A Body

Whitevalley was never known for anything special — and even less for anything exciting. It was mostly recognized for one thing: the sheer number of ravens that lived there. Perhaps that’s why its flag bore the image of a black bird.

For most of the year, the small town lay hidden beneath a veil of fog. Mount Thorn — that grim, frozen giant of stone — rarely allowed true sunlight or warmth towards the valley below. From one of its jagged ridges, the Spirit Waterfall plunged into the valley. Anyone who neared the eastern edge of town could soon hear its steady roar. Legends speak of the Spirit, claiming that if even a single drop touches the body of a human, it freezes into ice instantly, and their soul gets caught up in the wild current or trapped in ice forever. The waterfall is difficult to approach, but one of Whitevalley’s elders swore he had seen it once with his own eyes — and the strange ice pillars surrounding it, which seemed to take the shape of almost human-like forms.

On one of the first dawns of May, two unusual things arrived.

The first was a girl.

The second, which appeared in the valley almost at the same time, was the May snow.

The mysterious lady was pale, yet her thick hair was black, like the feathers of the ravens sitting on the town gate. The shorter strands framed her face in a perfectly curved line, while the longer ones reached all the way down to her thighs. Somehow, each strand of hair seemed like a motionless tree branch and at the same time, a lightly drifting black silk ribbon. She wore a white dress, which seemed to be made of a single piece of fabric and covered her entire legs. The sleeves of the dress were long as well, their ends falling in soft frills onto the girl’s hands just as her skirt did onto the ground. She held a red-colored umbrella in her hand, on which a thin layer of snow had already gathered.

No one knew in advance about her arrival. A rosy-cheeked maid ran screaming to the master of the house, thinking she had seen a ghost. The gatekeeper told everyone in the morning that he had not seen a single soul enter.

That very morning, the inhabitants of Whitevalley were gathered together. The girl did not appear. Finally, based on the accounts of several dozen people, it was determined that the mysterious figure might have gone to the small stone tower on the farthest edge of the northeastern part of the town. No one had ever lived there, for as long as the valley could remember.

After that, nothing was heard of the phenomena for nearly a week. The snow had already stopped, yet the incident was not forgotten. No one dared to venture close to the tower, and yet, in secret, it was constantly being watched by the people.

Then one morning, Miss Maryweld saw her sitting all alone on the edge of the fountain in the center of town, staring blankly ahead. The kind-hearted lady, suppressing all her fear, wanted to go and greet her, but — as she told everyone shortly afterward — upon looking into her eyes, she nearly died of fright.

According to Miss Maryweld, they had no color. They most resembled white, but were not exactly that. They were simply colorless.

Panic spread among the inhabitants of Whitevalley. Was she a demon, a spirit, or perhaps an angel? Rumors began to circulate, claiming that the girl was one of the souls frozen in ice by the Spirit Falls, somehow freed.

This went on for many long weeks. The White Lady appeared and disappeared, and by then, there was hardly a person who hadn’t run around town claiming to have encountered her.

But no one dared to speak to her until the very end of June.

Then it was Willard, the pastor’s son's turn to face her. He had heard countless tales of horror from his father about beings like her, and he knew many ways to drive away evil. Yet when the White Lady stood before him in the twilight fog, not a single one came to his mind.

Her skin resembled the pale hue of the Moon. This time, she wore a lace dress, and her eyes were covered by a black mourning veil. Willard did not wish to flee.

"Who are you?" he asked after some time.

"My name is Morana," the White Lady answered. Her voice whispered, sharply echoed, and tenderly flowed at the same time. Willard was mesmerized.

"Why did you come here?"

"Fate guided me here," the odd voice spoke again.

The boy stood there in silence for a while. And in front of her stood Morana, whose name was known only by him at this moment.

"And what do you intend to do?" This was the last question Willard could think of.

"I'm searching for something," was the answer.

