Winter's Nell

Flash Fiction - A Folktale

This tale is typically available only to Councilmembers, but is FREE-TO-READ as a WINTER 2024 treat!

Subscribe for free today to receive seasonal fiction in your inbox, or become a Councilmember for full access to all Talebones fiction…

---

Photo by Nico Ehmann on Unsplash

In the cold and dark of the small abandoned barn, Nell lay curled in the straw and fancied in her hunger that she could hear the heavy hoof-beats of the elk-frost passing over, riming the dead grass as he went, towering over the treetops, antlers scraping holes in the soft fabric of the low winter sky. What would he do, she wondered, when he reached the edge of land, the coast, the sea? Would he leap over to other places beyond and spread his cold there, too?

His belling was the wind. The vicious wind. 

Oh, Nell, stop dreaming, she thought to herself.

She leaned up on her elbow, the old hay itching against her skin, wishing—not for the first time—that she had brought a candle with her. The knapsack lying nearby had a hunk of old bread in it half the size of her fist, and a flask of water with only a stale swallow or two left. When she packed it, she had thought she would have enough to reach the nearest town. Instead, she had met with the coldest days of the year, too cold to travel outside with her meager supplies, even in the light of day. Trapped in the only shelter she could find. Three days, already, and the third night wearing on. 

It was hard not to think of the servant’s quarters, back at the Hall. The cruelty of her employers not withstanding, at least Nell had never been without a bed to sleep in, a bit of meat to eat, and ale on holy days.  

Nell sighed and tried to settle back into the straw, the barn creaking around her as the wind whipped against the ancient beams. Nothing to do but sleep and and wait and starve, holding the little bit of bread in reserve for the journey onward, if this cold ever lifted. 

As she closed her eyes to try and sleep, she heard a thumping at the door of the barn. Thinking, at first, it was only the wind, she lay still. But then the thumping persisted, a steady and urgent sound, low down at the bottom of the door, and Nell pushed herself up to go and see, unlatching the old latch and pulling it open, just a little, just enough to see without letting the frost jump in and bite. 

It was a rabbit, small and brown, there before the door, shivering. 

“If you please,” the rabbit said, “may I come in out of the frost, and have a bite of food?”

Nell was too tired and too hungry and too cold to wonder how the rabbit could speak. But she felt pity for the little thing, whose thin fur coat was not enough to shield it, and she replied, “I don’t have much, but I will share a bite with you.”

The rabbit hopped inside. Nell closed the door behind them both and plunged the barn back into darkness. As the rabbit nestled itself into the straw, Nell opened her knapsack, pulled out the hunk of bread, broke off a piece, and gave it to the shivering creature. 

“I thank you,” said the rabbit, nibbling gratefully. “In return, the only gift I have.”

From somewhere—Nell hardly knew where—the rabbit drew out a small box of matches and dropped them into Nell’s trembling hand.

Nell thanked the rabbit, and struck a match. In the daylight she had spent her time looking around the barn, and she knew that an old lantern hung from the back wall. She found it in the tiny light of the match, drew it down, and was pleased that the wick was still good. She lit the lantern, and the barn was suddenly aglow with golden light. 

The rabbit’s dark eyes glinted in the flickering flame. “Now, that’s better!” he said. “Amazing what one little match can do against the weight of night, isn’t it?”

Nell nodded, warming her hands by the lantern. “Amazing.”

In the stillness that followed, a rattling at the barn door. The rabbit looked at Nell, and Nell looked at the rabbit. 

“Better go and see,” the rabbit said. 

So Nell stood and went to the door, opening it a crack against the bitter cold. 

There, before the door, was an owl, shivering in the cold, tawny feathers fluffed. 

“My dear,” the owl said, blinking in the wind, “may I come in out of the frost, and have a bite of food?”

