Snuggle down.
And get yourself comfortable.
Pull the blankets up.
Make yourself into the warmest,
Coziest shape you can.
Tonight.
We are going somewhere cold.
You don't have to worry because we're not gonna stay outside.
" We're gonna be inside.
By a nice fire.
With the door shut tight.
But it is snowing where we're going.
And it's been snowing all day.
And it's gonna snow all night.
There is nothing in the world quite so cozy as being warm and safe.
And tucked up.
When it snows.
And snows outside.
You don't have to be awake for this story.
You can fall asleep whenever you like.
There's nothing gonna happen that you'd be sorry to miss.
It's the middle of winter.
Very long time ago.
Right up at the top of the world.
Out here there's a narrow blue-gray sea between the steep hills.
And the hills away.
The sky has that heavy,
Soft,
Feathery look a sky gets.
When it means to snow for a while.
The daylight has gone early.
The way it does in winter up here.
It barely got properly light at all.
And now,
The last of it.
Is fading out.
Over the water.
And the snow comes down.
Not in a hurry.
Not blowing around.
Just drifting straight and slow and steady.
In big,
Soft flakes.
Filling up the hollows and rounding off all the sharp edges of the world.
And settling on the black rocks.
Vanishing without a sound.
Into the sea.
Down at the water's edge there is a long wooden ship.
Pulled right up out of the water.
Onto the shingle.
Well above the tide.
She's a beautiful thing.
Long and low and curved.
With a proud carved post at her front.
Sweeping toward the sky.
But she isn't going anywhere tonight.
Her mast is down.
She's covered over with hides.
Tides snug against the weather.
And the snow is settling gently along the whole length of her.
Turning her into a long white shape.
On the beach.
She'll sleep here all winter.
And in the spring,
Somebody will pull the covers off.
Scraper down.
And put her back in the water.
But that is a long way off yet.
And there's no need to think about it now.
And outside.
The snow keeps falling.
Soft and slow.
Nobody has to go anywhere at all.
Now up the slope from the shore.
Is a long low building with grass growing on its roof.
That's the house.
From outside in the dark.
You'd hardly know it was there at all.
Just a long humped shape under the snow.
With thick turf walls and a thick turf roof.
Hunkered down into the hillside.
Like an animal asleep.
There's a thin thread of smoke rising up out of a hole in the middle of that roof.
Going straight up into the falling snow.
And that means the fire is lit.
Push the heavy door.
Tuck your head.
Step through.
Inside the house is one long room.
And it is dim and golden.
And follow the smell of wood smoke and wool and barley.
Down the whole middle of the floor runs a long fire.
Burning low and orange in a bed of stones.
And its light goes flickering.
And reaching.
All the way up the timber posts.
And along the underside of the roof.
And everybody's shadow leans and stretches and shifts on the walls.
Along both sides of the room.
There are wide,
Raised benches.
Covered over with furs and folded woollen blankets.
That's where everybody sits.
And later on.
That's where everybody sleeps.
A boy called Ulf is sitting on one of those benches with his back against the wall.
And his feet.
Tucked up underneath him.
As close to the fire as he can reasonably get.
Now.
.
.
There's one thing about this house you should know.
And it's Ulf's favorite thing.
Right down at the far end of the room.
Past the fire.
Behind a low partition of boards.
Under the very same root.
Under the very same house.
Of the animals.
Two sheets.
Thick and shaggy in their winter wool.
Howl with a broad warm back.
And enormous,
Haitian ties.
They live indoors all winter.
Down at the end.
And clean stroll.
And all night long you can hear them.
Small shuffle as one of them shifts her feet.
A long,
Slow breath.
A soft huff.
The quiet sound of somebody chewing.
Thoughtfully.
In the dark.
For a long time.
Ulf likes it.
Because it means nobody in the whole house is out in the cold.
Not a single one of them.
Everybody who belongs here is in here.
At this end.
Animals at that end.
All under one roof.
All sharing one fire.
All breathing away.
In the warm together.
While the winter does.
Whatever it likes outside.
Supper is barley stew and it comes in a heavy soapstone bowl.
And the best is the first bit.
