The First Winter

Autumn coughed itself out in a flurry of leaves, winding down like a dray horse spent at harvest end.

As the first chill of winter rode the wind, Geir sat warming himself by the forge and watched as a wasp buzzed angrily through the smoke and, buffeted by the heat, spiralled toward Gideon.

Lifting his round face to the noise Gideon followed the path of the wasp and, reaching out a pudgy hand, grabbed at it.

The smithy winced, knowing what was to come, but Gideon closed his hand around the wasp and lifted it to his ear. He opened his fist and the wasp, now flicking its wings softly, crawled over his outstretched palm and sat for a moment on his fingertips before taking flight once more, avoiding the fire, and bumbled through the open door of the hut.