A rabbit speaking, and now an owl. Nell thought only of the small hunk of bread, and her heart sank, but she nodded. “I don’t have much,” she said, “but yes, come in and eat. And mind that you leave the rabbit be. No prey and hunter, tonight, in this cold.”

The owl hopped into the barn, and gave the rabbit a respectful bow. As the bird nestled into the straw, her wide eyes golden in the lantern light, Nell drew out the hunk of bread. She was surprised to see that it was not as small as she had thought it would be, from sharing with the rabbit. She broke off a piece, and gave it to the owl, who ate it quickly. 

“I thank you,” said the bird. “In return, the only gift I have.”

The owl drew out—from somewhere, who knows?—a small flask of fresh water on a twine cord. Nell remembered a tin cup sitting on a shelf at the back of the barn, and she went to fetch it, pouring water for the three of them to drink. She was shocked to find that the flask did not feel any lighter, no matter how much she poured. 

“Incredible what a bit of water can do for the spirit,” the owl said, tapping her beak after taking a drink.

“Incredible,” Nell agreed, and the rabbit cleaned his whiskers with a silky paw.  

Moments later, as the three of them warmed themselves before the lantern’s glow and drank fresh water from the cup, a scraping-scratching at the barn door. 

“Now, who could that be?” Nell said. 

The owl blinked. “Best find out,” she said. 

So Nell rose and went to the door, opening it just a bit, to find a sleek hound sitting respectfully before the door, shivering. 

“Please,” the beast said, “could I come in out of the cold and have a bite of food?”

The hound was big and strong, and Nell worried that there wouldn’t be enough for all to share. But she nodded, and said, “Yes, come in and warm yourself, and I’ll give you what I can. But mind the owl and the rabbit. They are my friends, and none shall come to harm.”

The hound trotted in, taking her place in the straw, curling herself around them all with her shaggy length. Nell opened the knapsack, and pulled out the bread, and it was definitely not as small as she remembered, after sharing with the owl and the rabbit. She broke off a piece suitable for a hound, and the dog ate it gratefully, licking her lips. Then, Nell shared a bit of water with the animal, which she drank heartily. 

“I thank you,” said the dog, tail swishing in the straw. “In return, the only gift I have.”

The dog drew out—from somewhere, oh somewhere!—a thick wool cloak, gray and soft with gentle use. Nell took it gratefully, and wrapped it around them all as they huddled around the lantern. 

“Miraculous what a bit of warmth can do, isn’t it?” said the dog. 

“Miraculous,” said Nell, feeling very cozy, and not so lonely anymore. 

And so the four of them—the girl, the rabbit, the owl, and the hound—huddled together around the lantern and dozed quietly, for a bit, in defiance of the frost as it crept up on the walls and reached for the roof. 

It was after midnight, though Nell could not have known it, when there came a knocking on the door. It was weak, and desperate, and Nell opened her sleepy eyes to see the animals all looking at her.

“Who could that be?” Nell said. 

“Only one way to know,” said the hound. 

So Nell stood and crossed to the door, and she opened it. 

There, hunched before her, was a man. A hollow-eyed man, arm crooked against his side with a hidden wound, ashen-faced and shouldering sorrow. Older than old, younger than young. An ageless man of grief. A ghost. 

But when he spoke, it was not with a ghost’s voice, but with a man’s. Deep, and sad. 

“Please,” he said. “I have nothing to give you in return, but…may I come in out of the cold and have a bite of food?”

Nell could not imagine that there would be enough bread to feed all of them. And she certainly was not glad to see the blade hanging from the man’s belt.

Who was he? Where had he come from? What harm could he do? 

“Please,” he said, and met her eyes. And though they were sunken and his face was lined with woe, his eyes were soft and pleading.  “I have wandered for three days and three nights, and no one will let me in.”

Nell looked over her shoulder, and the animals gazed back, letting her decide. 

“Come in,” she said. “But mind the beasts. They are my friends.”

