1.

The little dog of winter comes when she calls. Padding over rock, over crag and crevice, the little dog of winter does not feel the cold. The wind at the peak of Ben Cruachan ruffles only his fur, the snow only freckles him. His tongue is pink and purpled at the edges. He uses it to tend to the old woman’s hands, which are as white as his coat, and as twisted as the gulleys that drop off into Loch Awe. As his tongue laps, he feels the burr of callouses on her palm, can feel where the meat around her thumb is swollen and tender. The skin is marked with the weight of her hammer, her body by the creel atop her back.

She pulls her hand away and the little dog of winter whines, a low yipping whine, which she shushes, flashing her copper teeth, and reaches an arm behind herself. The rocks in her creel clatter and thud as she pulls one out. His tail sets to wagging. She throws it down the side of the mountain and he races after it. He brings it back between his teeth. He feels like he is holding the whole world. He drops it at her feet. Soon, she will use it to create another island, another mountain; the little dog of winter can only wait and see. 

Glè ghlic, she says, and pats the top of his head. 

The woman and the little dog of winter walk together across the peak of Ben Cruachan. When she stops, so does he. He sits and watches her, her one blue eye narrowing as she takes in the land. In the distance, he can see spots of green peeking out through the thaw. Soon, their mountain will match, soon the ice will fade, the rivers will swell, and the old woman’s son will come as he always does to force her away. 

The little dog of winter does not like the old woman’s son. He does not like the heat that comes off him, he does not like the swing of his sword, or the golden colour of his hair. He does not like what comes with the return of her son; the long days and the blistering heat. He cannot drink from the dry riverbeds, nor can he dig in the hard and dusty soil. He fears the spark of Summer, the hot-headed fire that rages when the son sets to roaming. 

The little dog of winter cowers when he sees the son near, walking with great speed up the flank of Ben Cruachan. Under his steps, flowers grow in lurid shades. The little dog of winter watches the old woman. He knows she will not win against the son, but still he hopes. He cannot watch when the son buries his sword into her chest, he can only look when she has fallen, when her body begins to shrink and melt into the grass that is green and growing all around them.

When the son leaves, the little dog of winter goes to the old woman and paws at her fading face.

Her voice is thin when she speaks, smiling, Do not worry, a chùllidh. We will get him next time. 

2.

The little dog of winter walks alone in the summer months. He lurks in caves and at the bottom of lochs. When hungry, the little dog of winter sulks into houses and nips at the heat. He leaves damp patches on beds and gnaws at bags of grain. He licks trails of ice into rivers and pisses rain into sun-soaked towns. 

Sometimes the son catches him at this. Bad dog, says the son, but the little dog of winter does not listen to him. He listens only to the old woman; he waits only for her call.

3.

It comes with the shortening of the days. He finds her by the water, ankle-deep in the great gulf. The old woman is naked, bent low to the water, where her féileadh mòr churns the sea into a great spiral. The kilt is stained green, thick with algae and moss. As she spins and washes, the colour is expelled into the water, turning it a deep and murky grey. When she pulls it out, it is a blinding white. 

The little dog of winter follows close behind the old woman as she walks across the ocean, the length of her great kilt trailing behind her. The water chills. With each step, ice forms. He yips joyfully and laps at the snow falling around them. The old woman looks back at him, and draws the length of her kilt atop him, tucking him in against her side.

4.

The little dog of winter has always enjoyed the dolls. He brings them to the old woman after every harvest and likes the way they make her laugh. The farmers make them out of willow and weave them tight with desperation. They are made to keep her away. 

She holds the doll up beside her face, and says, It’s the spit, is it not?

The little dog of winter only wags his tail. He tries to will her to throw the doll for him but she does not. 

We will put it back, hm, she says, they will blame me if it is gone. 

He does what he is told. He buries it back in the field he found it in. When he sees the farmer’s lantern swing, he yips and laughs and scampers away into the cover of the old woman’s great kilt. 

5.

Lately, the little dog of winter has noticed a change in the old woman. She has become restless, agitated. Often she will wake in the middle of the night and set to howling, throwing tantrums down the mountain that exhaust her and leave her lying atop Ben Cruachan wheezing whilst the little dog of winter licks at her face. 

Recently, he has felt a faint heat on the old woman’s skin. It turns the edges of his fur the colour of coal. When he catches his reflection, in silver loch mirrors and babbling pools, he takes sudden fright to himself. The little dog of winter licks at these stains. The taste is sour and thick like tar. 

The old woman has not been calling for him as much. He keeps his distance now, afeart that her sudden rampages will turn on him. He wishes she would throw a stone from her creel for him once more; he wishes to feel the world again, solid and heavy in his mouth. These days the earth feels thin and the water does not quench how it once did. 

He finds her weeping one day, her bright blue eye dulled with murk. He tries to lick at her hand but the old woman only pushes him away. When he yips, she lifts her hammer—this tool of creation; it has been a long time since he has seen it destroy—but does not swing it. It drops instead to her feet and she weeps a river down the mountain. When the old woman finally sleeps, the little dog of winter follows the stream and laps at the pool that is forming. He drinks it down and drains it, then feels a pain take his stomach. 

6.

The little dog of winter cannot find the doll. The farmer has built a wall around his land and it is too tall for the little dog to climb, and too deep in the earth for him to dig. He had wanted to find it again, to bring it to the old woman to cheer her up, but he does not know what to do now. 

He whines at the perimeter, great long whines, until the distant sound of barking hurries him away. 

7.

This year, when the ice begins to thaw, and the green begins its glacial creep across the land, the son climbs slowly up Ben Cruachan. The old woman does not turn to him as he nears, does not lift her hammer to block his blow. She only lowers her head and waits. 

The little dog of winter has never seen the son falter, has never seen him as slow and as sluggish as he appears now. He raises the burden of his blade and holds it above her head. The little dog of winter drops his ears as the sword falls. 

When the job is done, the son turns away. He looks at the little dog of winter as he passes and brushes a hand over his fur. The touch is a scolding one and the little dog of winter yelps from it. He takes his position by the old woman and growls a wind that ushers the son away. 

He, as he has always done, laps at the old woman’s face. With each brush of his tongue, he feels that he is putting her back together again—but the little dog of winter cannot keep up with her melt. 

He cries a great howl into the wind, which is falling now, softening. Birds leap from his call. Down the way, the last shiver of the season lifts from shoulders. 

8.

Summer is long, stretched too thin over a drying land. Summer cracks at the little dog of winter’s paws, sews a tack into his gums. He has never slept well during summer, but rest feels almost impossible now. 

Down over in Stranraer, the little dog of winter sees the son. He is sitting by the water, facing the burning horizon line, and singing, very softly, to himself. The little dog of winter does not approach, but he slinks, sleekit, into the marram grass and watches the son, watches the heavy drag of time’s footsteps across his face. His face, much like the land, is cracking. 

After a moment, the son stops singing and turns his head. He looks at the little dog of winter, and the little dog of winter looks back at him. The son says nothing but the little dog of winter whines, a long, mournful whine, and recognises, in his own cry, the son’s song—a mourning song. Between them, the air is still and blistering. 

9.  

Atop Ben Cruachan, the little dog of winter sits and waits. His ears are lifted to the wind, perking towards every drop and rise, thinking each time that the old woman is calling for him. They are in the dregs of summer now, sucking too long at each drop and growing thirsty. 

The wind lifts, and for the first time in his life, the little dog of winter shivers.