The colors in the sky dimmed then flared strongly, and the ribbon she traced gave way to a wave that showered down towards the sea.  A breeze full of frost kicked up off the water down the rolling hill from her house, carrying the moisture from the sea, past the boats tied to rocks on the shore, past the collection of squat buildings that made up the center of the village, through the trail wide enough for a single person cut through the grass on the hillside leading up to her own wooden house. She shivered and shifted her weight up from leaning against the slats, and took the two steps to the door.  Her hand found the latch, smooth as driftwood, from the thousands of openings and closings since her husband had set the door in the frame four years ago.  For the first three months, she’d braved splinters from the birch he had harvested one by one to build their home.  Over time, it smoothed to a silken texture.  The splinters gave way to the oils from their hands, from the lanolin from the sheep’s wool after she sheared them, to whatever sticky thing her soon-to-be eldest had touched, the fat from the ice- dwelling fish her husband caught in the summer to sustain them through the winter.  The latch told the story of the people who lived in this house, and soon, it would tell one more.

She eased her body through the door to keep the cold air from leaking inside.  The convection between the warm indoors and icy wind blew the fire in the hearth, the flames laying low, and then, with the influx of air, leaping higher towards the chimney. The orange red glow of embers flared to pale white yellow light, consuming the fuel imperceptibly faster for the moments the wind lasted. The burst of light illuminated the faces of her husband, Eilif, and child, across the room, asleep in the low bed under the westward window.  She had longed to look outside and see the mountains, so after a year of living in their home, Eilef somehow managed to find a piece of glass large enough to make a true window.  Frost collected in its corners and the firelight reflected in the center.  It was an extravagance, this window.  But it meant the part of the outside she loved was visible.

She unwrapped her shawl, placing it on one of three hooks by the door, stepped out of her boots, and tiptoed over to the hearth silently. It was warm inside, and would remain warm enough until sunrise, but suddenly she felt compelled to make the fire hotter and brighter overnight, a protection against something unseen and unknown.  She leaned over and picked up a piece of wood perfectly split and aged, and remembered the sound of the axe falling and hitting logs that past autumn when her husband had chopped and stacked their supply for the winter, weeks upon weeks of labor.  She placed it carefully on the stack of burning logs, stood for a moment to make sure it was stable on the pile and then satisfied that it was, walked equally carefully over to their bed.  She slid down into the divot she left an hour before, calmer now and ready for sleep.  As she pulled the eiderdown up to her chin Ari turned over to face her and without opening his eyes, put his hand under her head to twist one of her curls behind her ear.  Mama, he breathed, perhaps still asleep, be careful.