Jack Frost
By Andy Morris
William Farthing found himself in a curious spot; sitting beneath the frost-covered willow tree at the bottom of the garden. It was night time and he had no idea what he was doing there and no recollection of even venturing outside.
Where’s Gladys, was she okay? Always, his first thoughts were of his dear wife. But he quickly concluded she was probably getting up and making breakfast for them both. Dawn was still a few hours away but growing up on a farm she was always an early riser. Satisfied that everything was okay with his wife William turned his attention back to himself.
He wasn't aware of any pain in his old worn-out bones which was a good sign. At least he'd not injured himself coming out here. Nevertheless, he should still be careful. So he decided to take his time before returning to their quaint Bed & Breakfast just in case he really had hurt himself and he hadn't noticed it yet.
While he gathered himself William noted that this would be an opportune moment to enjoy the tranquillity of the night. He was of an age now where he had much more appreciation of the fleeting passage of time and the beauty of the world. Tonight, for example, was a remarkably beautiful night and the old man marvelled at the glittery Christmas-card scene visible through the spindly branches of the willow tree. The air was crisp and still beneath the infinite sea of stars sparkling overhead like chips of ice against the blackness of space. So clear was the night sky that all the constellations William recognised from his boyhood were revealed in their celestial majesty. While all around him silvery light from the huge full moon bathed everything in its soft glow, catching the frosty edges of plants and the walls of the old bed and breakfast. In this magical light, every feature of the house and its long garden was revealed to William in all its nocturnal splendour. It conjured a sense of enchantment that felt as if the night itself were holding its breath, waiting to unveil something wonderful. Nights like this were as rare as they were delightful and William felt the worn-out cogs of his creative mind begin to turn again.
When he and Gladys weren’t busy running The Old Station House Bed & Breakfast they liked to write and illustrated children’s books and this, William marvelled, was the kind of dream-like night that invoked his timeless imagination.
As the old man's steaming dragon's breath curled upwards in the cold crisp air he wondered again why he'd come out here to the garden. He'd better get in and see Gladys he decided, she'd enjoy this scene too. But as he tried to stand he became a little concerned that his leg wouldn't move. There was still no pain down there but it felt a little queer nonetheless. A few weeks ago he'd hurt his leg after tripping over a coffee table in the lounge and he'd had been hobbling around on crutches for a while but he'd got over that quickly and was soon back to work.
He was never one to grumble and always forced himself to get on with things, much to the dissatisfaction of Doctor Hammond.
You really should think about slowing down, William, the GP had advised. You’re not getting any younger. That was a fact that William was all too familiar with.
He and Gladys had been running The Old Station House for nearly forty years now. It was all they had and all they'd ever known. It was one of the oldest Bed and Breakfast's in the New forest and Gladys proudly made sure every guest was aware of that detail. She loved the place and it would break her heart if they ever sold it. Never once had they talked of retirement or living anywhere else. If it had been up to William, he'd have sold up long ago but because he knew how much the home meant to Gladys he was more than willing to work himself to the bone in order to keep it going for her. He'd do anything for his dear Gladys, always had done and always would do. That's why his recent spells of ill-health were such a nuisance. Gladys couldn't run the home by herself and they couldn't afford to employ anyone to work for them. They hadn't been blessed with any children so it was up to him to keep it going before his weak old body couldn't take it anymore and he became too feeble to carry on.
He never grumbled or complained about his various ailments, choosing instead to keep them to himself. If there was some fretting to be done, then it was best just one of them took the burden. But somehow Gladys always knew when there was something on his mind. She could read him as easily as if she were looking at one of their books. Then she’d gently complain about him bottling things up and about how it wasn’t good for him. But it was how he’d been brought up and he didn’t want to upset her with his troubles. Just how would she respond to this; wandering out here in the middle of the night and then hurting himself in the process? He had no idea. Firstly though, he needed to pull himself together and get back indoors.
Maybe there had been a perfectly good reason for coming out here? He reflected. Perhaps he'd come out to refill the bird feeder? Or maybe he'd come to leave some food out for a fox? He must have slipped and bumped his head and had temporarily lost his memory. That's probably all it was and he'd soon recover with no lasting damage. So no, this wasn't evidence of creeping dementia at all. Satisfying himself with his explanation William was about to try and get to his feet again when something caught his eye a few meters away by the moonlit pond.
There was movement over there.
