.
She'd
had to spend the last long months of her pregnancy alone, lest her people
force the child from her body. Long lonely months, when she had endured
a pregnancy that made her wonder what exactly it was she carried inside
her, when she wondered if the child would be as wondrous as she had
first supposed. She had been unable to keep down much food for many
weeks now, and she had also bled heavily from time to time, until now
she faced a birth alone and seriously weakened.
She
clenched her jaws against the discomfort and forced her feet to take
one step after another through the snow drifts. She would manage. She
had to. She did not want to die.
A
strange whisper, barely discernible in the heightening storm, ran along
the edge of the wind.
She
stopped, every nerve in her body afire. Was she so close to the trees
that she could hear the wind rustling through the pine needles already?
Her gloved hands pushed fine strands of hair from her eyes, and she
concentrated hard, peering through the gloom, listening for any unusual
sounds.
There.
Again. A soft whisper along the wind ... a soft whisper and a hiccup.
Skraelings!
"Ah,"
she moaned, involuntarily, terror clenching her stomach so tightly that
she almost vomited the few berries she had been able to keep down that
day. After a moment frozen into the wind, she fumbled with the cumbersome
straps holding the bundle of wood to her back, desperate to lose the
burden. Her only hope of survival lay in outrunning the Skraelings.
In reaching the trees before they reached her. They did not like the
trees.
But
she could not lose the weight of this child within her. She could not
run at this point in her pregnancy. Not with this child.
The
straps finally broke free, the hard-gathered wood tumbling about her
feet, and she tried to break into a stumbling run. Almost immediately
she tripped and fell over, hitting the ground heavily, the impact forcing
the breath from her body and sending a shaft of agony through her belly.
The child kicked viciously.
The
wind whispered again. Closer.
For
a few moments she could do nothing but scrabble around in the snow,
frantically trying to regain her breath and find some foot or handhold
in the treacherous ground.
A
small burble of laughter, low and barely audible above the wind, sounded
a few paces to her left.
Sobbing
with terror now she lurched to her feet, everything but the need to
get to the safety of the trees forgotten.
Two
paces later another whisper, this time directly behind her, and she
would have screamed except that her child kicked so suddenly and directly
into her diaphragm that she was winded almost as badly as she had been
when she fell.
Then,
even more terrifying, a whisper directly in front of her.
"A
pretty, pretty ... a tasty, tasty." The wraith's insubstantial face
appeared momentarily in the dusk light, its silver orbs glowing obscenely,
its tooth-lined jaws hanging loose with desire.
Finally
she found the breath to scream, the sound tearing through the dusk light,
and she stumbled desperately to the right, fighting through the snow,
arms flailing in a futile effort to fend the wraiths off. She knew she
was almost certainly doomed. The wraiths fed off fear as much as they
fed off flesh, and they were growing as her terror grew. She could feel
the strength draining out of her. They would chase her, taunt her, drain
her, until even fear was gone. Then they would feed off her body.
The
child churned in her belly as she lurched through the snow, as if intent
on escaping the prison of her poor, doomed body. It flailed with its
fists and heels and elbows, and every time one of the dreadful whispers
of the wraiths reached it through the amniotic fluid of its mother's
womb, it twisted and struck harder.
Even
though she knew she was all but doomed the primeval urge to keep making
the effort to escape kept her moving through the snow, grunting with
each step, jerking every time her child beat at the confines of her
womb. But now the urge to escape consumed the child as much as its mother.
The
five wraiths hung back a few paces in the snow, enjoying the woman's
fear. The chase was going well. Then, strangely, the woman twisted and
jerked mid-step and crashed to the ground, writhing and clutching at
the heaving mound of her belly. The wraiths, surprised by this sudden
development in the chase, had to sidestep quickly out of the way, and
slowed to circle the woman at a safe distance just out of arm's reach.
She
screamed. It was a sound of such terror, wrenched from the very depths
of her body, that the wraiths moaned in ecstasy.
She
turned to the nearest wraith, extending a hand for mercy. "Help me,"
she whispered. "Please, help me!"
The
wraiths had never been asked for help before. They began to mill in
confusion. Was she no longer afraid of them? Why was that? Wasn't every
flesh and blood creature afraid of them? Their minds communed and they
wondered if perhaps they should be afraid too.
The
woman convulsed, and the snow stained bright red about her hips.
The
smell and sight of warm blood reached the wraiths, reassuring them.
This one was going to die more quickly than they had originally expected.
Spontaneously. Without any help from their sharp pointed fangs. Sad,
but she would still taste sweet. They drifted about in the freezing
wind, watching, waiting, wanting.
