The Warmth of a Winter's Night
By Renee Carter Hall
On the coldest night of the young winter, a boy ran through the village streets, urging his younger sister ahead of him. He was the fastest runner, by far, but he was determined to keep himself between Anna and the monster that stalked them. If he had to, he would carry her, somehow.
His name was Pétur, and this was the first year that he had failed them both.
He caught up to Anna and pulled her into an alley stacked with wooden crates and barrels. He thought of mice running into a hole. Maybe it would be enough.
Beside him, Anna whimpered, and he put his arm around her and pulled her close, both to comfort her and muffle the sound. “Shhh. It won’t find us here.”
He dared a quick peek out. If only the moon were not so bright. If only they could hear it coming. The best he could do was watch for the great plume rising from its breath as it moved silently through the streets.
Hunting them.
They huddled together, shivering. Anna’s bare legs were like ice. It had been a hard season. Other years, he’d managed to work enough to afford something new for both of them. Sometimes a kindly villager gave them an old shirt or a dress their little girl had outgrown. But this year there was nothing but the threadbare rags on their backs—nothing new to wear, not even new to them. Sitting in the cold dark, Pétur wished he had taken something from that washerwoman’s line, back before the freeze. At least he could have taken something for Anna…
He peeked out through the crates again. Maybe it was gone. There were so many villages and cities for it to visit. It must have moved on.
All at once, in a splintering crash, the crates flew away, batted aside in a single swipe. Two golden eyes, big as the moon, looked down on them, set in a frost-gray face fringed with silvery whiskers.
Pétur scooped Anna up and ran, somehow, again, and the Cat followed. But he was hungry and exhausted, and the Cat was large enough to look in on second-story windows, so a single leap from it was enough to outpace the children. Pétur pushed Anna on ahead. Maybe she could get away while the Cat was busy with him.
Pétur never saw the paw that darted out to flip him off his feet. He landed on his stomach, felt himself turned over, and then the great paw pressed into his chest and belly, holding him down.
He wanted to be brave, here in this last moment. But his courage drained into exhaustion, and he closed his eyes and simply waited as the Cat lowered its head. At least its breath was warm. It was nice to be warm at the end.
But nothing happened. The huge paw holding him down rested on his body almost lightly, pressing only hard enough that he could feel the warm pad through his thin shirt.
At last, he dared to open his eyes. The Cat’s deep moon-gaze held his, and then the creature spoke, in a voice Pétur felt in his chest.
“Do you know who I am?”
Pétur swallowed, but his throat was too dry to speak, so he managed to nod.
The Cat blinked slowly, looking pleased. “Do you know what I do?”
Anna. Where was Anna? Had she gotten away? He jerked his head to the side, and his heart fell when he saw her held under the Cat’s other paw. Her eyes were wide, but she was alive—for now.
The Cat lifted his paw for an instant, tapping him on the chest as if to get his attention. “Do you know what I do?”
“You find children who don’t have new clothes at Christmas.”
“And?”
Why wasn’t he getting this over with? But maybe giant cats liked to toy with their prey just like little ones did. “And…eat them?”
The Cat’s eyes gleamed. “Really?”
“That’s…what they say.”
“Who?”
Pétur would have shrugged if he hadn’t still been trapped under the Cat’s paw. “Everyone?”
“Mmm.” The Cat brought his nose down to Pétur’s. Pétur tensed, waiting for the jaws to open, but the Cat only whispered as if sharing a secret.
“Do I look like I eat children?”
Pétur almost laughed. He wanted to say, Well, you’re big enough to swallow them whole, or maybe, What else are those huge teeth for? But something stopped him. The terror he’d felt only moments ago was gone, and the exhausted resignation that had followed it had faded too. What was left, he found, was a flickering light of hope, small as a candle flame. They were, after all, still alive.
Pétur looked into the Cat’s eyes and considered what he saw. If it was going to be the last thing he said, he wanted it to be the truth.
“No,” he said finally. “You don’t.”
“Perceptive child,” the Cat said, with a murmur that might have been a purr. “I will let you up now, but please don’t run. I’ve had enough play for one night, and I mean you both no harm.”
The heavy paw lifted. Pétur did run—but to Anna. Her face was wet with tears—and she was also wet elsewhere, which Pétur didn’t blame her for—but she was all right.
Pétur turned back to the Cat. “Whatever you do to us, we have to stay together. I promised.”
“And so do I.” The Cat extended his front paw elegantly, pad up, and bowed his head. “Now climb up, both of you.”
Pétur put his arm around Anna and helped her up. In a slow, smooth motion, as if washing his face, the Cat drew his paw carefully up and settled her onto the nape of his neck. Then Pétur climbed on, and soon he was next to her. They snuggled down into the Cat’s long, thick fur, and soon they were warm and dry.
“Now,” the Cat said, “hold on.”