Something stirred again in the decorative reeds. At first, it was just a small motion, a tiny quiver of frozen foliage but there was no breeze and they'd made no noise. The only reason he'd become aware of it was that he'd been looking in that direction. He couldn't see anything as he peered at the pond. Then the movement came again, this time on the other side of the garden by the holly bush. Like before there was no sound just a very brief blur. The spiky green holly leaves glistened with frost sparkling in the pale moonbeams and as the evergreen shimmered, William caught a glimpse of someone trespassing in the garden.
The figure was by the holly, bush bent over as if he were studying something of great interest on the frozen ground before it. The old man hadn’t noticed him at first because the other was dressed in clothes that blended in with his wintery surroundings: Various shades of whites and greys, blues and turquoises covered him from the pointy hat that hung down like an old fashioned nightcap, to the silvery shoes he wore upon his feet. He had his back to William and he watched as the intruder’s hands danced over the stiff white grass as if he was conducting an orchestra to a crowd of insects or perhaps painting a bold portrait.
Regardless of what he was doing, he was in his garden and he shouldn’t be here. A chilling unease crept around William at the sight of this snooper. What if he’d come to burgle the home? Gladys was all alone in there. William wasn’t concerned for himself; he’d learned a thing or two from his time in the army. No, it was Gladys he was afraid for.
"I say" William called. "What are you doing here?" he tried to sound authoritative but the upward inflexion to his voice made him doubt it had required effect. The intruder didn't respond and the old illustrator was about to get up and go over to him when his quarry did pause in his ministrations and slowly turned around to regard William. The figure peered back at him through the Willow's bare branches with a detached curiosity. It was then, as the moonlight fell across his features that William saw how very differentthe other looked. The old man was momentarily taken aback by the figure's childlike, almost elfin features. His face was framed by silvery hair that sparkled like ice where it caught the starlight and it may just be the way the shadows were cast but in the soft illumination William thought his ears looked pointy as in the classical fairy illustrations he was so familiar with. His piercingly blue sapphire eyes stared at William for a moment. He then quickly returned his attention to lower branches of holly bush but not before casting a furtive glance towards the top of the garden and the old house.
A light in the kitchen had flickered on bathing the heart of the home in a warm golden glow. Gladys, blessedly unaware of what was happening out here, sauntered past the window to retrieve two cups from a cupboard on the wall. She was wearing that big pink fluffy dressing gown William had bought her last Christmas and although he couldn’t hear her he knew she’d be humming to herself. She always carried a tune in her heart and a cheerful smile on her lips. She was eternally happy and a friend to everyone. This did mean that she was sometimes a little too trusting of strangers and her good nature had been taken advantage of on more than one occasion with some dishonest guests not paying for their stays in the Bed and Breakfast.
Worryingly, she had no idea about the possible danger she may be in if things turned sour with this peculiar-looking fellow. William turned back to the intruder to see he’d moved again. He hadn’t heard or even seen him go, which was odd because sound usually travelled far on nights like this.
The trespasser had returned to the pond again, crouching down beside Gladys’s collection of garden ornaments. The playful crowd of gnomes stood gathered among the reeds and large stones by the water’s edge carrying their shovels, fishing rods, wheelbarrows. The fresh night had brought a white glittery sheen to their jolly little faces and bright colourful clothes.
William felt a sudden possessive impulse to rush over and snatch the figurines from the intruder's bony little hands. He didn't want him touching them. He shouldn't even be here in the first place! The old man was about to shout something - he hadn't decided what - but his protest caught in his throat and the challenge went unsaid. The agitation of a moment ago melted away as a fantastic realisation meandered into his worried mind: Earlier William had thought it looked like the strange little figure was painting something on the grass and now he saw he'd been correct. The pond was much closer to where William sat compared to the holly bush and from this angle, the stranger did indeed seem to be decorating the gnomes with a thin layer of what looked like frosty snow. He used no brush or tools but seemingly stroked his fingertips over the surface leaving tiny silver lines like icy cobwebs.
Impossible!
William looked around to see similar snowflake patterns frosting all surfaces in the garden: On the branches of trees and bushes, on leaves, on the grass, everywhere. The mysterious visitor moved again and this time William saw the blur of winter colour dart noiselessly over the winding garden path to the little stone birdbath. He paused there for a moment focused on the freezing water before silently zipping to the empty flowerbeds by the kitchen door.
