As with all species of sprites, the Winter Set can only be brought into existence when the conditions are absolutely perfect.

So it was on that particular January afternoon, just as the sun was casting its last beam of the day, that a feint red glow fell onto a spiky-needled tree growing in the corner of the garden. The glow lingered: and from then on, the conditions fell into place and sequence-by-sequence Brittle, our new tiny being pinged into life.

The tree was a majestic Blue Spruce with layers of snow arranged across the tops of its branches. Hung beneath these branches several glittering icicles dangled.

As the sun continued its descent, one particular icicle flashed back. Was it a zingish salute, a special thank-you twinkle before daylight disappeared behind the rooftops? Even the tree gave a little shiver causing a few loose snowflakes to lose their grip, and float down to swirl in the plunging temperature around the chosen icicle, until, almost in a magnetic trance, they were pulled into it to land on its fattest part, the top nearest the branch.

Not wishing to be outdone by splendour, the stars considered it was their turn to shine. So the indigo sky became a myriad of far off, shimmering lights, and in the darkening corner of the garden the icicle began to form a face. Now the scene is set for the real magic to begin. A different light, one borrowed from the sinking sun, rose behind the town’s church steeple and its reflected ray fell onto the fir tree, zoning in on the icicle that tingled below one of its higher branches. A sprite was born.

From then on the transformation began to speed up. The lower part of the icicle split to form two feet, each with long pointy toes. The feet stretched downwards to pull out thin legs with sharp-edged joints. Then, from the icicle’s middle, long-fingered hands stretched sideways, pulling crystal clear arms and sharp angled joints.

The moon kept its magic beam on the tree and as the Sprite took shape the whole garden was bathed in silvery light. A snowman, made days ago by the children from the house, glistened with eerie light and the Blue Spruce shivered again to dislodge more snowflakes to follow downwards toward the translucent figure lurking amongst its foliage.

The swirling specks of snow landed on the long, almost aristocratic nose and the forehead formed into a ‘V’ shape highlighting a pair of jet-black piercing eyes. The moonlight shuddered as the eyes turned upwards and an icy hand grabbed a nearby branch whilst the other reached up and with a loud crack: snapped the icicle’s top away. Now the sprite was free. It knew what had to be done, so quick as a flash it leapt to the ground and vanished.

As it is with all bright individuals, Brittle’s personality is its own. It dislikes being referred to as a fairy; or an elf. It is not a ‘he’, nor is it a ‘she’ – it is ‘It’. Also, it is aware that some stories about little folk tend to go mushy. Brittle is never mushy. It will never fall for a prince or princess, like fairies often do. No: its only aim in existence is art. Brittle was taught by the very best Winter Sprite of all time and intends to follow the great master’s tradition.

So, with lightning speed, Brittle began to create the finest artwork in the whole universe. Fern patterns etched from pure ice covered the potting shed’s windowpanes. The greenhouse was transformed into a frosted glass palace. Car windscreens, bonnets, boots and roofs were given an amazing extra coat of sparkle. Evergreen leaves flaunted their decorated edges to envious blades of grass. The paths, pavements and roads wore wintry glitter jackets, all shiny, crisp and slippery.

Eager for more tasks, Brittle spied the mound of snow and with a flourish, off went the scarf and carrot nose and in a frenzied flurry of ice, a fairy-castle rose where once stood a child’s snowman.

The castle had turrets with twirling roofs that spiralled all the way down to the inner courtyard.

Satisfied, Brittle set off to do more work but returned to find brown woodland sprites and green forest sprites sliding down his icy castle.

Brittle voiced an objection. Terrified, the sprites froze mid-slide. The voice was iceberg-cracking deep. And to add to the drama, the frozen wood sprites saw what Brittle could not.

They had company. Company that commanded respect.

Even simple wood sprites knew the importance of the unexpected guest slowly making his way towards Brittle’s back. Greater fear unfroze them and as one entity, they fled back to the safety of their trees.

The temperature lowered.

Even Brittle noticed it. He turned his glass-like head to face the Master. If Brittle could gulp, this would be the time to do it. But Winter Sprites don’t scare easily. But respect? – Well, that’s a different matter. The Master reached Brittle’s side.

‘Clever piece of sculpture Brittle, what inspired you to make a castle?’

Brittle tried to shrug but icy shoulders don’t lend themselves to human body language. The Master glinted a steely eye at the newly formed Sprite.

‘Well, it’s no matter, but your art has given me an idea. Come on, I will escort you to a place with oodles of ice. I want you to perfect your turret design. I want you to sculpt spiral-roofed castles for the children of Lapland to slide down, just like our cousins the woodland sprites were doing, only on a larger scale. Winter has such a bad press nowadays. But if we can give a little bit of fun, something that doesn’t cost the Earth’s precious resources to provide, then it must be good. We Winter Sprites may look sharp and nasty, but we’re really quite cuddly under the ice, aren’t we Brittle? Come on, but before we go, let us rebuild this poor snowman.’

The next morning, the little boy and his older sister could not understand how their snowman had turned its head to face the giant fir tree in the corner of their garden. And the little boy wondered what had happened to his favourite icicle – the one he insisted, but no body believed, had a face with big pointy ears.

And so, whilst Brittle and worshipful mentor Jack Frost were busy boosting Sprite relations, January in England stayed cold for another two days, but during the second night clouds blocked the starlight, covered over the moon and rain washed away the snow, leaving the poor snowman’s scarf and carrot in a very slushy puddle.

(c) 2024 Pat Barnett.

“A Winter Sprite” is an enchanting tale that follows the magical birth and adventures of Brittle, a winter sprite formed from an icicle on a Blue Spruce tree. The story masterfully weaves together elements of natural phenomena with magical realism, as Brittle comes to life through a precise sequence of environmental conditions. The narrative explores themes of artistic creation, identity, and purpose, as Brittle discovers its talent for creating intricate ice patterns and frost designs. The story takes an unexpected turn when the legendary Jack Frost appears, recognising Brittle’s artistic potential and offering mentorship. The tale cleverly subverts traditional fairy story tropes by emphasising that Brittle defies gender norms and romantic plot lines, focusing instead on artistic expression and the pure joy of winter craftsmanship.

Pat Barnett, born in post-war Gorton, Manchester, brings a rich tapestry of life experiences to her writing. Her journey from punch-card computer operator to nursery nurse, and later a writer in Australia with the Noosa Scribes, has informed her unique storytelling style. Now based in Pickering, North Yorkshire, she co-founded ‘The Wordbotherers’ and has published several works including The Shaman’s Blessing and The Glue-makers Demise.

This story appears in “Creatures,” a whimsical collection that explores the intersection of myth and mystery. The book presents a diverse array of tales where ordinary moments transform into extraordinary adventures. Each story, like “A Winter Sprite,” demonstrates Barnett’s talent for finding magic in everyday observations, whether inspired by local Yorkshire legends or childhood memories. The collection offers readers a unique blend of folklore, fantasy, and contemporary storytelling.

Explore More Tales in “Creatures”