He checks the digital clock. “Midnight.”
Hooves land and tread to a stop outside.
The boy leaves his bed. Footfalls crunch on snow, then enter the house as he tucks his pajamas. His mother snores as they stop outside his bedroom door.
“I seek, Carl.”
Carl opens the door.
The tall old man scrutinizes him with one eye. “Carl, Ander’s son?”
The boy nods. “Anderson, Sir.”
“I’ve not received a letter in Elder Futhark runes in a LONG time,” he nods, stroking a long white beard. “You have my attention.”
Carl poked-up his glasses. “I studied the lore.”
“Yes.”
“I chose the solstice date.”
“Yes, beating the rush ahead of the 25th.”
“And I believe,” Carl said.
“Yes,” the Yule Father nods. “And you requested something quite dangerous, young lad. Why?”
“There’s a monster,” Carl said. “Under a bridge. A Grendel. Only I can see him.”
The elder adjusts his eyepatch. “I know the weight of vision.”
“He hunts my friends. I must stop him. Only magic can harm him.”
An aged brow ponders under a holly crown.
He left handing Carl his gift. “You have a stout heart. May this guard it.”
“Thank you!” the boy said. “I left—”
“Cookies?”
“No, an apple for Sleipnir!”
“Better.”
Carl raised the sword reading the runes upon it. “Kyndill.”
Fire wrapped the blade.
Copyright © 2019 by Jason H. Abbott, All Rights Reserved.
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