Spellweaver: A Historical Fantasy Novel

 The sisters watched the snow fall, mesmerized by the magic and peacefulness of the gentle swirl of flakes. Dancing, swirling, sometimes moving upward on a surge of wind. The tree branches sagged under the weight of the snow. Momentary whiteouts occurred as the winds picked up.

 As the flakes fell, she almost felt as if she was rising. Although she sat in the shelter of the cave’s entryway, she could almost feel a frosty brush on her cheeks as the flakes touched the ground.

 A new world appeared before their eyes. Fresh, clean, a new start. Just like every night. Just like every new year. Just like birth. Just like death.

 Her swollen belly was taut against her garments, scratched by the coarse, woolen fabric. It wouldn’t be long now but it couldn’t come soon enough.

 Nighttime fell, and the two retreated to their beds. But she couldn’t sleep. So she spoke with her son, her beloved child: Welcome to this world. You’re going to be a strong, powerful man of peace. You’re going to see things I’ve never even imagined, have children who will have children who will have children who will see and do amazing things. She heard an answer in the affirmative.

 She lay with one palm up, one palm down on the bare dirt, breathing in sync with the rhythmic pulse of the planet. Wait, was she breathing or was the earth breathing her?