blåjungfrun rising

they unpack sleds in a flickering small fire, the forest ahead tomorrow, the sound,  the snow shoe slog then the steep climb, dog hitched sleds run swift across smooth ice of kalmar sound, in hours they sight the land of  blåjungfrun rising from the frozen sea like a roman monument, on the shore a shelter beside a stand of  spruce to break the strong wind,  a fire, and bed down for the night, the snow  walk morn breaks three days to make blåkulla moving fast only at day, night is for the lost and fires early to keep the wovles at bay and the muskets ready, break camp, moving toward the interior of the island, slowly, tired sleepless night from the hacking cough that appeared to wrack the ribs, new night, neither sleeps, the black teems with howls,  and footfalls circling, hissing fur slipping through the cracking forest and —startled—  they both think they  heard laughter,  a rattling cackle, the nordic witch, her devil-fish red -yellow eyes hover in the ebony perimeter , and like a fevered whisper, vanish like bleeding stars behind black moons no. no, no he pleads with his mind they are stars reflecting off the icy horizon of the snow,  wind tumbles down the mountainside, the fire flares to cinders, out of wood, the freezing dark water of night streaming through the cracked hull of the sinking ship, footfalls, cackles, dark shapes, red-yellow fire eyes, clammy nails claw their spines, wet teeth stab their writhing necks — is it only gusting wind and snow? — and even as they prepare for violent death, a porous light mottles through the slanting limbs of pine, the forlorn howl of a starving creature ancient, lost, and wild, the night flees on padded paws before the illuminated eyes of morning, they live