First Frost (ONC 2023 Novella, MxM Paranormal)

9: Father Frost

Somehow having survived the drive to my grandfather's house—which usually would take about an hour but my snow-filled journey clocks in at almost two hours—I pull up to his driveway, which is, of course, filled with snow, like everything else in Sweden seems to be at the moment.

Since my grandfather appears to have made it his goal to be as far away from civilization as possible, the driveway is more of a gravel road, winding through the woods for at least a kilometer before actually reaching the house.

I consider if I should try to traverse the unshoveled path with my sister's car. It does have 4-wheel drive, after all. This is the kind of situation such functions are for!

After driving approximately two meters into the thigh-high masses of snow, I change my mind. Mostly because the front wheels are now stuck and I'm getting nowhere. When I push the gas pedal, the wheels just spin in the slick snow.

I sigh. I guess it's time to walk.

At least the car is somewhat decently parked as I drove far enough for it to not stick out in the road. Have to take the small wins in these kinds of situations.

Leaning back, I grab my backpack—packed with sandwiches, raisins, and a juice box, courtesy of my sister who thinks I'm five—from the backseat. Before exiting the vehicle I do some last-minute preparations by pulling the hat down over my eyebrows, eating a handful of raisins for nourishment, and lastly, pulling on my thick mittens. I should be all set for facing any weather conditions thrown my way!

I exit the car and faceplant right into a snow pile.

Great... just what I needed.

Frustrated at my inability to even disembark a car without making a fool of myself—how will I be able to woe Anton if I can't even do this?—I grab fistfuls of snow in my hands, squeezing it into oblivion before pounding at the ground below.

"Just go away!" I mutter, spitting out drops of molten snow.

A shiver goes through my whole body and it continues into the forest. In befuddled wonder, I watch frosty winds sweep the ground toward my grandpa's cottage, forming a trail in its wake. The snow has parted to reveal green grass below, covered in a thin layer of ice that makes it rustle below my feet as I walk.

The snow obeyed me. I'm quite sure of that. What I don't know is why or how.

Hopefully, my grandfather has the answers. And perhaps a solution to make it stop.

Because I can't go around having snow and frost whirling in tune with my whims. I'm already weird enough. Being the guy who is followed by bad weather would be one step too far. Or several steps probably.

Anton would never want to deal with such madness, of that I'm certain. He's a grounded guy, who believes in tacos being eaten on Fridays, salary being dispensed on the 25th, and Manchester United winning the Premier League. Although the last thing doesn't always happen, and then he's aghast at the audacity of the universe. Usually, it's the referee's fault. I've had to talk him down many times after his team suffered a loss.

Anton believes in routine and fairness, not in magic and wonder.

I'm not sure I believe in such things either, but they're hard to deny when oozing out of my fingertips. And I do believe in what I see. I believe in nature being more powerful than any of us mere mortals wandering among it. I guess that's why I study weather: the purest expression of Mother Nature's hold on us all.

Stricken by the wonder of winter, I reach out my hand toward the snow, aiming to recreate what I just did. If I believe my mysterious powers to be real, I must also find a way to control them. So I take aim at a bush—looking like a white chocolate praline in its snowy glory—trying to make it explode in a frosty flurry.

Nothing happens. I just look like an idiot with my fingers spread in a Spiderman pose, staring intently at an innocent bush.

I try again, flinging my hand with more intent.

Still nothing.

A dozen tries later, I give up, before giving in to madness.

Whatever is going on appears to be beyond my control. Which isn't a comforting feeling. Because if I can't control this, then what will be of me? How will anyone even dare to venture close?

I continue my trek on the mysterious green path of my own creation. Winds from the sea chill me to the bone, shaking snowy powder from the branches above and sneaking inside even my cozy down jacket. Here, where my grandfather has made his home, you get the best, or worst, from both the woods and the water.

When the trees make way for cliffs, I'm there. A small red cottage stands by itself on a small peninsula, overlooking the frozen sea. It's even more beautiful this time of year than in summer. The contrast between safe shelter inside the brightly colored building and the dangerous fields of newly frozen ice outside epitomizes the allure of Scandinavia. These are harsh lands, but within them are pockets of human hospitality and warmth.

Beyond the cottage stands an old man, looking like Father Frost himself with snow glittering in his beard. He gazes toward oncoming snow clouds on the horizon. The storm isn't over.

"Grandpa!" I yell as I approach.

He doesn't turn. He only raises a hand to acknowledge my presence.

I watch my step when walking upon the slick rocks to reach him. Another tumble now would be embarrassing, even if my grandfather would never laugh at my clumsiness.

"I knew you would come, Joakim," he says as I finally reach his position. His gaze doesn't waver from the faraway storm.

"How?" I ask, befuddled about my relatives' mysterious statements as of late. "I mean, why?"

"The storm," he says, nodding toward the towering clouds that are growing darker and bigger by the moment. "It's not of my making. So it had to be you."