Part 7

But if you’re wondering about that dog, then I must warn you, that particular part of the story does not end well. Every time the boy came near, it would yap and holler enough you’d think it was being put down. Eventually it was, that feller fearing for the boy’s safety – or more likely fearing the curse, and the maiden’s return.

The country feller lived a long life, and the maiden did not return. And for that, he was grateful.

Of that young sea merchant, he never married, least not so I heard. He wasn’t popular with the maidens – not because he was ugly, fat, or lazy; he was far from being any of those things. But he had peculiar dating habits and insisted on taking his ladies straight home after a drink or a dinner, which most consented to simply finding him a bit forward.

They all noted the way he kept his eyes on theirs. They enjoyed the validation, no doubt. But once at his house, his eyes would bulge, not with lust, but with the exertion of getting them upstairs, over the threshold, and into a hot bath before taking the relationship any further.

And as you might imagine, this did not go down well with any of the women. Most told him to fuck off right where he stood.

Anyhow, that’s how the story eventually found its way to me. We were sat in a harbour tavern one winter evening when he told it, and when he’d finished, I laughed and asked whether he truly believed any of it.

He took a while answering. Then he asked me a question.

Had I ever lost somebody?

Not exactly lost. Someone I’d wronged. Someone I’d left behind. Someone I’d give a good deal to see again.

I told him that was none of his business.

He smiled at that and said no more.

Funny thing was, I hadn’t thought of her in years. Not since I told myself it was done with. Yet after hearing the tale, I found myself remembering. Little things at first. The sound of her laugh. The colour of her hair. The look she gave me the last time I saw her. Memories I’d managed well enough without.

Then came the noises. Not every night. Only now and then. A faint jingling out beyond the hedge. Like ice knocking together. Or glass.

Last week, after a hard frost, I found a trail crossing the field behind my cottage. Not footprints. Not exactly. Just a narrow score through the white, as though something had been dragged across it. It ran all the way to my back door, which I must have left open.

I stood there a long while looking at it.

Then I heard the faintest sound.

Jingle.

Jangle.

It was coming from somewhere beyond the mist.

Though there are tales for all seasons, hers is most definitely winter, the season of silence, in which her voice booms the way a jet engine will, appearing later in a soundless sky. Those tales tell how she’s born suddenly amid the disorientation of a whiteout, in the same way darkness is the midwife of fear.

I went on inside.

Left the light on, and the door ajar.