Faber & Faber

“There are houses as warm as a pair of thick socks, with hearth ablaze and friendly voices to welcome you in. There are houses as cold as snow, with frosty draughts and ghostly whispers to chill your soul. Be scared of the Ice House, for it is colder than all others. It is a place of despair that will trap you forever.”

So went the saying that Ilya kept repeating. Over and over, the words circled in her mind as she walked up the frozen mountain path. It was a path rarely used, a path that led to only one place, the Ice House.

‘A tale like that is utter poppycock,’ said Ilya to her friends just days before. But none of them were brave enough to make the journey with her. She was all alone but for goats and the odd winter flower breaking through the icy ground.

The path wound up and around the mountain, narrowing the further and higher it went until it was a mere sheep track with enough width for two booted feet and nothing more. The snow never left the ground, and as Ilya reached its peak, she was colder than she’d ever been. But that didn’t matter; her heart was racing the warm blood around her body, colouring her cheeks a bright red. In front of her stood the Ice House.

Clad in a thick shell of blue ice, the wooden building looked older than all the houses from Ilya’s village. It leant slightly to one side, and a crooked roof dipped and peaked like waves on the sea. There was one door at its front, and on the wall was a single window with open shutters. Ilya walked closer to see what was inside.

The ice blurred everything within, but Ilya could see a shape beyond the window. It was dark and human-like, hunched and menacing. The closer she got to the house, the clearer it became. Ilya could feel the freezing temperature of the house radiating out, prickling her skin. She leaned closer and closer, determined to know what she could see. And then she slipped.

Ilya toppled forward, her nose pressing hard into the ice. Suddenly a wave of cold seared through her body. Her nose started to tingle, to freeze, and she stepped back in horror to see the ice around the house melt down to a pool of black, cursed water. She touched her nose and realised it was deathly cold, and something hard was forming on its end. It was an icicle, growing longer and lower, only stopping once it was level with her shoulders.

‘You are so very kind, child,’ said a voice.

Ilya watched the front door open, but she couldn’t move for fear. A woman with the grace of a princess walked from the house. Her face was as smooth and pale as a china teapot, and her hair as blonde as honey.

‘For centuries I have been trapped in this prison, cursed by the world for my deeds,’ said the woman. ‘But you have set me free.’

The woman raised her hand to touch Ilya’s nose, but the girl finally regained her strength and shuffled backwards out of reach.

‘My nose…’ stuttered Ilya.

The woman smiled but it didn’t comfort Ilya. It made her more fearful.

‘It’s but a small price you must pay for my freedom,’ she replied. ‘You will carry it forever, and forever you will remember what it is you gave me.’

Ilya stepped backwards, her eyes never leaving the woman as she edged further away along the path.

‘Remember,’ said the woman, her blue eyes glistening in the light, ‘this house is now yours.’

A cold wind flashed across the mountain bringing with it a blizzard so strong and so cold that Ilya feared for her life. She covered her head, shielding her face with her hands, but as quickly as it had arrived, the snowstorm eased and the blue sky reappeared. When Ilya opened her eyes, the woman had vanished. All that was left was the old wooden house.

Ilya didn’t stop to think. She raced down the mountain, her head weighed down by the icicle hanging from her nose. When she reached her village, everything had changed. She was the centre of attention, and no matter how hard she tried to rid herself of the icicle, it would neither melt nor shatter.

Passers by stared at her, her friends laughed at her. Even her parents walked two metres in front of her on the street so as not to be seen with her. Ilya’s life became one of ridicule, and she grew unhappier by the day. The icicle lay next to her on her pillow at night; it would get in the way as she ate; stop her blowing her nose; stop her kissing her grandparents on the cheek. She could never forget it, and no-one would let her. Eventually, one night as she sat gazing at the snow falling outside her window, she remembered the words of the mysterious woman on the mountain.

Ilya threw her belongings into a bag, and in the dark of night set off onto the mountain path alone, with just a lamp to guide her way. She wound her way up over the snowy ground, reaching the top as dawn broke over the horizon. The house was still there. Her house was still there.

She walked inside the crooked wooden building, and found it was full of frosty draughts and ghostly whispers that chilled her soul. There was a stove and a cupboard, and an old iron bed. It was comfortable, at the least. Ilya lit the hearth and basked in the heat of the fire, and not a drip of water melted from the icicle on the end of her nose. Finally there was no-one to laugh or point at her, and she smiled for the first time in days. Ilya would never go home again.

© Alex Milway

www.themousehunter.com