Excerpt from Unpublished manuscript

Curator note: The following (partial) short story comes from an unfinished manuscript titled Hyte, written by A. Goldberry himself.

Date: unknown

The drifting waste at his back, Choi looked up again at his new foe. The Spine loomed over him, impossibly high, close, real. All he could do was take a step forward, then another, towards the lonely wind-bend pine that was his temporary beacon. Sand became barren rock became snow under his hands and feet as Choi entered the range and scrambled upwards. From the pine, he could see the path a short climb up. With his gear, the ascent was slow but sure. “The sun’ll set fast up here, I’ll make camp at the trailhead,” Choi said, and he did. He found a small cave that was dry, sleeping in his fleece sack without a warm dinner or fire. The cheese-maker’s son felt good to be back in the mountains; the blackness of sleep came fast to him. On that blackness, shapes – sharp, hazy, shifting, primordial, gray, white, meaningful – were painted. After an eternal instant in his strange dreams, Choi awoke, cold and confused. He grasped for the details and meaning, but they melted into pure feeling away as dreams do. That feeling was enormity – no doubt that of the spires around him, of his quest, and of the blizzard that was forming.

Choi stepped out of the cave and saw snow falling heavy through the morning light. The mountain pass ahead was pristinely white, matching the ever-frozen peaks he craned his head to see in the full light. Choi cried, and began again one foot at a time towards the Damned Sea through the hidden pass.

The path was thin and uphill, but smooth, and the fresh snow crunched satisfyingly under his boots. Choi placed his staff carefully to guard against slipping into the narrow and jagged ravine to his left. He trekked and the snow came down thicker, and the wind blew harder, but his heart warmed nonetheless. It was midday and Choi sang while he walked.

“Ooo snow fall, ooo snow fall

bury me, bury me

in my warm home.

Applejack and cider aplenty,

Goatweed too

Bury me, bury me

In the cheesemaker’s home.

Fat flakes, small sleet,

warm sheets too

Bury me, bury me

In my girl’s ---”

Choi stopped, looking down at his right foot. The smile on his face froze in grotesque terror; a paw print, larger than his boot, freshly imprinted in the snow. Another print two feet hence, and so on. His skin prickled; fear and nausea became his sun and moon. Dinner plate paw print. The claws. Okay. I can’t die now. Not okay. Grab your knife and breath. Back against the rock. Look up, down. You idiot, why did you sing? You’ve practically offered yourself up to the ghost. The teeth. What are the teeth like? I should go home. I’ve no business with wizards and invaders, and definitely not Stalkers. I’m not ready to die. Who will take care of my sister? Coward child. Turn back. I can’t, I won’t.  These thoughts, and others, passed chaotically through the fear-frozen Choi.

Quietly as he could, Choi followed the tracks with knife in his left hand and staff in his right. After a hundred paces or so, the prints ended with a small cluster of four gouges in the snow. It leapt, probably glided to the other mountain. Did it hear me behind it? Am I stalker or stalked?

He did all he could, keeping on the path through the snow, listening intently and trying to remember everything he’d heard about the big cats of the high mountains.

“The Stalkers in the Spine get twice as big, as big as a house. Like goats but even eat bears. People too, of course. Ole Jan Pika said his father’s brother was eaten near Solos Mount before we were born and not a bone found – all crunched up in those teeth long as kitchen knives. Pale and quiet as snow, they are. Nobody’s ever seen them an’ come back, of course.” his friend from Puyo, Roddy, once told him.

So it went, and eventually neither Choi’s nerves nor the sun could much handle the day any longer. The dark was gathering fast. Choi found a crack in the mountainside – just big enough to shelter him -- and prepared for a long night. In heart of the Spine, the sun was hidden behind the peaks except for a short window. He started a small fire at the mouth of the fissure, wincing at how little wood he had. Choi placed his backbag beside him and covered his legs with his blanket. He sat up, back against the stone, knife and staff across his lap.

Snow continued to fall, dimming the stars. Choi stared past the low fire into the swirling gray-black abyss beyond. Hours seemed to pass and every crackle of the fire or tumbling rock send excruciating pangs of anxiety.

The wood was used up and only glowing red coals remained.  Then, a glimmer of yellow rose above the coals. Two glimmers, pale orbs reflecting like sparks, stared at Choi. After a moment Choi realized he was staring at death and it at him. Pure instinct took over – the fear and rage only a human, often predator but also prey amongst great beasts and evil men – and Choi was crouched in an instant. Embers exploded from the coal as a primal yell exploded from the charging man. They met: colliding, slashing, thrusting, biting, dying in the red dark. Choi felt he was falling and pure, timeless blackness enveloped him.