The Mist Children

by E. C. Hibbs

  Mihka stepped out of the skis and untied the eight long poles lashed to the top of the sled. He arranged two in front of the largest boulder, balancing them against each other in the air, then added the others until he had a skeletal cone structure. Finally he opened a length of reindeer-skin tarp and wrapped it around the whole thing to create a tent. It was smaller than a typical one, but it would do. He only needed room for his sleeping sack.

  Usually he would have carried the poles in a sleigh, to make things easier. But for a sleigh, he needed a reindeer, and they were all still on Anaar. He wouldn’t have been able to leave so quietly if he’d had to urge one of the animals across the channel.

  Mihka thanked the Spirits and chopped a few branches off a nearby birch tree; then he ducked inside the shelter and woke a fire. It took a while; the wood was damp with snow, so he peeled the papery bark off for kindling and split the logs into smaller pieces with a knife. That gave the flames more purchase. Satisfied, he huddled close to warm his hands and tucked into some salted salmon cakes from his pack. They weren’t much, but would keep him going until he reached Poro.

  Unease bit at him. He’d never been out on his own before. Now, miles from his people, he realised how truly alone he was. It was an isolation he had brought on himself, but that didn’t make it any easier.

  The space opposite him was empty: just the shadows of flames flickering on a blank tarp wall. His father Sisu should be sitting there, as he always had.

  But his father was dead. Gone forever. Mihka wasn’t even sure if he would see him again in the other Worlds.

  As he worked through the cakes, chewing them slowly to make them last longer, he held a hand to his chest. It was still hurting from the illness which had ravaged him. The plague had vanished from his lungs practically overnight, but at the back of his mouth, he remembered the taste of blood; heard the rattle of his own breath in his ears. All his ribs felt as though they had cracked like rotten twigs. And his head had been filled with images of a little boy with white eyes and scars down his cheeks…

  The same little boy Tuomas had appeared with on the beach.

  Mihka’s anger swelled with the force of a spring tide. Having stopped walking, there was nothing to distract him from it. He kicked at the fire with a snarl and sent sparks shooting into the air. Tears prickled his eyes, but he hurriedly wiped them away. No matter that nobody would see them fall. He couldn’t bear to cry. That would make it too real, too soon.

  He touched his hair; pulled a few of the strands straight so he could see their whiteness in his peripheral vision. How could so much have happened in such a short space of time? First, he’d been struck by the Spirit of the Lights and trapped in the World Above; then he’d come back and caught the soul plague; and now he was orphaned. All in a single winter.

  And then there was Tuomas.

  That brought a new wave of fury as his face floated in Mihka’s mind. He had loved that face once: his best friend, with whom he’d grown up and laughed. Now there was only hatred. All they had shared, which drew them together, was severed like the rip in the sky above. It hadn’t been a clean cut; it had been rising for a while, ever since Tuomas began to change. Now he wasn’t even human anymore and the final straw had come not a day ago, when Mihka had overheard everything.

  He thought of the red fox ears, the tail, the way Tuomas spoke of Spirits. He was the reason Mihka’s father was dead, as well as all the others who had fallen sick. He might not have murdered them with his own hands, but he had still killed them.

  And despite everything, Mihka couldn’t stop thinking of how the entire nightmare had started. Tuomas had gone into the Northlands by himself, risked his own life in the Long Dark, just to save Mihka’s soul. It had all been for him.

  Mihka’s hands curled into fists so tight, his knuckles went white. Would it be worth asking the Poro caretakers if he could stay in their village? There was nothing left for him in Akerfjorden now. He could separate his reindeer and integrate them with the Poro herd. Then he wouldn’t have to see Tuomas again; wouldn’t have to think about him, or anything, ever again.

  He kicked the logs, harder this time. They spilled out of the pit he had made for them and sizzled as they hit the snow. Smoke instantly began to fill the tent.

  “No!” Mihka gasped. He quickly snatched one of his ski poles and manoeuvred them all back into the centre. Then he flung the flap aside and stepped out to tie it open. Now he’d near to air the place before he could bed down for the night. Idiot.

  He closed his eyes. That was what Tuomas used to call him, in an affectionate way. Deep down, he supposed there was some truth in it. He was an idiot, but he didn’t know any other way to be. Playing around, cracking jokes and pranks… But there was no place for that now.

  Above, close to the cleft in the sky, the Moon Spirit let out a pulse of silvery light.

  A long, low groan suddenly floated through the boughs.

  Mihka looked up in confusion. He was the only person around here for miles – Poro was still several days’ walk away.

  He pulled his bow off his shoulder and nocked an arrow to the string.

  “Hello?” he called. “Is someone here?”

  His fingers curled around the sinew bowstring, ready to draw. Was it a wolf? He’d never heard one make a noise like that, but their howls could be twisted by wind and distance into something eerie.

  He thought quickly. He hadn’t seen any tracks. Maybe he was hearing things.

  The groan came again. It was closer this time, but he couldn’t figure out the direction. And while it definitely wasn’t a wolf, something about it didn’t sound human either.

  Mihka swallowed nervously. The sound swept through him as though he wasn’t there; the trees seemed to present more of an obstacle than his body did. His bones chilled, and beneath his coat, the hairs on his arms stood on end.

  His initial wariness gave way to fear. Not wasting a moment, he ducked behind the nearest tree.

  He had barely pressed his back against it when a great bang came from the other side. Mihka’s heart pounded. Moving carefully, he peered around the side of the trunk.

  He bit his lip to stop himself from screaming.

  The boulder he’d propped his tent against was moving. It uncurled like a huge snail; rock splintered and rose into the bulk of a giant creature.

  As it stirred, it seemed to soften into something lifelike. Its skin turned a horrid green-grey colour, more stone than flesh. It stood fifteen feet tall, long-limbed and stocky, its torso covered by moss and fronds of ice. It snatched at a nearby tree for balance and sent the snow cascading from the crown in soft whumps. With its other hand, it reached to its hip and withdrew a vicious flint blade as long as Mihka’s arm.

  Terror rooted him to the spot. It was a troll.

  He had heard of these things before, in the old fireside stories, but had never really taken them seriously. They hadn’t been seen for generations. It was thought they had all died long ago.

  The troll turned around and poked at the shelter with its knife. Then it snatched the tarp and tore the whole thing off the skeleton of poles. It grabbed the sleeping sack and shook it hard. When nothing fell out, it dropped it.

  With a low grunt, it slowly turned around, black eyes shining in the exposed firelight. Mihka quickly ducked back behind the tree before it could spot him. His hands shook on his bow. Arrows would be useless against that creature. It would be like trying to shoot a mountain.

  He heard the troll sniffing like a hungry beast. Then it came closer.

  Mihka held his breath and closed his eyes.

 

 

 
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