Yule Tide Eve
Since Thomas had left without a word earlier that day, the atmosphere in the cottage had become thick with uncertainty. Martha couldn’t shake the feeling that nothing was right—an unease that had only grown stronger since the fire in the hearth had started glowing with that strange, unnatural light. The echoes of whispers from the past seemed loud, creeping around the edges of her vision and thoughts. Faces of her ancestors appeared to her when she turned a corner too quickly, or when she stared too long into the fire—ghostly figures, their eyes watching, waiting, urging her to remember.. something. The veil between the living and the dead had thinned, and the other side was reaching out.
It wasn’t just the spirits of the past that disturbed her. It was something else. Every time she tried to focus on something—anything—there would be small unnatural events. The sound of pots and pans clattering in the kitchen. The soft scraping of spoons dragging across the counter. And even banging—so loud at times it felt as though someone was pounding on the door.
Elara, who was used to her mother’s quiet strength, had started to look concerned. It wasn’t her mother that worried her. She was watching out the window towards the woods. A fox stood near, its eyes gleaming in the dim light. It had been there for hours, watching them. The fox’s glowing eyes were incessant, staring at them through the glass.
“That fox is watching us Mama,” Elara said, barely above a whisper. She wondered if she spoke louder it would disturb whatever lay in the darkness.
Martha nearly ignored her. “Yes, dear. But it’s out there, and we’re in here. Come help me cook.”
The sound of a pot crashing to the ground came from the kitchen, followed by an eerie silence. Marta’s heart skipped a beat. As Martha looked, she saw thirteen small trolls.
For some reason, this broke the tension. Elara giggled. “The lads are here,” she said with a bright smile, grinning from ear to ear.
Martha was less amused. With a spoon in hand, she shook her head. She noted her child’s grin, and eased. “Do you think they’re hungry?,” Martha asked, walking toward the table.
“Maybe we should set out some treats for them, Mama.”
Just then, another clattering noise echoed through the house. A spoon danced its way off the table and fell to the floor with a loud bang. Martha sighed, her nerves starting to fray. “Elara…”
But Elara’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “They like cookies, Mama. Maybe they’ll leave us alone if we give them something.”
With a mix of exasperation and curiosity, Martha allowed her daughter to place a plate of cookies on the table by the hearth. As soon as Elara did, the clanging of pots and pans resumed, this time louder and more insistent. A strange, rustling sound came from the attic, followed by the unmistakable thump of something large scurrying across the rafters.
Martha’s gaze snapped back to the window.
The fox was there. It was the first time Martha noticed it, having previously ignored her child’s remarks.
Suddenly, a loud crash echoed from the roof, followed by the sound of heavy footsteps. Martha barely turned her head one direction, before reversing it back to the window. Too many things were happening at once.
A different sound occurred outside near the fox. Martha looked out. She froze, her breath caught in her throat.
A massive creature—an enormous goat—was facing off with the fox.
The goat, its thick fur bristling and its eyes wild with fury, reared up on its hind legs and stomped toward the fox, which, though smaller, was holding its ground. The fox snarled, its fur bristling, its eyes locked on the goat in an eerie challenge. The two creatures circled one another, neither willing to back down. It was a brief but intense standoff.
Elara, standing beside her mother but turned facing inward to the cottage, gasped. “Mama, look!” Elara was entranced by the trolls eating the cookies near the hearth, where flames were bristling up through the chimney. Martha continued looking out the window.
The fight between fox and goat was brief. The fox darted off, disappearing into the woods. The goat snorted, its hooves striking the frozen earth in frustration, before it trotted away in the direction of the fox, soon fading into the shadow of the trees.
Martha turned back to the room, trying to steady her racing heart. “What just happened?” she whispered to herself.
Elara, however, seemed unphased. She had been watching a different scene with wide-eyed wonder. “I told you they liked cookies! There was an even bigger one!”
Martha, confused as anything by the number of things happening, shook her head, half in disbelief and half in relief. “I give up, dear. I don’t understand what’s going on.”
The sounds of clattering dishes and scraping spoons quieted, as though the trolls had grown bored of their mischief. Martha glanced at the plate where cookies once were on the table. Tiny fingerprints were on the edges of the plate. Noticeably, there was one cookie that was half-eaten, from the mouth of something — or someone — with a much larger bite. Whatever was happening, the house felt calmer now.
A warm memory swept over Martha, one she hadn’t thought of in years. She remembered a moment as a little girl, falling in the yard. She had cried, her young face streaked with tears, until her mother lifted her gently into her arms. “It’s all right, my love,” her mother said. “You’ll be fine. We all hurt sometimes, but you’ll be all right. You always will be.”
Martha closed her eyes, letting the memory wash over her. It may have been a memory, but it felt as if her mother was there, speaking to her. Her mother’s voice was a comfort, in the face of the strange and unsettling present.
“Cookies and stories fix everything,” Elara said, off-hand as she went to making more cookies. Martha smiled softly.
“Maybe you’re right, Elara. Maybe you’re right. Let’s make some more.”
The fire flickered gently in the hearth. The wind howled outside. It felt as if Martha’s mother was there, helping them bake. Whether the trolls were still there, Martha and Elara were no longer giving them any attention. The hours passed in laughter between the two, with the lingering memory of a mother’s love.
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