Greta
The blizzard that swept through Carrig was so fierce it ravaged the pine trees in the low hills and left behind a blanket of snow that made hunting almost impossible. The deer bolted up the mountain, scattering across the craggy terrain, while the goats migrated to the jagged peaks, finding shelter in the narrow rock caves there.
The winds that followed were brutal, but the howling cold was not enough to scare off Greta Iversen, who met every storm on Carrig the same way she faced its beasts – with quiet determination. These past few months on the island had been crueller than most, winter crushing the island in its icy grip and refusing to let go. With Papa’s injury worsened by the interminable chill and Mama still recovering from the fever that had stolen her strength several months ago, Greta’s family was near starving. Returning home without food was not an option. She reminded herself of that as she stalked through the cedar forest that hugged the eastern shelf of Carrig, an arrow already nocked to her bow. Her bootsteps were soft and silent, the worn collar of her woollen cloak scratching the underside of her chin.
Despite the blistering cold,Greta’s eyes were quick and keen, scanning the rippling expanse of snow as she prayed for a flicker of movement. But the creaking trees offered nothing but falling pine needles. Even the birds had scattered. She huffed a frustrated sigh, unsettling the copper-streaked strands that had slipped free of her braid. ‘Come on,’ she muttered, moving deeper into the forest. ‘Give me something.Anything.’
All too soon, the pale sun arced overhead, heralding the afternoon. Hours passed, with nothing to show for it but stiff fingers. Greta cursed the grumble of her stomach as she stopped in a small clearing to rest. Tucking her braid back under her cloak, she sipped from her skein of water and reached for that sliver of determination that had sent her out at dawn into the retreating blizzard.
All but defeated, she sunk to her knees. The hunt was proving fruitless, and the wind was picking up. She would have to strike soon if they were going to eat tonight. But there was nothing to catch. She wished she could find a beast to help her hunt. When the good weather held, it was easy to find a wolf to corral. A gentle hum and a few stirring words would entice the perfect hunting mate to lead her to the best spoils. Spoils that they would share at the end of a fruitful morning. But there were no beasts in the cedar forest today. With food so scarce, so too were the bears and wolves she used to wrangle with ease.
Carrig was starving.
A familiar panic stirred in her gut, reaching up through the bones of her ribcage and stealing her breath.
Oh no. Not here. Not now.
She slammed her eyes shut, measuring her exhales, just like Papa had taught her. If she panicked now, the hunt would be lost to her. She would be lost to herself, and it was far too cold to sit in the snow and let the storm in her heart ravage her. She began to hum, low and soft, trying to wrangle the frightened beast that lived inside her. The tightness in her chest loosened. She didn’t dare stop. The trees rustled, a lone blackbird peering out of its faraway nest to listen in. Greta’s heart lifted as she drew new breath, greedily filling her lungs. Her humming blossomed into song, the lilting words of an ancient legend soaring from her like a plea until the cloud in her head cleared and she felt like herself again.
Across the clearing, the snow rippled.
Something flickered in the side of her vision. Another animal stirring at the nearness of her song. She spun, lightning fast. A snow hare bounded from its burrow, one hop, and then another. By the third hop, it was dead, Greta’s arrow flying straight and true. It pierced the hare’s heart, and it flopped to the ground, a starburst of crimson marring the perfect snow around it.
‘Sorry, little one.’ Greta rushed to scoop up her kill, muttering a quick prayer of thanks to the creature, thin and paltry as it was. It would make for a small stew, enough to chase away starvation for another day. And with the wind picking up, it had come just in the nick of time. She cleaned the arrow and returned it to her quiver. Then she slung her bow over her shoulder and turned for home, stumbling as the tension uncoiled from her shoulders.
Greta went straight to her parents’ cottage, which was nestled half a mile uphill from the one she shared with her two older sisters,Hela and Kindra. Mama was dozing on the couch in the small sitting room, with Farron, her docile snow leopard, curled up beside her. Mama’s long dark hair was streaked with strands of grey that had taken root the same time as her fever, the hollows in her cheeks so deep now they gathered shadows. It had become an effort for Greta not to flinch at the sight of them, not to turn her face to the sky each morning and curse the wicked sun that brought them no heat.
As Greta eased the door shut behind her, Mama sprung up, blinking the sleep from her eyes as though she hadn’t been passed out cold a moment before. Her face was as pale as the falling snow but she summoned her strength and rolled to her feet, offering a smile to her youngest daughter.
Greta returned it, trying not to linger on the spindles of her mother’s arms or how she could feel the contours of her ribcage as they embraced. She kissed her cheek and handed her the hare. ‘Your dinner. Sorry I’m late.’
‘My little nightingale, only you could best that scourge of a blizzard,’ said Mama, her stomach grumbling as she took the hare. She carried it through the wooden archway and into the narrow kitchen, where she fished out a handful of carrots from the cupboard.
Papa was sitting at the table, his broad shoulders hunched, his bad leg propped on the chair next to him as he tinkered with the handle on the broken kettle. His copper hair was shaggy, the curls dipping into his storm-grey eyes as he worked. With his trouser leg rolled up, Greta could see the full length of his artificial limb, the wooden planes of his calf stretching up to the steel joint at his knee, which had become mottled with rust these past few months.Another problem they could not afford to fix.
Greta pressed a kiss to the top of his head then set down her bow and quiver by the back door. She frowned at the dwindling fire. ‘You’re almost out of firewood. I can—’
‘I’m going now.’ Papa set down the kettle and reached for his cane. ‘I was waiting for the snow to settle.’
‘It’s vicious out there, Papa,’ said Greta, laying a hand on his shoulder. ‘Let me go—’
‘I can do it,’ he said in a half growl, and Greta stepped back, knowing better than to argue with him. He hobbled to the back door, pulling on his cloak and huffing from the effort, before stepping out into the snow and slamming it behind him.
Greta’s mouth tightened as it rattled in its frame.
‘Let him do it,’ said Mama, gently. ‘It’s a matter of pride.’
Greta bit back her argument, gripping the chair to keep from running out and grabbing the axe from her father. She hated to wound his pride, but the idea of him traipsing through that deep, swirling snow with an unsteady, rust-bitten leg and an empty belly sent a fissure through her heart.
She turned back to her mother, who was already skinning the hare. There was barely a handful of meat on it. ‘I’m sorry it’s not much,’ said Greta. ‘I’ll go higher tomorrow, take the mountain pass and—’
‘Nonsense.’ Her mother swished a dainty hand. ‘You forget your mother is the finest cook this side of the Sunless Sea. I can easily stretch this little fellow five ways.’
‘Two ways,’ said Greta. ‘The hare is for you and Papa.’
She frowned. ‘And what about you, Kindra and Hela?’
‘I caught another one,’ said Greta, grabbing the peeler and setting to work on a carrot so her mother wouldn’t notice the blush staining her cheeks.Of the three Iversen girls, Greta was the most honest. Often to a fault. Especially when Hela sought an opinion on one of her woeful, homespun tunics, or Kindra opined on the handsomeness of her betrothed, Mikkel, whose drawn face bore an uncanny resemblance to their father’s mule. Greta hated lying – the taste of it souring her mouth – but she had learned to do it on occasion for the greater good. ‘Kindra is skinning it as we speak. She’s going to make her own stew, though I doubt it will be as fragrant as yours.’