Willard did not dare to ask any more questions. Instead, he introduced himself as well, told her where he lives, what he does, and started telling her about the valley, the woods, fields, and towns. The lady listened motionless and quietly. She did not ask anything, nor gave any reactions. And then, when it got so dark that he could barely see the White Lady from the short distance between them, Willard wished her a good night and went home. He only gathered the courage to tell anyone what had happened the next morning.

Whitevalley was now even more confused than before. Someone had spoken to the White Lady — who, as it turned out, had a name — and although no one really knew why she was there, she seemed to harbor no ill intent. Abbott, the pastor, spent half the morning scolding his son. He even struck him with a stick, then made him recite thirteen prayers. Willard was not allowed to leave the house courtyard for the following days, except on Sundays for church.

But even there, he found the lady, whose name was Morana.

She sat on the left side, in the second row, this time completely shrouded in black. The mourning veil still cast a dark net over her face, from beneath which her white skin glimmered faintly. Her hands were covered by gloves made of fine fabric. A beautiful, multi-layered string of white pearls ran down her chest, forming a perfect contrast with her high-collared black blouse.

Morana was a beautiful creature. At least, that was what Willard thought. He wanted to move closer, to see her face, to speak to her — but he felt his father’s gaze behind him, piercing straight through his chest, and the marks from the earlier beating suddenly began to ache. So he sat down on the right side, in the very first row. Slowly, cautiously, he turned around — just enough to glimpse at the girl’s red-painted lips, her porcelain skin, the gleam of her eyes from beneath the veil.

A cold wind howled through the hall; the candleholder on the wall emitted only smoke now instead of light. The small organ began to shriek with a sharp tone, and the verses of the Holy Bible flowed from Abbott’s mouth in a deep, monotonous voice. Amens and soft cries echoed through the air. Morana sat frozen.

She had not found what she was looking for.

As they were leaving the church, Willard overheard some curious conversations.

A few women — all of whom claimed that Morana had appeared to them at some point — were whispering among themselves about their experiences and impressions.

None of them was like what the boy had witnessed.

“At one moment she was on my right side, and in the next, she was on my left!”

“Yes, yes! By God, I swear there were at least two of her!”

“Aye, the little devilish creature toyed with me as well! I thought she would attack me any second and drag me down into the depths of hell — God have mercy!”

The women all crossed themselves. Their conversation suddenly dropped to an even quieter murmur. Willard listened from behind a bush.

“But truly… what do you think she is?”

“Not of this world, that much is certain.”

“But still, no one’s ever heard of anything like her before.”

“Oh, haven’t they? Don’t you remember, two years ago — that mountain village?”

Willard suddenly grew thoughtful. As the incident came to his mind, his eyes widened in realization.

“Now that you mention it, Helena — wasn’t there rumors about the figure in the emerald dress, one whose hair was always wet and her hands cold as ice?”

“Yes, yes, that’s exactly what I mean! That one also seemed to be a young girl…”

“You’re right! I remember it that way too! Only the Lord knows what became of her in the end.”

“Now think about it — wasn’t that village at the edge of the forest?”

“Yes, yes, it was.”

“And the Stormwell River flowed right past it — the one that feeds the Spirit Falls from afar.”

“That’s true. The river flooded the town not long after!”

“And then, long before even that, there was the mysterious Red one — in the very same town that was consumed by fire half a year later!”

“Oh, by my God, yes, she was there too! All those towns by the river...”

"And all those terrible things happening to them..."

“Ladies, do you understand what I’m getting at?”

The boy hiding in silence understood very well what Mrs. Dalton meant. At the same time, he understood less and less of what was happening in the small town. In fact, he could not even imagine what was going to happen next.

In the days and weeks that followed, the growing tension wove an ever-thickening, ever more suffocating veil over the small valley town. Although Morana still had not harmed anyone, nor interfered in the town’s life in any way, the people lived in fear. Whether this was due to the many rumors or precisely to the quiet isolation of their unexpected guest, no one could tell.

