A Frosty Tail

by Dawn Sister

  Raphael had only just finished renovating his cottage. Most of the work, he’d done himself, but gardening, he admitted, was beyond even his abilities as an architect. He’d asked Liam to design it and had given him a free hand in deciding what to plant. He loved this sort of job.

  “There’s snow forecast for later, so I wouldn’t bother with the watering. Everything will just freeze anyway.” Liam smiled at him. “Don’t worry. We’ll sort it in the spring. Find some plants that don’t need as much water or much attention.”

  “That’ll be great Liam, thanks. You’re finished for the year after this aren’t you? Have a great Christmas if I don’t see you before then.” Raphael waved him goodbye and disappeared into his cottage.

  Liam left Raphael’s garden with mixed feelings. He was looking forward to his time off, but Christmas always came with the expectation that you should spend it with someone. Raphael wasn’t one to interfere, but others in the village often did, and Liam always received several invitations to Christmas lunch which he knew he should have been grateful for, but he could never decide who to go to, so he inevitably ended up making his excuses after church and spending the rest of Christmas Day alone.

  He was fine on his own. It had been that way since he was eighteen and he didn’t see a need to change any time soon. Occasionally, when he fancied some company, he would travel to the city. He rarely brought anyone home to his cottage in the hills. He wasn’t inclined to share it, except perhaps with a white fox that kept turning up on the track outside.

  ****

  Frosty Stories

  Liam’s next and final job of the season was at the vicarage. The local priest, Father Jacob was a good friend of Raphael’s. Together they were perhaps the closest Liam had to friends in the village, even though he got on with everyone else well enough.

  Liam pushed open the vicarage gate and walked beneath the neat rose arch, giving it a critical once over, as he always did to something he’d cultivated. The roses were long gone now, and the arch was trimmed and dormant for the winter, as was everything else in this garden. There was still beauty to be found, however, even in the depths of winter.

  How did the quote go? “One is nearer to God’s heart in a garden”? Very apt considering this one belonged to the vicarage. Liam could well believe it here, especially on a day like this, when the frost covered everything in a silvery blanket, and crystal-tipped every branch and bare twig with a pretty, magical lacework of ice.

  The sight took Liam’s breath away. He’d never get tired of seeing how different his gardens looked at different times of the year. The last time he’d worked in here, there’d been damp moss greens and dull browns. Today it was transformed into a magical winter wonderland.

  “Good morning, Liam.” Father Jacob appeared at his conservatory door. He was dressed in his usual black with white collar showing beneath a thick black, hand-knitted sweater. Liam rarely saw him wearing anything but black, except in the summer, if it was really hot, he occasionally wore colourful, Bermuda shorts in place of his black trousers.

  Father Jacob swept his hand across the garden as Liam approached him.

  “Are you enjoying Jack Frost’s handiwork on this lovely Winter Solstice?”

  Liam chuckled. “I’m surprised that you of all people, would put this down to the work of a mythical sprite, and not the hand of God.”

  Father Jacob smiled broadly, his merry hazel eyes crinkling. “We should be able to accept that even the mythical sprites are God’s creatures, Liam. Even if they don’t realise it themselves.”

  Liam nodded, thinking back to his encounter with the white fox the night before. He could well believe there had been a divine entity involved in the creation of such a beautiful creature.

  Liam accepted an invitation for some mulled wine in the vicarage conservatory once he’d finished for the day. Father Jacob had grown up in the next village, so knew this part of the world very well. When Liam asked him about the white fox, he was only too happy to tell everything he knew.

  “Hmm, a white fox? Very interesting.” Father Jacob rubbed his chin thoughtfully as he settled in a comfy chair opposite Liam. “My grandfather used to tell a tale about a white fox and a fairy queen. The queen tried to hold back winter in her forest, by gluing the leaves back onto the trees. The white fox in that tale, was the spirit of winter, come to make sure she didn’t interfere with the natural order of things. She tried to imprison him, but he escaped by wearing four foxglove flowers as slippers. That’s apparently how the foxglove got its name, you know.”

  “This fox is hardly the spirit of anything.” Liam chuckled. “He’s real enough, and I’ve seen him plenty of times. It can hardly be the same fox your Grandfather spoke of either. Perhaps the white fur is a genetic trait, like the blackbirds you sometimes see with white feathers.”

  Father Jacob smiled, topping up Liam’s mug with more mulled wine.

  “The appearance of a fox in a dream often symbolises loneliness, and sometimes a way of pointing you in the right direction.” The priest continued. “Of course, a white fox could be emphasising that symbolism, or in fact could mean something completely different. I’d have to look that up. The Celts respected foxes for their cunning and intelligence. They believed the creatures were the guardians of the gateway to the underworld.”