When you take the ball in both hands and just hold it for a moment.
And the warmth goes straight up into your fingers.
There's flat,
Dark bread to go with it.
And butter.
A bit of dried fish for anyone who wants it.
Ulf's little sister Astrid does not want it.
And says so.
And is given more bread instead.
Which was probably her plan all along.
Nobody hurries.
There is nowhere to hurry to.
Outside is snow.
Inside is fire.
And that's the whole evening decided.
When the bowls are cleared away.
Ulf's mother settles herself on the bench near the light.
And takes up her spinning.
A little weight of wood twirling and dropping and twirling from her fingers.
Turning a soft cloud of grey wool.
Into a long,
Even thread.
Over.
And over.
Without her ever really looking at it.
Behind her.
Leaning against the wall.
Stands the big upright loom.
With that thread.
Will turn into cloth.
With its row of round stones hanging along the bottom.
Swaying just slightly.
Whenever somebody walks past.
Ulf's father is sitting on the other side of the fire with a small knife and a piece of antler.
Carving a cone.
Taking his time.
Every so often he holds it up.
And turns it in the firelight.
And squint at it.
And then goes back to work.
Outside,
The snow keeps falling,
Soft and slow.
Nobody has to go anywhere at all.
Then Amma clears her throat.
Amma is Ulf's grandmother.
And she's the oldest person in the house.
She has.
The best place on the bench.
One nearest the fire.
The most furs.
And she gets it every single night.
Without ever having to ask.
When Amma clears her throat.
Everybody goes quiet.
Even the carving stops.
She begins a story.
It's a story about a ship.
And a long voyage.
In a place far away in the north.
The summer sun goes right around the sky.
And never sets at all.
So that it's bright at midnight.
And you can see for miles and miles across flat.
Shining.
Silverwater.
Her voice is low and unhurried.
And a bit creaky in the nicest way.
And she stops now and then to remember a bit.
And nobody minds waiting.
Ulf lies down on his side of the bench.
With a fur pulled up over his shoulder.
So he can listen properly.
That's when the old dog gets up.
His name is VG.
He's been asleep by the fire all evening.
With his nose on his paws.
And now he stretches.
An enormous shuddering front legs forward stretch.
And yawns a yawn with a squeak in the middle of it.
And pads over.
Stands there a moment considering.
Then he flumps down against Ulf's back with a great heavy sigh.
Exactly like somebody who has had a very demanding day doing nothing at all.
And now Ulf is warm all the way through.
Fire is burning down now.
The high leaping flames have gone.
And what's left.
The long low bed of embers.
Glowing the orange.
And dusty red.
Breathing brighter and dimmer.
Brighter and dimmer.
All on its own.
The shadows have stopped racing about on the roof and settled into quiet shapes that don't move much anymore.
Ulf lies still and listens to his house.
Soft crumble and tick of the fire settling.
Amma's voice going gently on about the ship in the silver water.
His mother's spindle turning and dropping and turning.
Somebody's shifting her feet in the straw at the far end.
Long,
Slow,
Sleepy breath.
From the cow.
Spiggy warm against his back.
Breathing deep.
And even.
And past all of that.
Very faint.
Hush of the snow outside.
Coming down and down on the turf roof over his head.
And on the white hills.
On the long ship sleeping under her covers.
On the shore.
Alma's story is still going.
There's a harbor in it now.
And lamps on the water.
But Ulf doesn't hear the end of it.
His eyes have closed.
And that's alright.
Ama will tell it again another night,
As she always does.
And it's a very good story.
Fall asleep.
In the middle of it.
And that's where we'll leave him.
Warm on the beach under a heavy fur.
The embers glowing low in his family all around him.
And a dog asleep against his back.
And every animal that belongs to that house.
Safe.
And fed.
Breathing softly under the same roof.
Nobody.
Anywhere.
Out in the cold.
Everything.
Just exactly where it should be.
And outside,
The snow keeps falling.
Soft and slow.
All night long.
And nobody has to go anywhere at all.
Now.
Let your eyes close,
Too.
Let yourself go heavy.
And warm and soft.
Like someone tucked up under a fur.
By a fire that's burning down.
Good night.