There was little doubt in William Farthing’s mind now as to whom this stranger was. There shouldbe doubt, of course, but the conviction with which the recognition came was undeniable. The old man knew this character. William found himself held in a, not unpleasant, nostalgic bewilderment as stories from his childhood rose to the front of his mind. Tales that his grandmother had entertained him with on long winter nights and which that had taken root in his imagination and helped inspire his love of literature. They were magical stories about Old Man Winter, the King of the Snow Faeries or, more commonly known in these parts as; Jack Frost.
These wonderful tales were the inspiration for many of his books and he'd become somewhat of a local expert on the mythological and magical creatures that were said to inhabit the New Forest and wider British Isles. There were many faery folk native to these parts William knew. Some were friendly while others were mischievous or downright hostile. Jack Frost, William recalled, was the embodiment of snow and ice. Fortunately, the King of the Snow Faeries was considered to be more benevolent than some of his playful cousins and he would warn children of the dangers of venturing outdoors improperly attired. He'd touch their fingers and toes and the backs of their necks with his cold hands to remind them to wrap up warm and cover up properly. He was generally a solitary figure, an artist. William knew him as a carefree spirit who would often come out to play on cold mornings and create the most beautiful winter wonderlands by decorating gardens, trees and the outside of buildings with intricate patterns or sculpting pointy icicles to hang like mini stalactites from roofs and guttering. Just like no two snow-flakes are the same, no two frost patterns are exactly alike and every year he tried to improve each design; make his delicate drawings more intricate, more detailed, and more spectacular. He was a true perfectionist and strove to wow the world every morning as people and animals awaken to marvel the beautiful, yet fleeting, magical realm.
William felt a huge swell of pride fill him as he was witnessing the faery’s handiwork first hand. However, his excitement was tempered slightly by a familiar moment of doubt: Perhaps he was hallucinating? Maybe the cold had got to him and he was seeing things that weren't there? After all, hallucinations were sometimes symptoms of dementia.
No. He brushed the unwanted thought aside, eager to indulge in his childhood fantasies again. Even if he was delusional, he was somehow accessing a well of creativity that, as a writer and illustrator, he should take advantage of. He’d never been able to draw Jack Frost as detailed as he was seeing him now. If only he had his notebook with him, he could capture his likeness and bring a whole new dimension to his own drawings.
Usually, William never went anywhere without his notebook and pencil, he preferred pencils over pens and even slept with them with under his pillow. That way if a thought or dream inspired another piece, he'd quickly get it down on paper before it slipped from his waking mind. Unlike Gladys, he'd resisted the lure of new-fangled technology. Gladys had bought him one of those tablet computer things last year but he never used it. It didn't feel right reading a book without feeling the crinkling of the page, or jotting down words and not hearing the scratching of pencil on paper.
“Hey” he called out to the sprite again. “I know you.” William wasn’t sure if the wintery visitor was listening to him or not. After a moment, though he paused in his work and then slowly turned around nodding to himself in satisfaction of his handiwork before his piercing ice-blue gaze lingered in the old man’s direction once again.
"I say. I'm awfully glad to meet you…" William's words trailed off. Suddenly everything he was about to say seemed woefully inadequate as he marvelled at the creature before him. Was he really talking to one of the fairy folk? If William wasn't so worried about what he was doing out here in the middle of the night he'd have laughed. Gladys would never believe him when he told her whom he'd met. She'd probably just tell him to stop such silly talk and get on with his chores!
"I, I can't get up." William thought he should explain his predicament to his wintery visitor. Just in case he thought his lack of mobility was somehow ill-mannered.
“It’s my leg” he indicated his right leg stretched out in front of him on the leafy bed of frozen twigs.
Then, in the blink of an eye, Jack Frost was by his side. He nimbly sat down cross-legged and began examining the nuisance limb. As he did so a thoughtful expression creased the faery's youthful features suggesting his true age was many generations older than any human being could hope for. William opened his mouth but no sensible words would come so he remained quiet. Fortunately, his companion didn't seem to notice his hesitation. William remained perfectly still, worried, probably unnecessarily, that any sudden movements may startle his guest away. In rigid fascination, William watched as the sprite reached out one of his long blue-white bony fingers and traced a swirling pattern from the ankle up to the knee. His fingers danced, slid and tapped his leg so swiftly that they soon became a blur. William would have expected his touch to feel as cold and icy as the winter frost around him but, curiously, he didn't feel a thing as traces of frozen moisture settled on his leg in jagged crystal stars.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Gladys in the kitchen and again he willed her to see him out here, to see whom he was with. He wanted to call her but daren't. Likewise, he daren't wave to her lest their visitor took flight. He couldn't take his eyes off this strange being until at last the faery sat back on his haunches to examine his work like a master sculptor eyeing his latest piece, checking for even the minutest imperfection that needed correcting. Apparently satisfied the environmental artist nodded to himself. William's leg felt much better and he suspected he'd soon be able to move it again. As he flexed his toes he saw that the lightening-quick faery was now at the kitchen window where Gladys was still rummaging around gathering cups and plates.
