January in Uummannaq is dark. There is a period of about ninety minutes, growing longer each day, in which the sky is twilit. It can be a deep blue if there are no clouds, and the moon burns in place of the sun, only cool, without heat, no warmth for the grieving mothers and fathers, brothers and sisters, or even the lonely police constable stepping out of the light and into the shadows, searching for clues, and the scratch marks of non-existent raven claws.
Iilikka said the demon clucked and cawed like a baby raven.
Maratse lit a cigarette, cupping the match, puffing a small cloud of smoke above his head before crouching to inspect the snowy ground beneath his feet. The good thing about packed snow and clues in dry polar regions is that when a spilled substance is frozen, it remains frozen for the better part of six months, sometimes longer. Blood spilled in November, will still be there in April, and often into May. In the busy parts of the village, where the surface snow is ploughed by chains on tyres, or the thick grip of polar tread beneath heavy winter boots, the spore is obscured and spoiled. Even the studs slipped onto boot soles, leave wormholes in the ice – too many to follow an individual, but enough to create a pockmarked thoroughfare between the shops, in the light, avoiding the cooler shadows where the ice was slick and untouched.
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