Willard was the only person who genuinely looked forward to the next encounter with the girl. By dawn or dusk, no one else dared to go outside anymore; some didn't even allow their children out of the house for more than an hour or two a day — and even then, just until the end of the street. But the boy did not believe a single one of the frightening stories, for that was not how he saw Morana. In his eyes, she was no demon — rather some kind of fairy, a nymph. If only his father hadn’t been so strict...

Yet, no matter how hard the pastor tried to prevent his son from meeting Morana again, in the end, it happened once more.

It was late at night. Abbott was suddenly struck by a tormenting headache, but there happened to be no medicine at home. It was therefore Willard’s task to fetch some. However, as soon as he turned the corner, he recoiled in terror.

There stood Morana, facing him completely, as if she had been waiting just for him. Her hands were clasped behind her back. She looked somehow different now — not as elegant as before. Her attire most resembled a simple white nightgown, and she was standing barefoot on the damp cobblestones.

Still keeping her hands behind her back, she suddenly began to walk toward the boy. Then, stopping just before him, she slowly leaned forward — so close that her face was only inches away from Willard’s.

The pastor’s son could not breathe. A chill swept through him, as though his blood had turned to ice. There before him was that pale face, and those wide, colorless eyes. For the first time, he too felt fear toward the girl.

“Good evening,” Morana spoke suddenly — in her usual monotonous yet unnaturally alluring voice. She kept staring straight into Willard’s face, but received no reply. Then, with an uncharacteristically sudden movement, she turned to his side, now observing him from a slightly more comfortable distance.

“I greeted you. But never mind — tell me instead, where are you headed?” she asked.

Those two sentences were the longest and the most human Willard had ever heard from her. It brought him somewhat back to his senses. He cleared his throat.

“To the apothecary.”

“I will come with you.”

Yesterday, Willard would not have refused such an offer for the world. But now, had it not been said in such a plain, declarative tone, he might have agreed only out of fear. And so, the two youngsters walked side by side. An uncomfortable silence settled between them.

When Willard came out of the apothecary, he found the girl standing with her back half-turned toward him. She was staring motionlessly into the yellowish glow of a street lamp. For a few seconds, the boy just watched her like that, and suddenly he found her beautiful again — in the warm light of the lamp, she seemed charming, almost childlike.

That strange allure took hold of him once more, and again, he couldn’t understand how anyone could fear her; it completely slipped his mind that only moments ago, he himself had felt the same fear. He cleared his throat again before speaking.

“What do you see that’s so interesting in that lamp?” he asked, smiling.

The girl slowly turned toward him.

“It reminds me of something. Something I’m looking for.”

Willard remembered that last time she had said she was here because she was searching for something. But he had never been able to figure out what that might be.

“If I may ask — what exactly are you looking for? If I knew, I would gladly help you.”

Morana was silent. She only stared at the boy, who began to sense that his question might have been too forward. He wanted to apologize, but couldn’t bring himself to speak.

“What do people say about me, Willard?” Morana asked quietly as she began walking back the way they came from.

Willard was taken aback. The sound of his name from Morana’s lips had an almost unbelievable effect on him. He hadn’t expected the question either, and didn’t know how to answer. But once again, he didn’t need to.

“Don’t answer. I can guess. Tell me instead — what do you think of me?”

At these last words, she turned toward him again, staring at him just as she had when he first saw her that night.

“I… I don’t believe any of them,” Willard said. “I only believe what I see myself. But to tell the truth, based on that, I know almost nothing about you. I know only what you’ve told me. Every other part of your person and character is hidden from me — just as it is from everyone else. You never show emotions or reactions; I’ve never seen you speak to anyone else or do anything that belongs to an ordinary small-town person's life, except for attending church. That’s why you’re such a great mystery to me — and why you interest me so much.”

