The River Has Roots

by Amal El-Mohtar

Shortly was right; moments later, clouds troubled the light. A thunderhead brewed up in the distance; the wind changed direction and turned cold, blowing in from the north, spreading frost beneath it like lace. WHERE IS SHE, whipped a voice in the wind. WHAT HAVE YOU DONE WITH HER, WITCH? “Fished her out of my millrace, if you must know,” said Agnes, crossly. “Rowan’s looking after her. Climb down out of your air and darkness if you want to have a conversation.” The wind howled, spun around the mill three times, then whirled down into an icy-looking Rin, a head taller than Agnes, looming over her. Their eyebrows and hair were rimed stiff; their eyes were wholly black, and their whole aspect was of a vicious blown snow, the kind of dry, cutting powder that billows in the wind like sand and cuts cold and hard against the skin of anyone unfortunate enough to be caught in it.