“Urk yurk, grn fyurt gurk!” she shouted as she ran into the little hut. Her father looked up from the axe he had been carefully sharpening with a whetstone. He saw her fur raised in fear and her claws at the ready.
“Ggurgh, kunn fuhurr,” he said, shaking his head. He placed the axe on the floor and stood up. He walked over to his daughter and picked her up in his large furry hands.
“Urk yurk, fyurt gurk!” she insisted, waving her arms wildly and struggling to escape his grasp. He signed, put her down, and walked to the door of the hut.
Outside the temperature had plunged as night fell, and snow was falling thick and fast. Though the cold prodded through his thick pelt, he welcomed the familiar embrace. He felt at home here, it was his natural territory. In a storm like this he felt safest of all.
Or were they safe? His eyes, better than those of any other creature in these conditions, searched the sides of the mountains in view. A path snaked its way up the mountainside, and though it was now covered in snow Archibald knew it like the shape of his daughters ears. On the path he could see two spots of colour. Maybe his daughter was right after all.
He went back inside, picked up his axe and screeched at his daughter. They left the hut together and went to hide in a drift not far away. They dug holes for warmth and sat in them, watching the path to the hut, hidden from sight.
Then it happened. A creature covered with a bright blue cloth, and another in red, appeared out of the storm. They stopped in front of the hut, then went in.
What his daughter has said was true. The stories were right, the father realised.
Humans were real.