  “Right.” Liam leaned back in his chair, cradling his mug of wine, frowning thoughtfully. “Except I didn’t dream this fox, and I very much doubt there’s any gateway to the underworld on the track that goes past my cottage.”

  “I should hope not.” Father Jacob chuckled. “There is also the ancient belief that seeing a fox near a homestead is a bad omen.”

  That little snippet did not make Liam smile.

  “A bad omen?” He asked, surprised that Father Jacob, of all people would give such stories any credence.

  Father Jacob shrugged. “I’m not saying we should believe these superstitions, but my Grandfather used to tell such stories. That white fox featured in a few of them. He told me he’d seen the creature up on the hilltop lake once, dancing on the ice, making patterns with its paws. He also used to tell me that every time the white fox was spotted, something happened in the village: an accident, a bout of extreme weather, a loss.”

  “A loss? You mean like a death?” Liam gasped. “Father Jacob, that’s hardly a comforting thought when I have to walk up to my cottage in the dark, on my own. As a priest, aren’t your words are meant to bring comfort, and not scare me witless?”

  “Pay it no mind.” Father Jacob told him, chuckling. “You know how I love to tell ghost stories.”

  That fact was certainly true. Father Jacob was a wealth of information when it came to myths and legends and local tales of the supernatural. Some thought he had an unhealthy interest in the occult, for a priest. Liam found the subject fascinating, except when it involved him directly, and then it scared him a little too much.

  He didn’t believe in ghosts, or spirits, or even God, for that matter, although he did go to church on Christmas Day, but that was out of a respect and support for Father Jacob, rather than a belief in some all knowing, all seeing Deity. Hearing that a fox he had been looking forward to seeing again, on his way home, might be foretelling some disaster, was not really something he felt very happy about, even if he didn’t believe any of that stuff was true.

  ****

  Frosty Feet

  The weak winter sun had fully set when Liam bid Father Jacob goodnight and left the vicarage. He made his way up the dark track and away from the village, cursing that he’d stayed so long, and had drank rather too much mulled wine.

  As he stepped onto the dirt track that led past his cottage, he felt his heartbeat quicken just a little, in anticipation of seeing the fox again, and with anxiety over what Father Jacob had told him.

  Could the fox’s appearance really be foretelling some unfortunate event? He hoped not. He wanted to see the fox again, but hoped whatever it was up to, that fortune telling wasn�
�t part of its plan.

  He’d quickened his pace, wanting to get home, out of the cold, biting wind, but when he reached the darkest part of the track, where the trees formed their tunnel, he slowed down. It wouldn’t do to slip on the ice that had formed there. He’d managed to avoid slipping on the way down that morning, but that had been in daylight when he hadn’t had three mugs of mulled wine. Now all he had was a torch and a slightly fuzzy head.

  Liam hadn’t realised just how oppressive this tunnel of trees was, and just how intimidating it could be until now, when his imagination was running away with him. His head was filled with Father Jacob’s stories and he felt his heart pounding as he made his way beneath the dark branches.

  The air stilled as he entered the natural tunnel. The silence was oppressive and sinister. Liam felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck and an unpleasant shiver ran down his back.

  For a moment he hesitated and considered turning and running back the way he’d come, but that wouldn’t accomplish anything. He might be made welcome for dinner in at least a dozen homes in the village, but he would still, at some point tonight, have to negotiate this dark track alone in order to get home. Better to do it now and get it over with.

  With a determined roll of his shoulders he shone his torch straight ahead and began to walk. The torch beam caught movement at the far end of the tunnel and Liam gasped. Sitting in the middle of the track, bathed in moonlight, was the white fox. Liam froze, his breath making opaque clouds in the torch beam. The white fox made no attempt to move. It simply sat on its haunches and waited.

  Was it waiting for Liam?

  That was a ridiculous thought. Why would a wild creature wait for him on a country track? Father Jacob’s anxious warnings filled his head. No matter how hard he tried he could not get out of his mind the thought that this fox was here to warn him. Of what, though?

  “An accident, a bout of extreme weather, a loss”

  Liam gave a shudder, feeling the hairs rise on the back of his neck.

  “Dammit,” he grumbled discontentedly. “Damn foxes and Father Jacob’s spooky tales have got me half scared to death.”

  Somewhere behind him a twig snapped. He whirled around in fright, his heart pounding in his ears. Adrenaline fed his fight or flight reflex, making simple shadows look like dark, menacing horrors. Branches became arms and twigs became ominous fingers reaching out to grab him.

