"The Sorrowful Winter" by ZK Sanderson

The Sorrowful Winter

by ZK Sanderson

Children are a precious gift, but they can also be an unwanted one. My beloved Kolbrún had died, leaving me alone with eight of them to raise single-handedly. I knew I lacked the ability to do so without her help.

We were barely scraping by before; now I had no idea what to do. Our oldest children were ten and nine and hard workers. The other six, though, were either too young or too weak to be of any real help.

Winter was hard enough in a good year, and this one was a bad one. Food was scarce, and with so many mouths to feed, there were plenty of days when we all went hungry. It was debilitating at times.

Worse, I could not afford new clothes for all my children. My sewing skills were severely lacking compared to Kolbrún’s, so I had to get them from a neighbor down the road. 

I started hearing the voice two weeks after my beloved wife had died. I barely noticed it at first, what with so many people living under one roof. But the voice grew louder. It was unrelenting and struck me dumb when I realized I knew it well.

Kolbrún’s voice!

“Hinrik,” she said, “it saddens me to see you struggling and despairing so.” It was my dead wife’s voice, distant yet unmistakable. My heart leapt with joy, even as the room grew colder. Árni, the cat, lifted his head and looked around curiously.

“Kolbrún,” I exclaimed. “I need your guidance now more than ever.” I explained my fears, troubles, and worries to the unseen spirit.

“I know what you must do,” her voice said. “Listen very carefully to me.” I listened. Then I wept.

“No,” I cried. “You ask the impossible of me!”

“There was no other alternative, my love.” Her voice turned cold and matter-of-fact. We went back and forth for some time, but of course she was right. Kolbrún was always right. Sadly, I nodded and cried myself to sleep.

***

It was Christmas Eve. All of us were together in our hovel, and the snow had been falling heavily. It blanketed the landscape. Árni had been outside for most of the day to hunt, but had yet to return.

“Children,” I said as I placed a bundle on the table. “Go out and fetch Árni.” Their eyes went wide with fear; they knew the stories. The obedient children they were, they eventually nodded and started getting ready. I held my two oldest back, and I felt sick. The bundle sitting on the table contained two sets of new clothing. Only two.

The six of them bundled up in their old, worn clothing and timidly stepped outside. Their little faces were etched in terror; my heart ached. The snow had finally stopped, but the night was cold and black. Except for two glowing orbs in the distance that looked like green fires burning in the sky. They blinked and seemed to look towards us. 

Árni suddenly appeared and dashed inside as I closed the door. I jumped in surprise, and he slinked under the table without anyone else noticing. Sobbing, I knew I would never see my six younger children again. 

They were now prey for Jólakötturinn, the dreaded Yule Cat.

I heard Kolbrún’s voice inside my head, consoling me at first. But her voice changed, turning guttural and inhuman. It laughed at me, then all was quiet. The voice was finally gone, and I realized the cruel trickery at hand.

Coming to my senses, I went out the door yelling for my children. But they did not respond. They, of course, could not. The only sound I heard was the wind and the snow crunching underfoot. In the distance, heavy thuds shook the ground and crashed through the night.

I collapsed into the deep snow and wept, but all was drowned out by the howling wind.