Naught is Calling

Allas clenched his hands as the voice whispered softly, a sound not in his ear. There was no presence near him. Not even the faintest flutter of breath. But the voice whispered, beside him, behind him, in front of him. Everywhere and nowhere.

He shook, trying to twist about and hold still. Allas dared not open his eyes.

His mind took him back to his mother standing at her table cluttered with the diatribe of herbs, crystals, runes, and more. She’d held a mortal and a pestle, humming when he’d crept home.

She’d caught his sniffling despite his attempts to hide them. Had known the other children had taunted him again. Called him as mad as his mother. Setting down the mortar, she’d held his shoulders, leaned close, and whispered a secret.

Allas shoved the words away. He did not want to believe them. Did not want her legacy. “None of this!” The last words tore from him, rage filled and broken.

Since when had the figments cared what he’d wanted?

Allas, join us. The voice held the same warmth as his mother’s voice this time.

Before he second-guessed himself, he opened his eyes.

The naught woman stood before him with skin as pale as a new frost. She held out her hand. Allas, come and play.

Taking the naught girl’s hand, Allas followed her into the winter storm while the village slumbered about them. The flurries followed in their wake, allowing another night of solace.

To all but him.