Free Embers of the Raven: A Christmas Story from Greenland (The Christmas Raven Book 1) by Chris Paton Page A

instantly regretted it. Moving slowly towards them in a long loping gait was a lanky four-fingered beast. Its long arms swung back and forth between the slow swings of a bulbous knapsack pulling heavily upon its back. Mikissok knew what was in the knapsack long before he heard the muffled screams drowning amid the crunch of the breaking crust of snow beneath the beast’s feet. The dwarf knew this beast, he knew her well. Amâgaiat she was called and that knapsack on her back was the amauten , a half rotten sealskin sack patched with the tanned flesh of her victims. Amâgaiat often prowled under a winter moon, preying upon lone travellers, Greenlanders travelling to and fro between the winter settlements. Mikissok had seen Amâgaiat all too often and for that he was fortunate. He knew her blind spots; upon the barren arctic landscape Amâgaiat was blind to anything that did not move. As the fell beast passed by the dwarf Mikissok held his breath and stilled his thoughts. Through half-lidded eyes he regarded the raven. For a moment he thought she had flown so still was she, her black eyes closed, her beak tucked into her breast.
    “Clever bird,” Mikissok thought to himself as the air grew gradually sweeter and the crunch of the beast’s footsteps retreated up the valley tongue. The wind whipped up the snow from Amâgaiat’s broken trail before the dwarf as if cleansing the air once again. A dervish of snow danced in front of Mikissok before planting itself in an apologetic heap before him. Mikissok sniffed the air quietly. He listened and then peered intently at the raven. Under the dwarf’s gaze the raven cracked an eye open, twisted her head first one way and then the other before hopping onto the fresh pile of snow between them. The raven nodded at the dwarf and Mikissok took that as his cue to stand and massage his poor knees. He turned and followed the trail behind him with his eyes. The beast was gone.
    “Troll bitch,” Mikissok spat. “She’ll be feasting tonight, raven, you can be sure of that.”
    The raven cocked her head at an angle and blinked.
    “She must be hungry,” Mikissok continued. “That looked like a whole family she had there in the amauten. Poor devils,” he shook his head. “Well, bird,” he said after a moment. “You have earned a night in my qaarusuk, whenever I do find it. Come on. ‘Tis this way.” Mikissok marched off with a new urgency. Whereas the sun would not rise this morning, nor for many mornings to come, the moon was setting and the dwarf did not walk during the winter day if he could help it.
     
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    Mikissok crawled between the frosted rocks; the raven followed brushing the snow to either side with her great wings. The entrance to the qaarusuk would have been a tight squeeze for an adult Greenlander, but Mikissok slipped under the great boulder with the ease of a child at play in winter. Once inside Mikissok moved further under the boulder and flopped into a shallow depression within which he could stand and remove his sealskin smock and trousers. As the dwarf pulled the smock over his head he wrinkled his nose.
    “Humph,” he said. “I am a little ripe.” Mikissok glanced at the raven padding about the entrance. “It’s not that bad, bird,” he called. “Are you coming in?” The raven cocked her head but remained at the entrance. “Suit yourself.” Mikissok hung his smock from a crude stone hook he had fashioned on the underside of the boulder, the roof above his head. The raven disappeared from the entrance as Mikissok fiddled with the pouch around his waist and pulled out a small portion of kindling. It was no more than several short lengths of dried roots, but it would make all the difference. Mikissok scrambled deeper into the qaarusuk and retrieved a bundle of twigs and tiny branches from the deepest, darkest and driest part of his abode. It was not long before the dwarf had a small fire going and the raven, curious, reappeared at the entrance to