She was talking to someone, William noticed. Her lips moving and she was gesturing here and there as she did when she was giving him instructions about cleaning a bedroom or tidying the garage. The old man wondered who on earth she could be gossiping within there. There were no guests staying with them at this time of year and although a purple haze was starting to seep into the night sky it was far too early for anyone to be calling round to the house.
The magical fellow was busy decorating one of the panes on the far side of the kitchen window, covering the latticework in a circular snowflake design which was slowly frosting the glass. Gladys’s wouldn’t see him unless she turned around but she was chatting away looking very engaged with someone. If only Gladys would look this way she’d see him now in the glowing pre-dawn light. William was about to get to his feet and make his way indoors when her unseen companion stepped in front of the window and William was once again forced to question his sanity.
The identity of this second figure in the kitchen took William Farthing by such surprise he was blinded by a sudden blizzard of confusion. The familiar features of the man in the kitchen were brought into sharp focus so there could be no mistaking who he was. William felt his mouth drop open as he stared back at himselfstanding at the sink filling the kettle with water from the tap while chatting to his wife.
How could he be in the kitchen if he was out here at the bottom of the garden? It simply wasn’t possible. All of this, it was either a dream or a delusion. But, he couldn’t help wondering, if by any chance it wasreal, then who was that in the kitchen with his dear Gladys?
He had to get to the bottom of this. William struggled to his feet but found he still couldn’t move. He tried to push himself up, more forcefully this time but his arms refused to obey him as well. It was if he was frozen to the tree. What had the faery done to him?
Jack Frost was still busy at the window painting the small diamond-shaped panes in spikey starbursts and he’d already covered half of the glass on one side.
“Hello?” William called. “What’s going on? I don’t understand.” But his plea went unheeded and the winter faery ignored him. William was about to call out again when another thought occurred to him: Was Jack Frost ignoring him purposefully or could he not actually hear him? Continuing with this line of thinking, William couldn’t be certain that he’d heard his own voice when he’d just called out. He wasn’t even sure he’d heard his own voice earlier either. He tried to shout out again and although he saw his breath rising before him the only sound disturbing the nocturnal peace was the haunting cry of an owl some distance away.
What’s more, it should be freezing cold out here as well, William realised. It wasfreezing, so why did he feel nothing? He was only wearing his shirt and tie, not even a pullover. Somehow the nippy air didn’t penetrate his skin at all yet all around him leaves were freezing stiff and the pond had a glacial layer of ice covering its surface. There was no chill in his bones, or rather there was but it didn’t bother him. The cold air, he slowly acknowledged, was necessary. It was part of him!
Rising anxiety penetrated the old illustrator's mind. This wasn't real… No, hewasn’t real! Every year Jack Frost tried to improve on his designs, William tentatively reflected; making them more intricate more detailed, more spectacular... and more real. Was he nothing more than a lifelike piece of art created by the winter faery? It sounded fantastical, ridiculous, but still, William felt the heavy truth of it.
Then a new worry came to the fore of his mind: Jack Frost’s creations only lasted a few hours before they melted away with the rising sun. In which case what would happen to him when the sun rose this morning? The stark, unavoidable reality of his own demise was rushing towards him with the gathering light of dawn. There was nowhere he could go, nothing he could do except wait for the inevitable end. He had maybe two hours before the frost started to melt and what then?
This couldn't be happening. He looked again to the vast peaceful heavens, at the never-ending starfield overheard and recalled, when he'd had gazed upon the heavens in the past, how small and insignificant he really was in the grand scheme of things. That sense never felt more real than it did right now.
The sky to the east was brightening into a brilliant fiery orange and the stars were already fading. Within just a few heartbeats the romantic beauty of the wintery garden had changed; to become a cold frozen site where William was all alone. He wanted his Gladys. He called out to her again and when she didn’t hear him he called out to Jack Frost, then to the real William indoors but none of them heard him. None of them could answer to his cries from beneath the frozen willow tree. When he looked at the house again Jack Frost was gone and he could no longer see Gladys or himself through the frosty kitchen window.
Where’s Gladys, was she okay? Always, his first thoughts were of his dear wife. But he quickly concluded she was probably getting up and making breakfast for them both. Dawn was still a few hours away but growing up on a farm she was always an early riser. Satisfied that everything was okay with his wife William turned his attention back to himself.
He wasn't aware of any pain in his old worn-out bones which was a good sign. At least he'd not injured himself coming out here. Nevertheless, he should still be careful. So he decided to take his time before returning to their quaint Bed & Breakfast just in case he really had hurt himself and he hadn't noticed it yet.
While he gathered himself William noted that this would be an opportune moment to enjoy the tranquillity of the night. He was of an age now where he had much more appreciation of the fleeting passage of time and the beauty of the world. Tonight, for example, was a remarkably beautiful night and the old man marvelled at the glittery Christmas-card scene visible through the spindly branches of the willow tree. The air was crisp and still beneath the infinite sea of stars sparkling overhead like chips of ice against the blackness of space. So clear was the night sky that all the constellations William recognised from his boyhood were revealed in their celestial majesty. While all around him silvery light from the huge full moon bathed everything in its soft glow, catching the frosty edges of plants and the walls of the old bed and breakfast. In this magical light, every feature of the house and its long garden was revealed to William in all its nocturnal splendour. It conjured a sense of enchantment that felt as if the night itself were holding its breath, waiting to unveil something wonderful. Nights like this were as rare as they were delightful and William felt the worn-out cogs of his creative mind begin to turn again.
When he and Gladys weren’t busy running The Old Station House Bed & Breakfast they liked to write and illustrated children’s books and this, William marvelled, was the kind of dream-like night that invoked his timeless imagination.
As the old man's steaming dragon's breath curled upwards in the cold crisp air he wondered again why he'd come out here to the garden. He'd better get in and see Gladys he decided, she'd enjoy this scene too. But as he tried to stand he became a little concerned that his leg wouldn't move. There was still no pain down there but it felt a little queer nonetheless. A few weeks ago he'd hurt his leg after tripping over a coffee table in the lounge and he'd had been hobbling around on crutches for a while but he'd got over that quickly and was soon back to work.
He was never one to grumble and always forced himself to get on with things, much to the dissatisfaction of Doctor Hammond.
You really should think about slowing down, William, the GP had advised. You’re not getting any younger. That was a fact that William was all too familiar with.
He and Gladys had been running The Old Station House for nearly forty years now. It was all they had and all they'd ever known. It was one of the oldest Bed and Breakfast's in the New forest and Gladys proudly made sure every guest was aware of that detail. She loved the place and it would break her heart if they ever sold it. Never once had they talked of retirement or living anywhere else. If it had been up to William, he'd have sold up long ago but because he knew how much the home meant to Gladys he was more than willing to work himself to the bone in order to keep it going for her. He'd do anything for his dear Gladys, always had done and always would do. That's why his recent spells of ill-health were such a nuisance. Gladys couldn't run the home by herself and they couldn't afford to employ anyone to work for them. They hadn't been blessed with any children so it was up to him to keep it going before his weak old body couldn't take it anymore and he became too feeble to carry on.
He never grumbled or complained about his various ailments, choosing instead to keep them to himself. If there was some fretting to be done, then it was best just one of them took the burden. But somehow Gladys always knew when there was something on his mind. She could read him as easily as if she were looking at one of their books. Then she’d gently complain about him bottling things up and about how it wasn’t good for him. But it was how he’d been brought up and he didn’t want to upset her with his troubles. Just how would she respond to this; wandering out here in the middle of the night and then hurting himself in the process? He had no idea. Firstly though, he needed to pull himself together and get back indoors.
Maybe there had been a perfectly good reason for coming out here? He reflected. Perhaps he'd come out to refill the bird feeder? Or maybe he'd come to leave some food out for a fox? He must have slipped and bumped his head and had temporarily lost his memory. That's probably all it was and he'd soon recover with no lasting damage. So no, this wasn't evidence of creeping dementia at all. Satisfying himself with his explanation William was about to try and get to his feet again when something caught his eye a few meters away by the moonlit pond.
There was movement over there.
