Grandfather’s Fourteenth Letter

 

Evelyn,

 

You perhaps wonder why I was so gloomy these last few days, why I grumbled at dinners and avoided company in the evenings. It was not indigestion that soured my mood as I heard your father suggest, but rather the thought of this letter and its unhappy memories.

 

I considered passing over this part of the tale, writing but a sentence or two before retreating to a more comfortable part of the story, yet that would be a disservice to both you and this history. I have thus far led you faithfully down the path of our Grand Tour, and though the road becomes dark, it is on this path I shall lead you still.

 

Now, with pages before me and pen ready, I write for the first time of what happened to poor Henry Marten when he was thrown aside by the Perchten.

 

The world spun as I flew through the air, sound and sights blurring together into an overwhelming chaos. William’s cry mixed with the roar the Perchten as his bolt of white light merged with the dull red of the ash, all while the sky and earth raced round and round each. 

 

That madness was, however, momentary; clarity returned when I passed through the wall of flame. There was no pain, child, only a quick, dry heat as if had passed my finger through a candle’s flame. There was, however, silence, sudden and complete silence. The call of my friend, the growl of that damnable creature, the cries of the villagers – all gone. 

 

 

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