The man limped in, and Nell closed and latched the door behind him. She led him to the lantern and made him comfortable in the straw, beside the animals, who welcomed him graciously. Without fuss or suspicion.

As if, perhaps, they knew him.

She reached for the knapsack, drew out the hunk of bread. There was just enough. Somehow, there was always just enough. 

She broke off a piece of bread for the man, which he ate. She gave him some water in the tin cup, which he drank. She drew the cloak around him, and she washed and dressed the wound he carried with quick and nimble hands.

He watched her, all the while, eyes unreadable. 

“I thank you,” he said, when the color was beginning to return to his cheeks. “What is your name, and why are you here, alone?”

Nell felt shame rise up in her throat, but replied, “My name is Nell. Only Nell, sir. I have run away from the Hall where I was a maid, because they treated me cruelly. I thought I would reach the town, but I have only managed misery.”

The man considered this. “Sometimes it only looks like misery to begin with. But I see a lantern, and bread, and water, and warmth enough to gather a crowd.”

The animals gazed solemnly at Nell in the golden glow of the lantern. She sighed.

“I wish only that this cold would lift, so that I could begin what life I have before me in earnest,” she said, quietly. “It is a difficult thing…to wait for the thaw.”

The man nodded, smiling softly. For a moment, Nell fancied that she saw some depth of tales behind his eyes, some scroll of time, of past and present mingled. That perhaps he was more than he claimed to be.

He said, “I have known many winters, in my time, and I have watched how people mourn the cold. They think it is their duty to woo the warmth back into the world. They say their prayers, they dance their dances, they conduct their ceremonies. But they could never know that all it takes is one warm hand, outstretched to the wanderer. One door opened. One bite of bread, without return. Yes, I have known many winters. Some are thawed through waiting. Others through generosity. We know which one your works have wrought, little Nell.”

Nell did not understand. But she felt, perhaps, it was important. That something, perhaps, had changed. 

“The night is old. I think,” the man said, “it’s time we all slept, and see what grace waits for us beyond this winter freeze.”

Nell nodded, yawning, and the five of them—the girl, the rabbit, the owl, the hound, and the man—huddled together in the straw, bellies full of bread and water, the lantern flickering on their faces, the cloak warming them, and they slept. 

Fur and feathers. Bread and water. Fire and wool. Warmth and thaw. Always enough.

The belling of the elk-frost was distant, a dream, as he passed overhead, and away. 

******* 

When Nell woke, she was alone. 

The cloak was around her shoulders, the lantern doused to save the wick, the hunk of bread in her knapsack, the flask sitting beside her elbow. Warm in the straw, but warmer still, for the cold did not bite quite so fiercely as it had, the night before. 

Nell rose from the straw and crossed to the door, peering out. The sun was lifting in the sky, and the frost was melting away, patches of dead grass visible in the field, beyond. Over all was a mist, steam rising from the earth after the days of bitter cold. Late winter warmth, prophet of a spring still far off yet, but on its way. 

There, before the barn door, was a reed basket—crudely woven, as by animal paws and beaks—full of provisions: dried fruit, nuts, salted fish, and a hunk of sharp cheese. Enough, perhaps, to get her where she was going. To let her begin again.  

Nell packed her knapsack with the supplies and the flask and the matches, wrapped the cloak around her shoulders, and took the lantern with her.  

She left the barn to find the sun-drenched eastward road, the one she knew would lead her into town, into her new life, far away from cruel words and dark deeds. 

It was when she looked back—once, only—that she thought she saw the figure of a man, watching from the trees behind the barn. A broad-shouldered, bright-eyed man cloaked all in gray, with a blade at his belt, an owl on his shoulder, a hound by his side, a rabbit at his feet. 

A wild-haired wanderer of winter, seeking generosity in the frost.

After a moment the vision melted away, and Nell turned to face the sun.

Thank you for reading!

Want more Talebones fantasy fiction? Try this: