The Defiant Ghost Of Jackie Frost

20251220

Written for Luna Asli Kolcu’s “Myths of Winter - Week 3” event.

They thought they’d killed her. Cremation generally does the trick, even for a witch. But it’s remarkable what one can achieve through magic, determination, and stone-cold spite. Her last breath escaped the flames and danced through the clouds. The purest essence of an ice-witch, freed from the fire which underpins life.
She could see forever. Attempting to silence her predictions had only empowered them. Before, she could merely warn that the new chieftain would lead the village to ruin - a prediction which had gotten her sentenced to death for attempting to undermine him.
Whereas now… the paths swirled, reality fluttering like a paper boat in the current. The slightest nudge could move it to a different eddy. And she could see.
Next morning the village woke to find their windows covered with remarkable frost. No thicker than usual, but formed in deliberate, meaningful lines. Pictures and runes, spelling out a prediction for those living there.
A reminder to stock up on firewood, a warning to buy cough medicine and rest, urging to invite over who they pined for and confess, directions to find untouched forage, instructions on inspecting the roof for a dangerous weak patch… Everyone marvelled and rejoiced.
Except for the chieftain’s house, where across each of his many spotless windows, rendered in otherworldly filigree script, was the simple message “Nice Try”.
In a panic he ordered that everyone burn candles by their windows overnight, to prevent the frost from forming. Of course nobody argued. But… candles were expensive. There was the fear of curtains catching light. And most people were curious what else the frost would tell them.
So, while there were candles dutifully burning while the chieftain and his bullyboys stomped their rounds, once the village roads grew quiet the window-lights guttered out one by one.
Darkness descended, bringing cold with it - and riding that swooping wave was Jackie Frost.
The first rays of morning illuminated predictions more detailed than yesterday’s. Everyone took careful note of what the frost told them before wiping it away.
There. No harm done.
Jackie danced amongst the clouds and laughed.
So it went for many days. Advice. Predictions. Warnings. Whispered notes were compared around normal gossip. The frost hadn’t led anyone wrong yet. On the contrary, it had brought much success which never would’ve happened otherwise.
Jackie had no gravestone. Her ashes had been dumped in the river. Yet a few days after her execution an unmarked cairn appeared in the corner of the graveyard, and offerings were buried in the snow around it.
Gestures of thanks… and remorse.
Then the village woke to find the same message on each window, warning of a blizzard - worse than any in living memory. It would come in three days and last for eleven. The houses would be buried in snow. Anything not in shelter would be frozen, rendering hunting and forage hard to come by. They had to prepare, and fast.
The chieftain was startled to be woken by the whole village knocking at his door. His shock turned to fury on finding out what the excitement was about - for explaining the dire warning involved admitted to all the others they’d heeded.
Nonsense! He rebuked them. Mocked them. Ordered them to return home and pay no more heed to the frost. The winter had been mild and showed no signs of turning anytime soon. Rather than a true warning, this was likely a threat, that the ice witch’s ghost was preparing to enact revenge! They should raise wards around the village to keep Jackie out.
Hard work which would take days. Days the frost said they didn’t have.
Look were exchanged. Feet shuffled in the snow, restless despite being snuggly swaddled in layers of socks. The only voices which rose in support of the idea were the chieftain’s trusted lackeys.
“Well?” The chieftain planted his feet, arms akimbo, and glowered at the silent crowd. “Get moving! There’s plenty of wood in the stores to make totems from.”
The bullyboys strutted towards the warehouse - and several people stepped in their way.
Finally a voice spoke. Tom Fuller. A simple man. Stolid. Not quick-witted, or clever, or creative, but he carried a deep calm with him, and every word he said was deliberate and earnest. “We’ll need every bit of that wood and more to last eleven days.”
Pooh-pooh! The chieftain scoffed, his followers echoing his impatience. Once the wards were in place there’d be no need to fear any unnatural storms.
Midwife Haley spoke up, warning of difficulties which would come if the woods froze and were buried in snow. Even if wards kept the storm out of the village the rest of winter would be hard. Best to stock up now.
Oh, it would all go back to normal quickly, the chieftain insisted. A mere ghost, even a witch’s ghost, couldn’t hold a storm any size for long. It certainly wouldn’t be eleven days.
His glowers and shouting, and the warning scowls of his bullyboys, were met with cold stares.
The future wavered between eddies. Frail as a paper boat.
A nudge either way. A puff. A splash…
Haley stomped her foot, the crack of clog against stone splitting history, and declared “Green wood works fine for wards. Go gather some, if you’re so sure! The rest of us have work to do.”
She turned her back on the furious chieftain and started gathering folks into groups. Tom would head up distributing supplies. Children and elders would get the homes clean and ready for everyone being stuck there. Those best at hunting and foraging would gather all the extra supplies they could.
Ropes. Young Tilly piped up that ropes should be strung between the buildings, along the ground, then once the snow settled tunnels could be dug along them.
Folks murmured praise - and more ideas.
The chieftain’s voice had risen to screaming, but it was barely heard as everyone bustled away.
And high above, Jackie sighed in relief and danced in the clouds.

Prompt was “Someone has been painting elaborate frost patterns on windows throughout the neighborhood. Not random crystallization—deliberate art. Messages. Maps. This morning, there’s one on your window. It’s a portrait of you. But you’re older in it. And you’re not alone.”