Two small, half-moon impressions. One after the other, fading into the white as far as the eye could see. The apocalyptic storm was dying, ashes and smoke unraveling in its final fury. On the frozen walls of the cavern, crystals gleamed with labradorite and ore, their cold fire catching the last stray light of the dying sky.
The small beast, white fur and small horns, lay there fragile and frozen, caught forever in the moment; the storm had no season; the storm spoke of the end of time. She and those who came before her were consumed by the fury of it.
We lost another one, the old man said. How many now? Swallowed up in the mist.
There’s nothing we can do, Papa, the girl replied.
Not much time left for me, I’m afraid, he spoke in a murmur, as if ashamed of it.
I know that, she said. Her hair was long and black, her eyes wide and gray like those of a reindeer.
Promise me that if I don’t make it… The old man, like an old hierophant protecting secret truth, said this, his hands stiff and gnarled on the arms of the rock-a-bye seat by the fire.
Ulla looked at him. Don’t talk nonsense, she said. You know I will find her. But she was afraid this time she could not keep the promise.
Time had stopped flowing long ago. What remained were only fragments. There was no sense in asking why. Everything had already happened.
Ulla dressed in her suit, sealing herself against the viral wind and the ashes. She slung her backpack over her shoulders, the cats tucked safely inside. Then she bent down and kissed her father’s forehead.
She stepped out into the blizzard, climbed onto the snowmobile, and started looking. She crossed the frozen valley, the cats shifting inside her backpack. The snowmobile hummed beneath her, cutting through the storm’s dying breath. The world was white and endless, the sky and ground bleeding into each other, and for a moment, she felt like she was drifting through nothingness.
At the feet of the highest mountain, she stopped. The silence was thick here, broken only by her own breath inside the mask. Climbing off the vehicle, she tightened her pack and pressed forward on foot. The cold was different this high up—sharper, older, as if the mountain itself was watching her.
She knelt, unzipped her bag, and pulled out a bottle. The fruit juice was hot, almost too sweet, but it spread warmth through her chest. She reached inside it again, fingers brushing against soft fur, and felt them move, felt their tiny lives pressing into her hands. She fed them carefully, speaking to them in a low voice, though her words were lost in the wind.
Then she stood up and kept walking, though the tracks ahead of her wavered, disappearing into the drifts, only to return again like spirits in the snow. Ulla traversed the white expanse, the trails emerging sharper now, more defined—half-moon impressions carved deep into the frozen path.
The reindeer came this way and hadn’t come back, in search of food or respite from the apocalyptic storm.
She followed the trail to the mouth of a cave, a dark wound in the mountainside. Ice rimmed its edges, hanging long, brittle teeth. The wind struggled inside, low and hollow, carrying with it a scent—earthy, musky. The smell of trapped animal.
The glint of eyes.
The reindeer. The last one.
She found her in the dark. She stood huddled at the back of the cave, breath rising in thin plumes. The young one was down, her leg swallowed by a crack in the ice. She shifted, nostrils flaring, but couldn’t run. She couldn’t. The walls closed in too tight, the floor too slick. Ice grew fast in between. She came here for shelter. Now she was trapped.
She moved slow, pressing her boots firm into the ice. She knelt by the calf, set a hand on her heavy side. She jerked once but was too weak to fight. The ice had her legs clamped like a jaw.
Ulla unslung her pack and set it down. She unzipped it, and the cats uncurled from the warmth inside, blinking at the dark. She reached for the black cat and he stepped out at first, nosing the air, his long tail flicking. The grey one followed. They knew what to do.
The black cat watched her, then stopped at the ice. His paws made no sound. He crouched, tail lashing, and then he exhaled—a slow steady breath. The ice beneath him groaned. Cracks spiderwebbed out from his feet, thin and jagged.
Ulla moved fast. She dug her hands under the calf’s body and pulled. She came free all at once, her leg scraping against the ice, and for a moment, she lay still. Then she lurched upright, her hooves striking sparks against the frozen stone.
The grey cat let out a low sound to show the way, and the reindeer turned toward the cave mouth, ears twitching, her body brushing against the rocks as she moved. Ulla stood back, the cats circling her ankles. The calf was running now, bolting out into the snow.
She bent down, let the cats climb back into the warmth of her pack. Zipped it shut. Slung it onto her back, then she stepped out into the cold, and the cave behind fell silent once more.
She rode through the dark, the snowmobile snarling beneath her. The calf tied behind, however it would hold. The wind had quieted to a whisper, the world drawn thin beneath the moon.
The cabin stood where she had left it, half buried, the roof sagging under snow. She killed the engine and sat a moment, listening to the stillness. The cold in her bones. The weight of the night pressing in.
Inside, the fire burned low. The old man sank in his rock-a-bye seat, hands folded, the coat heavy on his narrow shoulder. He looked at her, at the thing she had brought. She knelt, her limbs stiff, her breath still coming hard. The calf slumped where she set her, flanks heavy, eyes wide and dark as stones. The black cat slid from her pack, stretching, sniffing at the calf’s thin legs. The grey one followed, circling once before settling against it.
Just the one, he murmured.
She didn’t answer. Just sat there, aural to the fire, to the slow wind outside. She looked at him, his face half-lit in the flickering dark.
Then she leaned back against the chair and let the quiet take her.
The End.
