It was a cold winter day. Not just any ordinary cold, or ordinary winter, or ordinary day. On the contrary, this cold was so cold it was less like a feel of the air and more like a strange spirit, a deity of unknown intent who's lack of life, of flesh and bone, of warm blood, was evident in the great cold he exhaled. Each breath he took smote the earth and made it sink deeper into itself a little more, as a wounded walrus from a polar bear. This winter was the coldest winter in a century, which was saying something in those mountains, where every year it froze sufficiently that one could take a rodent and swing it by its tail into a snowdrift and come up with a hairy popsicle. Assuming one wanted a hairy popsicle. Nille would.
Poor mouse.
And did I mention it was Christmas Eve?
The girl sat by the fireplace, not so much for the warmth (it wouldn't have helped much anyway from winter's breath), but because she liked it there: it gave her a chance to think. When all else was dark, and the fire was the only light there, she found it calming, like staring at the heart of the world, a vast treasure, all hers. She would talk to the fires as she would never talk to her siblings, or her mother, or even her pet seal, Nille. She would stare for hours into the eyes of the fire and be mesmerized, and pour out her hopes and dreams and fears, for among her poor and practical family, she was a dreamer, something that had earned her many scoldings. The fire's gaze never wavered from hers. The flame would hiss and sputter, and toss to and fro, but at heart, fire was fire, and this fire was hers. But this day, indeed the fire did waver. In fact, it went out completely, and the world was suddenly a colder, harsher place.
Suddenly, there came a knock at the door, and the girl, confused, scared, a little angry now that the initial shock was over, cautiously edged to the window by the door and, parting the curtains just so as to see who was there, peered warily at the visitor. Normally, there would be no need to be so cautious, but strange conditions breed strange men, and highwaymen were not so uncommon in the winter as to put a lowly passersby out of suspicion. Nille, the baby seal, whined and flolloped over to the girl's side, mewling. The girl picked the little fuzzball up and scratched behind his ears, holding him up so as to see out the window as well. Standing at the door was a stooped, shadowy figure.
It was leaning lightly on a cane, and the girl had the nagging feeling that it didn't even need the old warped stick. An enormous pack was strapped to its back, of sufficient size as to put a full-grown seal inside, if one were good at chopping and organizing, and one had to be good at chopping and organizing this far north. The figure's face was obscured not only by the snow, but by a curious hat. It was not a snow-hat, or a workman's cap, but a funny sort of hat, fancy, impractical. A little tattered by travel, perhaps, but not unlike one the girl had seen in a showy catalogue left by a door-to-door salesman. Of course, her mother had not taken kindly to the peculiar man, and the poor woebegone had been sent packing with a stinging swipe with a broom. Her mother was a crackshot with a broomstick. The man had dropped a few catalogues, and the girl had pilfered one while her mother had been busy ranting and raving.
The girl was unsure whether she should open the door or not. Certainly, the figure was suspicious, but if the shadowy figure meant them ill intent, then Nille would have cried out, squealed, perhaps even attempted to bite the window. Nille was ever a capricious and spirited little seal. She peered into Nille's liquid brown eyes and found approval, and so she opened the door.
