Flash Fiction: The Snowshoe Goddess

Leaning forwards, knees bent, I gather pace. In the blinding fog of thick snowflakes, my eyelashes are heavy with crystals. The fur lining of my hood is crusted with ice. I pull my scarf up over my nose.

“Hurry, Freja.”

Papa’s words echo in my head. Slithering silence muffles everything else. In weather like this we say Skadi has thrown her cloak over us. I wish I was indoors enjoying the heat of a fire, hearing Mama’s tales of our Snowshoe Goddess, not skiing her frozen mountain, begging for mercy.

Hard snow creaks under the runners. These skis are too big, but the worn leather straps are tight enough over my boots. I’ve outgrown mine. Down the snowy paths I race, as if the blue eyed huntress herself were chasing me. We shouldn’t still be up at the summer cottage. We were packing to leave, but my baby brother has arrived early, along with this vicious Winter. We weren’t ready for either.

Dark trees appear. I laugh in relief. Town will come into view soon. I strain my eyes for a twinkling light, a sign post. When I get to the midwife’s house, I pray, will she be there?