“In the early days,” said the storyteller in her low, melodious voice, “people had no frost or fire. They lived with the animals, wearing the skins of those they hunted, and were barely more than animals themselves. The gods of the four winds lived in the sky, each keeping to their own kingdoms, isolated but equal.
“Only Fors, the god of the north wind, was lonely. He wanted there to be someone like him, someone who reveled in blistering cold and biting ice.” Her hands moved like white birds among the flickering shadows. “So he swept his hand to the glacier at the top of the world and gathered the coldest pieces. Then he shrank himself into human form and watched the human tribes as they warred with one another, endlessly killing and being killed.”
“How were they killed, Magra?” asked a girl in a fascinated whisper.
“Kaitryn!” said her mother. “Don’t ask such morbid questions.”
Magra smiled and leaned close, as if she was familiar with the girl’s thirst for gory details. “Any way you can think of. By their own hands, by stones and swords and axes.”
“I bet it was terrible,” the girl said with delight.
The storyteller nodded. “Fors said to the woman who ruled the tribes of the North, ‘Here, take my ice and use it to freeze your enemies. Then no one will be able to defeat you.’ He put the shard of ice into her wrist, and the vein turned blue. The woman’s body became cold and her eyes turned pale. She raised her hand and smote the enemy tribesmen with deadly showers of frost and snow until everyone who was left ran from her in terror.”
The girl clapped her hands, and some boys inched forward on the ground, their eyes bright in the firelight. Even the adults were still and silent, their gazes rapt.
“But Sud,” said Magra with a stern look, “the goddess of the south wind, had loved a warrior of the defeated tribe, and it pierced her heart to watch him die. She saw how formidable the icy warrior woman had become and was afraid that she would kill all the other tribes.”
Magra put out her fist as if she were holding something. “So Sud swept her hand into the great volcano, pulling out drops of bubbling lava. Then she shrank herself into human form and watched the people as they struggled to find food and to keep themselves safe from the ice tribe.”
She opened her hand and spread her fingers as if she were bestowing a gift. “‘Here,’ the goddess said to a chieftain who ruled a tribe in the desert. ‘Take this lava and use it to melt the ice of your enemies. Whoever defies you shall be burned. Then you will need to fight no more.’ She put the drop of lava into the wrist of the chieftain, and the vein bubbled hot. The man’s body warmed and his hair turned red. He raised his hand and cast fire at all his enemies, and no one dared defy him.”
Magra made a sweeping gesture, her long sleeve billowing out, and the children shrank back, as if fire might spring from her fingers.
“Over time, the other tribes made alliances with frost or fire, the Fireblood and Frostblood leaders having reached a truce. Each claimed their lands on the earth. Maps were drawn, and the people found peace.”
She paused as if that were the end of the story, and the listeners seemed to hold their breath.
“But Eurus, god of the east wind, was filled with envy. He went to Neb, the mother of the winds, to complain. He wanted to create his own creature. Neb was tired of her children fighting, so she declared there must be balance in all things. Whatever Eurus made, his sister Cirrus, goddess of the west wind, would have to make the opposite.”
She held her hands palms up as if they formed two sides of a scale.
“Eurus, excited and filled with purpose, swept his hand into the depths of the ocean, down, down to the darkest shadows in the deepest caves. He pulled out a handful of absolute darkness, then, sure that he had found the best gift of all, shrank himself into human form and watched the tribes as they struggled under the rule of frost and fire. ‘Here,’ he said to a powerful shaman. ‘Take this darkness and use it to erase all of your suffering—you will never feel pain again.’ He put the darkness into the man’s wrist and the vein turned black. But instead of finding relief, the man fell to the ground, writhing in pain and begging for mercy. In minutes, he was dead.”
The eyes of the younger boys grew round. Kaitryn leaned forward.
“Eurus tried over and over again, but no one could survive his sweet oblivion. So the god of the east wind divided and sprinkled his darkness over the world, and wherever it fell, a shadow came to life.”
She lowered her voice until it was eerie and soft. Fine hairs rose on the back of my neck. “But the shadows were hungry. They devoured the animals and people and were never satisfied. And if a shadow, called a Minax, took a special liking to you, it would seep beneath your skin, turning your eyes and your blood black. You’d become vicious and wild, cunning and bloodthirsty, eager to do its bidding and lose yourself in its blissful darkness.”
I rubbed the back of my neck with my hand, trying to erase the chill that danced down my spine. From the day I’d been taken to Blackcreek Prison, I’d had nightmares about a living shadow, the most frightening part of the old stories preying on my fear and isolation. In the dreams, a dark shape would touch my cheek in a painful, blistering caress. I’d wake up shaken and terrified.
“It was a dark time,” said the storyteller. “But the creatures weren’t allowed to roam free for long. Cirrus, the goddess of the west wind, who loved peace above all things, made a hole in the earth. She forced the living shadows into the darkness below and created a Gate of Light at the entrance, which the Minax could not pass through.”