Guardian of Elendria

The mist hung low over the town of Birchwood, casting an eerie glow under the vintage lampposts lined along the streets below. The usual great horned owl glided along the overcast sky overlooking the townsfolk as they hurried to load salt-filled sacks into their trucks and cars. Frank shuffled down one of the cobblestone streets in a hurry, careful not to slip in the newly fallen snow. The ivy-clad buildings loomed over him, their intricate woodwork seeming to hold old spirits trapped within, their hands asking for some kind of release from the time-stricken world. His breath was visible in the cold air and his hands were nestled deeply in the pockets of his jeans. He’d forgotten to bring a jacket, of course. He’d run out in a hurry as he always did. This time he was running from a little brawl he’d had with Zack Primrose, just another one of those stupid fights. He’d promised himself that he wouldn’t react to Zack’s taunts about his father leaving him and his mother, or more like abandoning them. But being fourteen and caught in the storm of some adolescence-fueled anger, he couldn’t help but snap back and fall into his trap, again. Sofia had warned him about this, she had warned him so many times. 

“Can you stop, Frank?” she asked.

“It’s not my fault! Stop what?”

“I know that you taunt him too,” Sofia said as she pointed a long finger at him.

“How? I don’t even look at him.”

“Oh…no…you don’t, you just run past by him, knocking the coffee out of his hand!”

“I didn’t see him.”

“Sure, you didn’t see him.”

“Fine…he’s bad news, Sofia.”

“I know that. But you don’t want to get into trouble.”

“I can’t stand him,” Frank said loudly as he picked up a rock from the ground and pitched at some invisible target.

“His parents spoil him, that’s all.”

“That’s for sure, the Primrose’s are probably the worse parents out there.”

A shiver ran down Sofia’s spine. “Yes the mother is strange. There’s something not okay about her.”

“There’s something not okay about everyone in that mansion.” 

Frank stopped to catch his breath, feeling as if his lungs were filling with ice. He couldn’t warm his hands, no matter how much he rubbed them together. The cold was biting through his clothes as if the very air around him was trying to freeze him in place. His steps were labored, passing along Main street lined with the usual quaint, old-fashioned shops. He glanced at the warm glow emanating from a small restaurant, where the scent of freshly baked bread wafted through the cold air. The temperature had dropped fifteen degrees in a matter of two hours. Sofia had been right about that too: she had “foreseen” some kind of unusual arctic front.

“I’m telling you, there’s a cold front coming. I can feel it.”

“But it’s seventy degrees outside!”

“And it’s December.”

“Yeah, but it’s seventy degrees.”

“I’m just saying.”

Ever since he had met Sofia in first grade she had had these uncanny insights and predictions or moments of “seeing” or “foreseeing” or as she would say, “I foresee…,” and, then, she would ramble on about some event that would immediately or eventually take place in the future. She had foreseen (and seen) so many other things and situations, too, especially strange phenomena that seemed to have been happening a lot lately. Frank was tired of having to constantly confront the inexplicable, longing to return to those days empty of responsibility and “things to do,” or things to understand. 

A sudden jolt brought Frank out of his mind. He had stumbled over a hidden rock, nearly falling face-first onto the ground. He forced himself up, shaking off the powdery snow clinging to his clothes. As he walked back to look at the rock that had made him stumble, he realized it wasn’t a rock at all but something entirely different, unexpected, so unreal that he almost turned back around to continue rushing home. And he did, but after a few steps, he glanced back to see. And it was still there: a frozen cat, motionless on the sidewalk with a small tin can tied around its blue collar. 

He was a tabby, short-haired cat, with an unusual stare. His fur was a patchwork of dark stripes and lighter hues, and seemed as if he had just stepped out of a wild forest. Snow crystals that had accumulated on the cat’s head and on the tip of his nose sparkled in the dim light. The strange frozen feline stood like a statue at a museum, as if waiting for something to be given to him; his green eyes, piercing and unwavering, wise and old, ancient maybe. Frank ignored him and tried to go back to his thinking state. But this was a strange thing. Was it dead? But the cat’s eyes seemed so bright and alive; it couldn’t be dead.

Frank knelt beside the animal, his fingers trembling as he reached out to pat him. He has indeed frozen, very much so. The tin can, about four inches in length and three in height, clinked softly, and all the snow fell from the little barrel revealing tiny words that had been inscribed onto it. He hesitated, glancing around to ensure no one was watching, and he read: Dear Frank, Open the barrel on Christmas Day. Take the midnight ride. E.E.E.