In the shadowed streets of the city where the wind howls like a starving wolf, there lived a little girl. Her tenement crouched at the edge of the slum, its roof sagging, and its windows filmed with smoke and grime. Inside, her parents lay sprawled on filthy pallets, needles strewn carelessly about, eyes glassy, chasing dragons in the depths of their minds while the old wood stove stood cold and black.
Winter that year was crueler than most. Grandfather Frost had come early, his long white beard trailing hoarfrost across the land, his breath a killing wind. He walked the world with his staff of frozen bone, tapping once here, twice there, claiming what was weak or forgotten. And he had marked the little girl’s door.
The girl, no more than seven winters old, huddled beneath a threadbare blanket, her lips blue, her fingers numb. The last log had burned to ash days ago, and her parents not bothered to gather more wood. Outside, the temperature plunged until the stars themselves seemed to crack, and the aurora — dancing like music made fire — grew until it flickered over her home.
It was then that the Flickerfox and the Flickervixen appeared, slipping through the veil between worlds like shadows cast by a dying flame. Dressed in green and gold, his fur sparkling like a campfire seen through glass, hers the more sedate shimmer of coals in a fireplace.
The Välkkykettu, grim of countenance, looked silently about the filthy apartment. “Look upon this sorrow,” he murmured to his wife, his voice a crackle of dry leaves in a bonfire. “The child fades, while the fools who birthed her feed their own demise.”
Mrs Välkkykettu, her golden eyes fierce with maternal fire, hurried to the child, removing her cloak of green velvet. “Husband,” she said, gathering the child to her, “This kit is cold.” She settled in front of the stove, the girl — wrapped in her cloak — in her lap.
The little girl, feeling the gentle warmth of Mrs Välkkykettu, and smelling pinon pine and cinnamon cookies, roused, staring wide-eyed at the Flickerfox.
Smiling cheerfully, the Välkkykettu reached into his cloak, and with a flourish, produced a chunk of log, placing it into the belly of the cold, black stove; then he stripped off his gloves, and theatrically gestured with his hands — first the front, and then the back — as if he were a magician on stage, proving he had nothing hidden.
With a mischievous waggle of his eyebrows, the Flickerfox briskly rubbed his paws together, and with each stroke a shower of green sparks fell upon the wood; in mere moments emerald, amethyst, and gold flames flared and then danced merrily.
Safely ensconced betwixt the warmth of the fire, and the warmth of the Flickervixen — and with worry smoothed from her mind — the little girl dropped into easy slumber.
He came at midnight, a tall figure cloaked in blizzard, eyes like frozen lakes; his beard a tangle of frigid barbs. The door slammed open though no hand touched it, and snow swirled in, seeking the child.
The Välkkykettu stepped between his wife and the figure in the door, paws folded calmly, an impish smile playing. Mrs Välkkykettu laid the child — still wrapped in her cloak — in front of the fire, and rose to stand beside her husband, primly brushing off her skirt.
Grandfather Frost regarded the foxes with winter’s patience. “The child is mine,” he said, his voice the scrape of ice on stone. “Her blood slows. Her heart falters. She belongs to the long sleep.”
The Flickervixen regarded him with golden eyes that burned like a bonfire lit on the longest night of the year. “No,” she said, simply.
“Not this one,” murmured her husband, calm but unyielding. “Her fire is low, but it still burns. Seek others, Ancient One.”
“This,” the reply was the hiss of snow driven before a relentless wind, “Is not your demesne.”
Mrs Välkkykettu laughed softly, “You speak to spirits of Chaos about domain?” Violet sparks ran through her fur, and her growl slipped around the room, promising blood and fury, “Be about your business — elsewhere.”
The elder winter spirit tapped his staff on the floor, once. “There,” twice he tapped, “Are,” and thrice, “Laws.”
Green sparks ran across the teeth in the Flickerfox’s smile, “You wish to counsel foxes about laws?” Blue and green sparks ran along his fur, and when they landed on frost, small auroras danced and twinkled about the room. “My bride has desired that you be about your business, Old Frost-bite.”
“Very well,” Grandfather Frost titled his head. “A bargain, then. The child lives. These others … they have long been mine.”
The Flickervixen looked at her husband, who — not taking his eyes off the ancient spirit of Winter they faced — flicked an ear.
Grandfather Frost extended one pale hand. Rime raced across the floor like spilled milk, climbing the parents’ legs, encasing their limbs in crystal. Their eyes opened briefly — glazed, uncomprehending — then closed forever as the ice reached their hearts. In moments, only two figures in glittering hoarfrost remained, faces locked in faint, foolish smiles.
Task done, the old winter spirit inclined his head to the Flickerfoxes, almost courteously. Then he withdrew, taking his killing wind with him, the door closing behind him without a sound.
The nurse stepped out of the Emergency Room onto the parking lot, talking a slow breath of cold, crisp air. Flexing the stress of a night shift out of her neck, she rolled her head back, and with a gasp of delight, saw the undulating dance of the Northern Lights overhead.
She was chuckling with pure joy, when the flicker of a street lamp caught her eye, and in the space between flashes, she suddenly saw a small bundle in the snow.
Curious, she walked to it, and found a card pinned to green velvet. Smelling faintly of spice and sandalwood, the card had only a short address written on it … and then the bundle whimpered softly.
Moments later, the nurse ran into the hospital shouting for assistance and carrying a little girl wrapped in a green velvet cloak.
In the hour before dawn, when the dark is deepest, and reindeer pull hard for their barn and fresh hay, the police officer walked as softly as he could into a hospital room. On the bed, a tiny figure lay amidst the tubes and hoses and wires, sleeping peacefully despite the noise of modern medicine.
Beside her, the nurse sat in a chair, gently stroking the child’s forehead, as the officer entered, she rose quietly and met him at the door.
“Is everything …”
He shook his head. “No. Welfare check found both passed.”
She sighed, gently, “Now what happens to her?” she nodded to the bed.
He blew a soft breath, “They were both frequent fliers. Addicts with the usual addict crimes. No next of kin was ever listed for either one. No family contacts what so ever.”
“So, what happens to her?”
“I don’t know.”
She squared her shoulders, suddenly fierce. “I’m not leaving her alone.”
Seeing the swift fire, he grinned, looked around, and sat down in a chair, setting his hat in his lap. She looked at him, startled, “What are you doing?”
He smiled, “I’ve got nowhere to be. And I like it here.”
She settled into her chair by the little girl, listening to the small child noises, and he cleared his throat.
“I’ll need your phone number. For the report.”
She looked across the room for a long time.
“Ok.” She paused for several breaths, then whispered, “Merry Christmas.”
His smile was easy and warm in the shadows of the room, “Merry Christmas.”
Somewhere far off, Grandfather Frost walked on, staff tapping softly, seeking the next door left unlocked by despair; while above an ancient forest where two bottlebrush tails thumped an exultant rhythm, the foxfire danced to the ancient truth that some lights must be kindled anew, while others are best left to fade.
~Ian Mc Murtrie