Something stirred again in the decorative reeds. At first, it was just a small motion, a tiny quiver of frozen foliage but there was no breeze and they'd made no noise. The only reason he'd become aware of it was that he'd been looking in that direction. He couldn't see anything as he peered at the pond. Then the movement came again, this time on the other side of the garden by the holly bush. Like before there was no sound just a very brief blur. The spiky green holly leaves glistened with frost sparkling in the pale moonbeams and as the evergreen shimmered, William caught a glimpse of someone trespassing in the garden.
The figure was by the holly, bush bent over as if he were studying something of great interest on the frozen ground before it. The old man hadn’t noticed him at first because the other was dressed in clothes that blended in with his wintery surroundings: Various shades of whites and greys, blues and turquoises covered him from the pointy hat that hung down like an old fashioned nightcap, to the silvery shoes he wore upon his feet. He had his back to William and he watched as the intruder’s hands danced over the stiff white grass as if he was conducting an orchestra to a crowd of insects or perhaps painting a bold portrait.
Regardless of what he was doing, he was in his garden and he shouldn’t be here. A chilling unease crept around William at the sight of this snooper. What if he’d come to burgle the home? Gladys was all alone in there. William wasn’t concerned for himself; he’d learned a thing or two from his time in the army. No, it was Gladys he was afraid for.
"I say" William called. "What are you doing here?" he tried to sound authoritative but the upward inflexion to his voice made him doubt it had required effect. The intruder didn't respond and the old illustrator was about to get up and go over to him when his quarry did pause in his ministrations and slowly turned around to regard William. The figure peered back at him through the Willow's bare branches with a detached curiosity. It was then, as the moonlight fell across his features that William saw how very differentthe other looked. The old man was momentarily taken aback by the figure's childlike, almost elfin features. His face was framed by silvery hair that sparkled like ice where it caught the starlight and it may just be the way the shadows were cast but in the soft illumination William thought his ears looked pointy as in the classical fairy illustrations he was so familiar with. His piercingly blue sapphire eyes stared at William for a moment. He then quickly returned his attention to lower branches of holly bush but not before casting a furtive glance towards the top of the garden and the old house.
A light in the kitchen had flickered on bathing the heart of the home in a warm golden glow. Gladys, blessedly unaware of what was happening out here, sauntered past the window to retrieve two cups from a cupboard on the wall. She was wearing that big pink fluffy dressing gown William had bought her last Christmas and although he couldn’t hear her he knew she’d be humming to herself. She always carried a tune in her heart and a cheerful smile on her lips. She was eternally happy and a friend to everyone. This did mean that she was sometimes a little too trusting of strangers and her good nature had been taken advantage of on more than one occasion with some dishonest guests not paying for their stays in the Bed and Breakfast.
Worryingly, she had no idea about the possible danger she may be in if things turned sour with this peculiar-looking fellow. William turned back to the intruder to see he’d moved again. He hadn’t heard or even seen him go, which was odd because sound usually travelled far on nights like this.
The trespasser had returned to the pond again, crouching down beside Gladys’s collection of garden ornaments. The playful crowd of gnomes stood gathered among the reeds and large stones by the water’s edge carrying their shovels, fishing rods, wheelbarrows. The fresh night had brought a white glittery sheen to their jolly little faces and bright colourful clothes.
William felt a sudden possessive impulse to rush over and snatch the figurines from the intruder's bony little hands. He didn't want him touching them. He shouldn't even be here in the first place! The old man was about to shout something - he hadn't decided what - but his protest caught in his throat and the challenge went unsaid. The agitation of a moment ago melted away as a fantastic realisation meandered into his worried mind: Earlier William had thought it looked like the strange little figure was painting something on the grass and now he saw he'd been correct. The pond was much closer to where William sat compared to the holly bush and from this angle, the stranger did indeed seem to be decorating the gnomes with a thin layer of what looked like frosty snow. He used no brush or tools but seemingly stroked his fingertips over the surface leaving tiny silver lines like icy cobwebs.
Impossible!
William looked around to see similar snowflake patterns frosting all surfaces in the garden: On the branches of trees and bushes, on leaves, on the grass, everywhere. The mysterious visitor moved again and this time William saw the blur of winter colour dart noiselessly over the winding garden path to the little stone birdbath. He paused there for a moment focused on the freezing water before silently zipping to the empty flowerbeds by the kitchen door.
