Winter's Embrace

Chapter One – First Snow

As the first snowflake settled, it whispered secrets of a winter tale waiting to unfold. This is a tale which has been told before…or has it? We all know of the mischievous Jack Frost, who nips at our nose when winter comes, and covers everything with slippery ice, but do we really know him?

The crisp air crackled with ice crystals, the white sky pregnant with more snow. The sun was low and bright over the hilltop as Jack marched his way towards his little cabin, nestled in a small copse of pine trees, all of which were quickly becoming decorated in the delicate flakes. Over his shoulder was a heavy bag, which clinked and clanged with each of his large strides.

A thin whisp of pale grey smoke still danced up from the chimney – the fire inside almost dwindled to nothing but ashes. With a large hand, Jack grabs another log from the pile he’d spend many days working on, and pushes the rickety front door open with a broad shoulder. Inside, the cabin is dim, save for the flickering yellow given off by the pathetic looking fire, the windows small and dirty blocking most of the sunlight - well, any sunlight which dares to venture up to the squat cabin. The darkness doesn’t bother Jack, who could find his way around the three rooms which make up his small abode, with his eyes closed.

With a soft thud, the sack gets dumped unceremoniously next to the front door, knocking over one of Jack’s boots. There’s a crackle as the new log is thrown onto the hearth and the fire eagerly licks it with its flames, making shadows dance on the walls as Jack continues his walk into the small bathroom.

The sound of a steady stream of piss hitting the water in the toilet breaks the stillness inside the cabin, and once Jack is finished, he busies himself lighting the few lanterns he has perched precariously on various shelves and surfaces, until the inside of his small cabin is feeling positively cosy. Well, cosy enough for the man whose veins run blue with ice.

Veins are not the only thing which are blue on our man Jack. His skin is a very pale, almost translucent blue which almost sparkles like snow when it catches the light. His fingernails are painted a bright blue, although badly chipped and extremely gnawed at. His hair is even paler than his skin, almost silvery white, but if you get close enough to look, it does still have a blue hue to those soft strands. His eyes are a piercing, dangerous shade of blue, sitting above a sharp nose and a mouth which easily screws up into a mischievous smirk. This notorious smirk often got both Jack and others into trouble…but more on that later.

With a creak, Jack sinks down onto the smooth wooden stool which sits in front of the large draftsman’s desk which dominates the living space of the stone-built cabin. The desk was covered in pages and pages of intricately drawn patterns, for this was the desk that Jack sat at for hours as he designed each individual frost crystal and snowflake. They were beautiful, and people would have been amazed at his talent…if anyone else ever got to see them.

Dusk had snuck up on us as we had been spying on Jack, and the beasts which slept beneath the trees and in the caves started to stir. Soon the night will be here, and it becomes too dangerous to venture outside, even for someone like Jack Frost. So, it was now, in the hazy blues and greys before the sun bid adieu, that he slammed open that rickety ol’ door once more and strode back outside, that heavy sack heaved over his shoulder.

We follow the footsteps he leaves in the even blanket of snow which now covers the landscape, round the back of the cabin and deeper into the jumble of trees. The soft light cast by the creaky old metal lantern his held aloft soon hits the outline of a crudely constructed second, smaller cabin. Although calling it a cabin was being very generous. It was barely bigger than three metres squared, and an average sized woman would have to stoop slightly to stop her head from hitting the ceiling. Jack, being well over six feet tall, nearly folded in half every time he set foot inside.

The door is secured with a large padlock which is holding together several chains of impressive looking links. There are no windows at all in the wooden walls. No chimney. No sliver of light peeking out around the edge of the door.

Jack extracts a key from the tight back pocket of his pants and with a loud click, unlocks the padlock, catching it deftly in one hand before it hits the floor. A waft of stagnant air makes him catch his breath before he stoops and steps inside.

For now, dear reader, we shall leave him to whatever dark and dirty thing which drags him from the relative safety of his lonely cabin out into the watchful eyes of the wood, to the strange, muffled sounds which soon fill the air as he unpacks whatever cargo he had been dragging about over his shoulder. But I promise, we will return soon to Jack…but first we must go back in time a little.