At that point, Willard felt he had been too honest. But Morana still gave no reaction — just as she never had before. She simply kept looking at him, silently. Her gaze suddenly seemed chilling again. The boy began to feel strange.

“No… I don’t believe… I don’t believe what they say…”

Willard felt that with those words, he was trying only to convince himself of that opinion, for it was beginning to change. The world around him began to blur; he could see nothing but Morana’s white face.

He had no idea whether this was reality or merely an illusion created by his own mind.

“Are you… even human?” he finally gasped painfully. For some reason, his strength began to leave him.

“You could say so,” came the calm, monotonous reply.

With that, Morana turned on her heel without another word and vanished into the dark street.

Willard gasped for air. Slowly, strength returned to his muscles; he could feel the blood flowing in his veins again. Once he had fully come to his senses, he ran home as fast as he could. In secret, he too took some of the medicine he got for his father.

He had to find out who this girl was. Or rather, what she was.

“You could say so.” That wasn’t the kind of answer he expected. Yet, all things considered, in hindsight it seems quite obvious...

That very night, he ran away from home and headed straight toward the tower at the edge of town. Morana was sitting in front of the tower, on a log. She was combing her long, black hair.

Willard approached cautiously. When he felt he reached near enough, he held his hands out in front of him and spoke in a loud but slightly trembling voice:

“I didn’t come with bad intentions. I’m not afraid of you. I won’t hurt you, and you won’t hurt me. I just want to know who you really are.”

Morana seemed to believe the boy. She put the comb down and, with a slow, elegant motion of her hand, gestured for Willard to sit beside her. Keeping a safe distance between them, they sat in silence at first.

Willard tried to gather himself—and his thoughts—while carefully avoiding looking into the girl’s eyes. In the end, he decided it would be best to let Morana speak.

“Please tell me who you are. I want to know what you’re looking for, why here of all places, and how much truth there is in what they say about you. Everything about you is a mystery to me. I don’t want to keep feeling this way.”

Morana replied with a deafening silence.

Willard didn’t dare look at her, but he could feel that icy gaze upon him. His hands twitched and cramped up; he felt he might crumble under the weight of anticipation.

Then, in an instant, it all dissolved.

“I am Morana.”

She said it with such significance and confidence that Willard felt he understood words that had never even left Morana’s lips.

Morana, Morana…

Morana.

A voice — or perhaps just a formless thought — but something whispered into his ear what that name truly meant.

“The goddess of winter and death.” How had he not realized it until now?

“Once, I was not one of you. Not until a powerful enemy of mine took from me everything that made me who I was.”

Cold sweat ran down Willard’s body. He felt every nerve in him was about to snap. He was now in possession of knowledge that sounded utterly impossible. And yet, he couldn’t help but believe every single word.

In the next moment, Morana’s lifeless gaze met his—colder than ever before.

“For he took my soul.”

The sentence struck like that brief moment when a dying person suddenly feels nothing after their suffering. The world around Willard froze—and spun—all at once.

“He took it from me, and with it, he took every essential part of my being.

And now I am merely a body.

An empty body, resembling a human.”

Suddenly, everything made sense—and at the same time, everything became confusing. If something like this were possible, then the world as Willard had known it was not real. All at once, everything blurred before the young man’s eyes; he could hear nothing but his own ragged breathing and the pounding of his heart. Through his slowly closing eyelids, he barely saw Morana’s figure becoming a more and more distant shape, until soon she merged with the darkness itself.

The last image he remembered from that night was of a raven—and then another, and another, and who knows how many more—landing nearby and watching with curious eyes, his body now lying on the cold, hard ground.

The next moment of awareness for the boy came around noon the following day. He woke up startled, as if from a terrible nightmare in the middle of the night—and he felt exactly that way, too. His throat was parched, his stomach burned with emptiness, and he was drenched in cold sweat.

Not long after, Abbott entered the room carrying a pitcher of cold water and some bread. There was a darkness in his expression that Willard had never seen before. But he only noticed this after greedily consuming everything his father had brought him. That was the moment Abbott had been waiting for.