There was nothing to hold on to but his fur, but the Cat didn’t seem to mind as they grasped handfuls of it. As he stood up, they rose into the air, looking down on the village streets. Then he set off at a walk, which became a trot—they held on tighter—and at last he was running, like a gray swirl of snow driven on the winter wind.
They soon left the village behind. Ahead of them were smooth vistas of snow that the Cat’s broad paws skimmed over. The wind had died down, and the night sky above them was soft black with sprays of frost-white stars. All was silent, and, but for their movement through the landscape, all was still.
The night felt wondrous and without end. They no longer felt tired or hungry or cold, but after a time, the Cat stopped in a grove of evergreens. He stretched and dug his claws into the bare earth beneath them, and a merry fire blazed up. When he swiped his paw across it, all at once there were mugs of steaming milk, roasted apples fragrant with spice, and a round loaf of bread, crackly outside and soft and sweet inside. There was even a kettle of warm water to wash with, and a clean dress for Anna, plain but perfectly fit.
Pétur was bursting with questions, but caution made him hold his tongue. The Cat saw his expression and smiled. “There is great magic afoot this night. It takes little to kindle it.”
They ate and drank their fill, and by the time they had finished they were both very sleepy. The Cat took them gently up again, and when they were again settled in his thick, cozy fur, he walked on.
The rest of that silvery night passed like a dream. Sometimes they slept, safe in their certainty that the Cat would not let them fall. Sometimes they woke to landscapes beautiful and strange: glittering fields of fog and frost, canyons of crystals, forests that glowed with pale and ghostly light. But whether they were asleep or awake, they were never afraid.
The sky had just begun to lighten when they reached a village nestled among quiet fields. Smoke curled lazily up from chimneys, and the rows of houses looked warm and snug as children tucked into bed. The Cat moved through the streets as if he knew where he was going, turning here and there with never a moment’s hesitation. Finally, he stopped in front of a bakery and stretched so the children could climb down.
Pétur pressed his nose against the dim window. “Couldn’t you just make more food?”
“We’re not here for bread,” the Cat said. There was a knocker on the door in the shape of a sheaf of wheat. The Cat reached out, hooked it with a claw, and knocked.
A moment passed, but nothing changed inside. Pétur shook his head and turned away from the window. “I don’t under—”
They were alone. The Cat was gone, and even his pawprints on the snowy cobblestones were melting away as the sun rose.
Anna looked at Pétur with wide eyes, but before he could say anything reassuring, the door opened.
The woman was tall and solid, and the man behind her was soft and round. Both had hair sifted with gray—though some of it might have been flour. Their eyes had the look of people who have dreamt of something sweet for years and each morning were sorry to wake to a world without it.
Pétur knew he should say something, but he didn’t know what. Would they even believe him if he told them about the Cat? But before he could open his mouth, the woman knelt down to face him and smiled, as if she’d been expecting them both.
“I’m so glad to see you,” she said.
“Come in,” her husband urged, “you’ll catch your death of cold out there. Come in where’s it warm—and you must be hungry.”
He made it sound like a command, and Pétur smiled. On any other night, he would have been wary, but tonight he had looked into the Cat’s eyes and seen the truth, and now he looked into theirs and saw just the same, that there was no harm for them here. They walked through the door, into the scent of baking bread, and then up a narrow staircase to the rooms above the bakery. From that day on, there was always room and food and love enough for them both, and there were always, always new clothes at Christmas.
And yet, one year when the moon shone full over a world of silver and white, the night when windows glowed with plenty and alleyways were dark and cold, Pétur stole out to the highest hill he could find and looked down on the village, hoping. At last, just when his toes were going numb and he was ready to give up, he caught sight of a gray shadow in the grayer night, whiskers tipped in silver, and those eyes like twin moons searching.
The Cat paused then, ears turning toward the hill. He looked up, and his eyes met Pétur’s.
Pétur waved, just a little, and then he placed his hand over his heart.
The Cat nodded, just a little, and then he melted back into the shadows. When Pétur caught sight of him again, he was headed out of the village. On his back, a girl in a ragged dress, barely more than eyes and limbs, clung tight to his fur. Pétur remembered and wished her well. The Cat saw Pétur still watching, and one of the twin moons winked. Then he was gone, swift and silent over the snow, leaving Pétur alone on the hill, under the glittering sky.
So many stars, so many villages, so many children. So much want in the world, and so much wonder! It was too much for him to hold. With a joyful shout Pétur leapt and raced down the hill, his breath in clouds, the cold air sharp and sweet and singing in his blood. The past faded into the darkness behind him, and he ran toward the warm lights of home.
This story originally appeared on the author’s Patreon site in December 2022.
Renee Carter Hall writes fantasy and science fiction for kids, teens, and adults. In addition to previously appearing in Androids and Dragons, her short fiction has been published in numerous other magazines, podcasts, and anthologies, and her novels include the Cóyotl Award-winning young adult fantasy Huntress. She lives in West Virginia with her husband, their cat, and more books than she will ever have time to read. Readers can find her online at www.reneecarterhall.com.