There was little doubt in William Farthing’s mind now as to whom this stranger was. There shouldbe doubt, of course, but the conviction with which the recognition came was undeniable. The old man knew this character. William found himself held in a, not unpleasant, nostalgic bewilderment as stories from his childhood rose to the front of his mind. Tales that his grandmother had entertained him with on long winter nights and which that had taken root in his imagination and helped inspire his love of literature. They were magical stories about Old Man Winter, the King of the Snow Faeries or, more commonly known in these parts as; Jack Frost.
These wonderful tales were the inspiration for many of his books and he'd become somewhat of a local expert on the mythological and magical creatures that were said to inhabit the New Forest and wider British Isles. There were many faery folk native to these parts William knew. Some were friendly while others were mischievous or downright hostile. Jack Frost, William recalled, was the embodiment of snow and ice. Fortunately, the King of the Snow Faeries was considered to be more benevolent than some of his playful cousins and he would warn children of the dangers of venturing outdoors improperly attired. He'd touch their fingers and toes and the backs of their necks with his cold hands to remind them to wrap up warm and cover up properly. He was generally a solitary figure, an artist. William knew him as a carefree spirit who would often come out to play on cold mornings and create the most beautiful winter wonderlands by decorating gardens, trees and the outside of buildings with intricate patterns or sculpting pointy icicles to hang like mini stalactites from roofs and guttering. Just like no two snow-flakes are the same, no two frost patterns are exactly alike and every year he tried to improve each design; make his delicate drawings more intricate, more detailed, and more spectacular. He was a true perfectionist and strove to wow the world every morning as people and animals awaken to marvel the beautiful, yet fleeting, magical realm.
William felt a huge swell of pride fill him as he was witnessing the faery’s handiwork first hand. However, his excitement was tempered slightly by a familiar moment of doubt: Perhaps he was hallucinating? Maybe the cold had got to him and he was seeing things that weren't there? After all, hallucinations were sometimes symptoms of dementia.
No. He brushed the unwanted thought aside, eager to indulge in his childhood fantasies again. Even if he was delusional, he was somehow accessing a well of creativity that, as a writer and illustrator, he should take advantage of. He’d never been able to draw Jack Frost as detailed as he was seeing him now. If only he had his notebook with him, he could capture his likeness and bring a whole new dimension to his own drawings.
Usually, William never went anywhere without his notebook and pencil, he preferred pencils over pens and even slept with them with under his pillow. That way if a thought or dream inspired another piece, he'd quickly get it down on paper before it slipped from his waking mind. Unlike Gladys, he'd resisted the lure of new-fangled technology. Gladys had bought him one of those tablet computer things last year but he never used it. It didn't feel right reading a book without feeling the crinkling of the page, or jotting down words and not hearing the scratching of pencil on paper.
“Hey” he called out to the sprite again. “I know you.” William wasn’t sure if the wintery visitor was listening to him or not. After a moment, though he paused in his work and then slowly turned around nodding to himself in satisfaction of his handiwork before his piercing ice-blue gaze lingered in the old man’s direction once again.
"I say. I'm awfully glad to meet you…" William's words trailed off. Suddenly everything he was about to say seemed woefully inadequate as he marvelled at the creature before him. Was he really talking to one of the fairy folk? If William wasn't so worried about what he was doing out here in the middle of the night he'd have laughed. Gladys would never believe him when he told her whom he'd met. She'd probably just tell him to stop such silly talk and get on with his chores!
"I, I can't get up." William thought he should explain his predicament to his wintery visitor. Just in case he thought his lack of mobility was somehow ill-mannered.
“It’s my leg” he indicated his right leg stretched out in front of him on the leafy bed of frozen twigs.
Then, in the blink of an eye, Jack Frost was by his side. He nimbly sat down cross-legged and began examining the nuisance limb. As he did so a thoughtful expression creased the faery's youthful features suggesting his true age was many generations older than any human being could hope for. William opened his mouth but no sensible words would come so he remained quiet. Fortunately, his companion didn't seem to notice his hesitation. William remained perfectly still, worried, probably unnecessarily, that any sudden movements may startle his guest away. In rigid fascination, William watched as the sprite reached out one of his long blue-white bony fingers and traced a swirling pattern from the ankle up to the knee. His fingers danced, slid and tapped his leg so swiftly that they soon became a blur. William would have expected his touch to feel as cold and icy as the winter frost around him but, curiously, he didn't feel a thing as traces of frozen moisture settled on his leg in jagged crystal stars.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Gladys in the kitchen and again he willed her to see him out here, to see whom he was with. He wanted to call her but daren't. Likewise, he daren't wave to her lest their visitor took flight. He couldn't take his eyes off this strange being until at last the faery sat back on his haunches to examine his work like a master sculptor eyeing his latest piece, checking for even the minutest imperfection that needed correcting. Apparently satisfied the environmental artist nodded to himself. William's leg felt much better and he suspected he'd soon be able to move it again. As he flexed his toes he saw that the lightening-quick faery was now at the kitchen window where Gladys was still rummaging around gathering cups and plates.
