❄︎ The First Journey ❄︎
The sled cut through the dark like a blade of starlight.
Wind screamed past, pulling tears from Christopher’s eyes until they froze against his cheeks. Beneath him, the world rolled away — forests of black pine, frozen rivers coiling like veins of glass, mountains pale and sharp beneath the northern stars.
The beasts that pulled the sled moved as though they swam through air itself. Their hooves struck no surface, left no mark — only the faint jingle of the harness chains, echoing against the hollow sky.
Morty crouched on the edge, grinning into the gale. His eyes glowed like coals, his long ears whipped by the wind. Every so often he muttered to himself, counting or whispering the names of places only he seemed to know.
Christopher’s hands ached around the reins. He had no sense of how high they flew or how far. The horizon was a smudge of moving lights. His breath came ragged in the cold.
They saved me, he told himself. They could have left me to die. I owe them that much.
The wind hissed an answer through the runners.
And what harm is there in it? They wish to give. I only carry their gifts.
Below, a cluster of faint lights broke the darkness — a small fishing village half-buried in snow, its roofs glimmering like shells beneath the moon.
Morty jabbed a gnarled finger forward. “First stop’s near. Grip the reins tighter, portly one — if you fall, the beasts don’t circle back.”
Christopher said nothing. He could feel the pull in his stomach as the sled angled downward.
He thought of his crew — their laughter, their songs, their shouts when the ship had cracked. He thought of how quickly they had vanished beneath the black water. Their faces seemed to rise now out of the clouds below.
They chased discovery, he thought. And I chase purpose.
The beasts snarled as they descended, the air thickening with frost.
The sled broke through the lowest clouds — and there, suddenly, was the world of men. A single street, narrow and snow-choked, lamps guttering against the cold. Smoke curled from chimneys. All was still.
Morty leaned forward, his grin widening. “There! The big one — see the roof? Land there. Morty will show the way.”
Christopher pulled the reins, though the beasts seemed to need no command. They descended in a slow, spiraling glide and came to rest on the roof with a muffled thud.
The sled rocked gently. Christopher stared at the chimney before them — narrow, crooked, still faintly warm.
Morty hopped down, his boots crunching softly in the snow. “Now, this part’s simple,” he said, dragging a sack from the sled. “Morty shows once, you remember for always. Down the chimney, drop the gift, up again. Don’t wake the sleepers. That ruins the charm.”
Christopher blinked. “Down the chimney?”
“Where else? Doors are rude. Chimneys are warm.”
Before he could protest, Morty shoved the sack into his hands. “Go on. You’re the face, remember? The mortal touch. The story needs a man.”
Reluctantly, Christopher slung the sack over his shoulder. The weight was less than he expected — the toys inside made no sound.
He knelt by the chimney and peered down. Faint orange light flickered below.
“I’ll never fit,” he muttered.
Morty only grinned. “Think small thoughts.”
“What?”
“Think small,” the creature hissed, and before Christopher could ask again, Morty flicked two fingers and whispered a word that slid like ice through Christopher’s ears.
The world folded.
For a heartbeat, he felt himself drawn inward, every bone and breath condensed into something light as a snowflake. The chimney yawned impossibly wide before him.
He gasped — but the sound was tiny, like the squeak of a mouse.
And then, weightless, he drifted downward. The walls brushed past like dark silk.
He landed softly in the hearth, full-sized once more, the transformation leaving his skin tingling.
The room stretched before him — humble, tidy, and still. Stockings hung from the mantel. A child’s wooden horse lay by the fire.
He reached into the sack and drew the first gift — a small carved bird, its eyes made of amber. When he placed it gently on the hearthstone, it shimmered faintly, as if alive.
For a moment he only watched it, his heart heavy. For them, he thought. Not for the creatures. For them.
When he looked back to the chimney, the smoke seemed to swirl upward in invitation. He stepped closer, and the magic took him again — a rising pull, a silent lifting. The air around him thickened, humming softly until he burst back into the night.
Morty clapped his clawed hands together, laughing. “See? Easy as sliding through shadows. You’ll get used to it.”
Christopher brushed soot from his coat, breath ragged. “Used to it?” he muttered. “I’m not sure I should.”
“Doesn’t matter what should be,” Morty said cheerfully. “Only what is.”
And so they flew on.
From roof to roof, house to house — through villages and valleys, across icy plains and sleeping forests.
Each time, Christopher descended. Each time, he left another gift behind.
He began to move like an echo, part of the night itself. The sky bled faint light as they flew, and his mind grew numb with repetition.
Once, as dawn touched the edge of the horizon, Christopher looked back and saw the trail they left — faint motes of gold drifting in their wake like sparks of a dying fire.
“Do you see that?” he whispered.
Morty’s grin widened. “The joy spreading,” he said. “Just as they wished.”
But to Christopher’s eyes, the sparks looked less like joy — and more like embers falling from something burning.