“My son. I will not ask you anything right now, and you mustn’t try to speak either.”

Willard obeyed silently. He couldn’t imagine what was about to happen. After a long sigh, his father suddenly began to speak, his voice rising in anger.

“So this is why I prayed to God all those years to bless me with a child? So that I would have to raise a useless, disobedient, blasphemous boy like you? May God rest your mother’s soul in peace—now I finally understand why the Lord took her life the very moment you were born! It wasn’t enough for you to run away in the middle of the night — but to do so to make a pact with the Devil! That woman is of Satan, and I’ve warned you of that more than once! The old fishermen found you at dawn—they thought you were dead when they carried you back here!”

The priest paused. Suddenly, his gaze turned cold and grim again. When he spoke next, his voice was much quieter.

“For me, this was the last straw. And not just for me, really. This morning I called a meeting in the town square, and all of Whitevalley agreed to my proposal immediately. In fact, even better ideas came up.”

“What are you planning to do, Father?” the boy asked, terrified of the answer. After another brief pause, the answer came.

“This evening, we’ll set out—and rid ourselves of that creature forever.”

He didn’t explain the details; he simply left the room. Willard felt himself sink into the bed. Something heavy settled upon him in that moment—something inexplicable and merciless. He sat for a long time beneath the weight of that something until suddenly, he realized.

He no longer felt worried for Morana. He didn’t want to save her, protect her, or talk the furious people out of their rage. In fact, he wanted to be there. Perhaps he even wanted revenge. And yet, he felt that none of it would have been justified. After all, it was he who had approached the girl—it was he who so desperately wanted to know who she truly was… With such heavy thoughts weighing on his heart, he awaited the coming of evening.

And the time came. He left the house at his father's side—armed and carrying torches.

The crowd had already begun to gather in the square. Before long, nearly the entire town was there, pushing, shouting, and stirring. This mob was setting out against the one inhabitant they had never welcomed—because she was different from them. And the only admirer she once had was among them, too.

It didn’t take too long for them to reach the abandoned, crumbling tower, which now hid a condemned within its walls, making it seem all the darker and more chilling.

At the sudden noise, the one the enraged crowd sought soon appeared, and was immediately seized by their claws. The girl did not resist. She allowed them to tie her up and drag her away — to spit on her, to curse at her with harsh, hateful words. The people marched triumphantly, with even higher spirits, toward the legendary waterfall. Dark clouds were gathering in the sky, and the slowly emerging Moon was pale and round.

The Spirit was plummeting down into the depths with a terrifying roar—its very sound was ghostly.

Of course, no one dared to approach it too closely, but the townsfolk had already chosen a spot in advance—one from which they could cast their sacrifice into the torrent from a distance they deemed safe. And so they climbed up there. Each person uttered one last frenzy of shouts and prayers, and then they surrendered the bound body to the waterfall’s current and to the icy northern winds.

Willard felt, in that moment, like his heart had frozen solid and shattered into pieces. The once so mysterious and fascinating stranger was now cast out—even from the world of humans. Cruelly executed.

Everything seemed to happen so slowly—and as he watched her long black hair whip through the air as she fell, sudden tears burst from his eyes, and before he could even realize it, a miserable, broken cry escaped his trembling lips.

Then, suddenly—silence. But the gazes were not fixed on him.

Not so far away, upon another cliff, she stood.

There she was—clothed in black from head to toe, her long, veiled sleeves and trailing gown blowing wildly in the wind.

She was more terrifying than ever before.

It was at that moment that Willard finally understood what Morana — the mighty goddess of winter and death — had been seeking all those years.

And behold, the very place where they meant to execute her was what had given her true life once more.

The silence was broken again by young Willard himself. His mad, haunting laughter echoed through the entire valley, as it was starting to get covered by slowly falling, white snowflakes.