  Liam took a deep breath and calmed down. He was angry with himself. He’d walked this track in the dark many times before and never felt scared in the slightest. He listened to one supernatural tale from Father Jacob and he was quivering in his boots. How stupid!

  And now the fox was gone. Probably scared off by Liam’s startled movements.

  Grumbling to himself, he took a step forward and his boot slid on the surface of a solidly frozen puddle. Liam’s feet flew from beneath him and he fell backwards, his head hitting the ground with a resounding and sickening crack.

  Liam’s vision blurred and blacked out and he saw stars. His ears rang, and his entire body shuddered with shock and emerging pain. For longer than a moment he lay very still, unable to gauge just how badly he’d hit his head. The sickening crack still resounded in his ears and would probably haunt his nightmares as would the realisation that he had surely hurt himself quite badly.

  Could this be the accident the fox had been predicting? If Father Jacob was to be believed, that is?

  Liam considered his options, because staying where he was not one of them. No one used this track at night time except him. It was entirely likely no one would use it tomorrow during the day either. He’d freeze to death long before anyone found him. He couldn’t use his phone to call anyone, because there was no mobile signal. It was a notorious signal black spot all along this track and well past his cottage. He had a landline for that very reason. Not that a land line would do him any good if he didn’t start moving. Shouting for help wouldn’t do him any good either, there was no one nearby to hear him. He was going to have to move. He needed to get to his cottage, even if he had to drag himself there on his hands and knees.

  Bracing himself for pain and dizziness, Liam tried to sit. The pain that erupted in his head, followed by the nausea was enough to make him regret moving at all. He was beginning to think that freezing to death was perhaps a better option after all as he lay, sprawled on his back on the cold, hard ground.

  He gingerly felt the back of his head and grimaced when his hand came away wet and sticky. He couldn’t see the colour, but he could see the dark stain on his fingertips and smell the slight tang of blood. He’d probably need stitches.

  Once more he attempted to move. The ground tilted alarmingly and dizziness, followed by more nausea, forced him to lie back down, this time curled up on his side, just in case he did vomit, which was now a real possibility.

  Finally, he managed to force himself into a sitting position, with his head between his knees until another wave of nausea passed. He then attempted to get to his feet.

  His legs felt weak and his head pounded. Dizziness threatened to topple him again and in desperation he reached out for something solid to hold onto, hoping he’d find a fence post, or a tree trunk. Instead he found an arm.

  “Woah, there, big feller.” A cheerful, male voice called in a lilting Scottish accent. A hand grabbed his and held it fast. The other arm snaked around Liam’s waist to stop him from falling. “I got you, don’t worry. Of course, I can’t guarantee we won’t go arse over tit anyway. I’m only just getting used to these legs myself.”

  “W-what?” Liam asked in confusion, trying to focus on his rescuer.

  “Legs.” The voice by his side repeated. “And feet, really? How do you cope with just two?”

  “I-I don’t….” Liam put a shaky hand to his head. It hurt when he spoke. He had no idea what the man was talking about, but because he had mentioned feet, and Liam didn’t feel confident enough to lift his head and look at the stranger’s face without vomiting, he looked down, trying to make sense of what he was seeing.

  For a moment his vision blurred, and he saw only flashes of white before his eyes finally focused and he did indeed see feet.

  “Oh my god.” He gasped weakly. “You’re not wearing any shoes.”

  His head began to spin in earnest and he blacked out.

  ****

  Frosty First Aid

  Someone had placed a bucket over Liam’s head and was hitting it with a spade. At least that’s how it felt. Liam tried to remember why, moving his hands to try to stop the assault.

  That’s when he realised his arms hurt, and shoulders, neck and hands.

  “Easy there, big feller.”

  Liam froze, a gasp catching in his throat—which also hurt. There was someone else there with him and that wasn’t right, was it?

  “W-who? W-what?” He managed to croak, grimacing because even his teeth were hurting.

  “The name’s Jack.” A pleasant-sounding male voice replied. “You fell.” The man went on in that lyrical Scottish accent that set butterflies fluttering in Liam’s stomach. “Ye slipped on the ice, big feller. Good job I was there, otherwise you’d have lain there all night. Sorry I took a bit of a while to get to you. I had to change, see and I’m a bit out of practice—well to tell the truth, I’ve never actually done it before. Thought about it plenty of times, but never actually—you know.”

  Liam didn’t know, nor did he understand, but the man’s voice washed over him like a balm. He’d always been a sucker for Scottish accents. This one was west coast, if he wasn’t mistaken, with a Gaelic twang. If the man could truly speak Gaelic Liam would be his forever.

  He chuckled at his shameless thoughts. The action made his head hurt, setting off a cacophony of pain throughout his body like a chain reaction.