She was talking to someone, William noticed. Her lips moving and she was gesturing here and there as she did when she was giving him instructions about cleaning a bedroom or tidying the garage. The old man wondered who on earth she could be gossiping within there. There were no guests staying with them at this time of year and although a purple haze was starting to seep into the night sky it was far too early for anyone to be calling round to the house.
The magical fellow was busy decorating one of the panes on the far side of the kitchen window, covering the latticework in a circular snowflake design which was slowly frosting the glass. Gladys’s wouldn’t see him unless she turned around but she was chatting away looking very engaged with someone. If only Gladys would look this way she’d see him now in the glowing pre-dawn light. William was about to get to his feet and make his way indoors when her unseen companion stepped in front of the window and William was once again forced to question his sanity.
The identity of this second figure in the kitchen took William Farthing by such surprise he was blinded by a sudden blizzard of confusion. The familiar features of the man in the kitchen were brought into sharp focus so there could be no mistaking who he was. William felt his mouth drop open as he stared back at himselfstanding at the sink filling the kettle with water from the tap while chatting to his wife.
How could he be in the kitchen if he was out here at the bottom of the garden? It simply wasn’t possible. All of this, it was either a dream or a delusion. But, he couldn’t help wondering, if by any chance it wasreal, then who was that in the kitchen with his dear Gladys?
He had to get to the bottom of this. William struggled to his feet but found he still couldn’t move. He tried to push himself up, more forcefully this time but his arms refused to obey him as well. It was if he was frozen to the tree. What had the faery done to him?
Jack Frost was still busy at the window painting the small diamond-shaped panes in spikey starbursts and he’d already covered half of the glass on one side.
“Hello?” William called. “What’s going on? I don’t understand.” But his plea went unheeded and the winter faery ignored him. William was about to call out again when another thought occurred to him: Was Jack Frost ignoring him purposefully or could he not actually hear him? Continuing with this line of thinking, William couldn’t be certain that he’d heard his own voice when he’d just called out. He wasn’t even sure he’d heard his own voice earlier either. He tried to shout out again and although he saw his breath rising before him the only sound disturbing the nocturnal peace was the haunting cry of an owl some distance away.
What’s more, it should be freezing cold out here as well, William realised. It wasfreezing, so why did he feel nothing? He was only wearing his shirt and tie, not even a pullover. Somehow the nippy air didn’t penetrate his skin at all yet all around him leaves were freezing stiff and the pond had a glacial layer of ice covering its surface. There was no chill in his bones, or rather there was but it didn’t bother him. The cold air, he slowly acknowledged, was necessary. It was part of him!
Rising anxiety penetrated the old illustrator's mind. This wasn't real… No, hewasn’t real! Every year Jack Frost tried to improve on his designs, William tentatively reflected; making them more intricate more detailed, more spectacular... and more real. Was he nothing more than a lifelike piece of art created by the winter faery? It sounded fantastical, ridiculous, but still, William felt the heavy truth of it.
Then a new worry came to the fore of his mind: Jack Frost’s creations only lasted a few hours before they melted away with the rising sun. In which case what would happen to him when the sun rose this morning? The stark, unavoidable reality of his own demise was rushing towards him with the gathering light of dawn. There was nowhere he could go, nothing he could do except wait for the inevitable end. He had maybe two hours before the frost started to melt and what then?
This couldn't be happening. He looked again to the vast peaceful heavens, at the never-ending starfield overheard and recalled, when he'd had gazed upon the heavens in the past, how small and insignificant he really was in the grand scheme of things. That sense never felt more real than it did right now.
The sky to the east was brightening into a brilliant fiery orange and the stars were already fading. Within just a few heartbeats the romantic beauty of the wintery garden had changed; to become a cold frozen site where William was all alone. He wanted his Gladys. He called out to her again and when she didn’t hear him he called out to Jack Frost, then to the real William indoors but none of them heard him. None of them could answer to his cries from beneath the frozen willow tree. When he looked at the house again Jack Frost was gone and he could no longer see Gladys or himself through the frosty kitchen window.