The wind bayed relentlessly as it had for the last three days. It forced its way through the cracks and crevices to send darts of ice through the cottage.
Megan huddled under the blankets cuddling up to her siblings on their pallet in the rafters. Her grandfather lay shivering on his bed in the alcove besides the hearth. Their fire burnt low as the peat was running out. They would soon be dependent on the droppings of the animals in the byre.
Mother and father spent most of the day trying to clear a way through the snow to provide water for the animals before the water froze over again. Desperation was etched in their faces. They would have to slaughter some of the animals if the snow did not stop soon, something they could ill afford as they kept food on their table .
In the byre the animals were restless, not used to the perpetual darkness, only straw and vegetable peelings to eat. Milk was drying up in their only cow, the goat not much better, chickens huddled up close on the rafters only laying the occasional egg.
Megan could only beseech the holy father to take pity on their plight, which she did with a fervour. They had had snow before but never for so long or so heavy. Their croft on the hillside was usually sheltered, so it escaped the worst of any weather. Terrified that they were all going to die, Megan began praying again.
Falling into an unsettled sleep the family slumbered, the wailing of the wind surrounding them a dreaded lullaby. Maybe they would not survive the night. They awoke at dawn to find the croft was deadly quiet. Disoriented they looked around and the wind had stopped. They opened the door. The snow was still falling but gently now the anger had left it.
Mother and father gathered their tools to clear a path to the outhouse and their supplies of peat. Megan knelt before the picture of Christ to thank him for his mercy in saving them.