After
a few more minutes the woman moaned once, quietly, and then lay still,
her face alabaster, her eyes opened and glazed, her hands slowly unclenching.
The wraiths bobbed as the wind gusted through them and considered. The
chase had started so well. She had feared well. But she had died strangely.
The most courageous of the five drifted up to the woman and considered
her silently for a moment longer. Finally, the coppery smell of warm
blood decided it and it reached down an insubstantial claw to worry
at the leather thongs of her tunic. After a moment's resistance the
leather fell open-and the one adventuresome wraith was so surprised
it leapt back to the safe circling distance of its comrades.
In
the bloody mess that had once been the woman's belly lay a child, glaring
defiantly at them, hate steeping from every one of its bloodied pores.
It had eaten its way out.
"Ooooh!"
the wraiths cooed in delight, and the more courageous of them drifted
forward again and picked up the bloody child.
"It
hates," it whispered to the others. "Feel it?"
The
other wraiths bobbed closer, emotion close to affection misting their
orbs.
The
child turned its tusked head and glared at the wraiths. It hiccupped,
and a small bubble of blood frothed at the corner of its mouth.
"Aaah!"
the wraiths cooed again, and huddled over the baby. Without a word the
wraiths made their momentous decision. They would take it home. They
would feed it. In time they would learn to love it. And then, years
into a future the wraiths could not yet discern, they would learn to
worship it.
But
now they were hungry and good food was cooling to one side. Appealing
as it was, the baby was dumped unceremoniously in the snow, howling
its rage, as the wraiths fed on its dead mother.
Six
weeks later ...
Separated
by the length of the Alps and still more by race and circumstance, another
woman struggled through the snowdrifts of the lower reaches of the western
Icescarp Alps.
She
stumbled badly over a rock hidden by the snow and tore the last fingernail
from her once soft white hands as she scrabbled for purchase. She huddled
against a frozen rock and sucked her finger, moaning in frustration
and almost crying through cold and sad heartedness. For a day and a
night she had battled to keep alive, ever since they had dumped her
here in this barren landscape. These mountains could kill even the fittest
man, even with the thickest furs, yet she had only a thin shawl over
her stained and tattered nightdress and was seriously weakened by the
terrible birth of her son two days before. And, for all her travail
and prayers and tears and curses he had died during that birth, born
so still and blue that the midwives had huddled him out of the room,
not letting her hold him or weep over him.
Then,
as the midwives fled the birthing chamber, the two men had come in,
their eyes cold and derisive, their mouths twisting with scorn. They
had dragged her weeping and bleeding from the room, dragged her from
her life of comfort and deference, dumped her into a splintered old
cart and drove her throughout the day to this spot at the base of the
Icescarp Alps. They had said not a word the entire way.
There
they had tipped her unceremoniously out. No doubt they wished her dead,
but even they would not dare stain their hands with her blood. Even
now her name made each of them afraid to be the one to plunge the knife
into her throat.
Better
this way, where she could endure a slow death on the dreaded mountains,
prey to the Forbidden Ones which crouched among the rocks, prey to the
cold and the ice, and with time to contemplate the shame of her illegitimate
child ... her dead illegitimate child.
But
she was determined not to die. There was one chance and one chance only.
She would have to climb high into the Alps. Barely out of girlhood and
clad only in tatters, she was determined to succeed.
Her
feet had gone to ice the first few hours and she now could no longer
feel them. Her toes were black. Her fingernails, torn from her hands,
had left gaping holes at the ends of her fingers that had iced over.
Now they were turning black too. Her lips were so dry and frozen they
had drawn back from her teeth and solidified into a ghastly rictus.
She
huddled against the rock. Although she had started the climb in hope
and determination, even she, her natural stubbornness notwithstanding,
realised that she was close to death. She had stopped shivering hours
ago. A bad sign. But she would climb until she died. Better she die
a young woman on the slopes of these beautiful ice mountains than aged
and abed in the treacherous safeness of her homeland.
The
creature had been watching the woman curiously for some hours now. It
was far up the slopes of the mountain, peering down from its heights
through eyes that could see a mouse burp at five leagues. Only the fact
that she seemed determined to die immediately below its favourite day
roost made the creature stir, fluff out its feathers in the icy air,
then spread its wings and launch itself abruptly into the swirling wind,
angered by the intrusion. It would rather have spent the day preening
itself in what weak sun there was. It was a vain creature.
She
saw it circling far above her. She squinted into the sun, grey specks
of exhaustion almost obscuring her sight.
"StarDrifter?"
she whispered, hope strengthening her heart and her voice. Slowly, hesitatingly,
she lifted a blackened hand towards the sky. "Is that you?"
weiterlesen?
Lesezitat nach Sara Douglass - Die Sternenbraut