A New Winter

“There weren’t always dragons in the Valley.” The old man closed his eyes while he spoke, and the children listened intently. This was the one night of the year when curfews were extended, when mothers and fathers allowed their children out after dark. But the night was winding to a close. And it always ended here, circled up around a fire, with the Telling.

“They came in the Last Winter. They came as swift as the dawn. They came on wings like hurricanes. They came with teeth and blood. They came with smoke and fire and heat. They came, and winter went.” Many of the older children mouthed the words as they were spoken – they knew them by heart, often by their third or fourth Telling, practicing amongst themselves during the year. Many of the parents who stood close by smiled in proud approval.

“The snows stopped. The ice melted. The winds died. And then, only fire and heat.” The old man spoke slowly, intentionally. And the children understood: the Telling was important. “Winter,” the old man continued, “was no more.” Those close enough saw a few weak tears fall from the old man’s closed eyes.

As often happened, some of the smaller children, those who had never heard the Telling before, began to doze off. They were quickly jostled awake by the older children. You never slept during a Telling.

“Lesser people rejoiced.” Here, the old man’s tone shifted. The mournful, melodic chant that had graced the beginning of the Telling now gave way to gaping chasms of fury. “Hateful people. Bitter people. People who worshiped the dragons as gods.” Those younger children who had escaped the notice of the older and were allowed to doze quickly snapped to. In part, they felt afraid at the wrath of the old man. But deeper down, they too felt this wrath, in spite of the Telling and what it Told being so foreign to them.

And then came silence. The old man’s eyes had opened in his fury. But now, they softened, and started to close again. And when at last he continued, all that anger became instead a deep wound, an incurable sadness. “People who forgot the beauty of winter. People who forgot that spring only comes after. So many forgot.”

All the children felt the sorrow of the old man. Every one of them, from youngest to oldest, began to weep. Those who had never known otherwise still understood that all was not as it should be. And every one of them felt as one who’s woken from a dream and is on the edge of being able to recall it. They could almost remember. And that in itself was enough.

“But others remembered.” And at this, the old man’s voice changed once again. Here there was hope, passion, pride. And underneath it all, a burning joy. “Others stayed true.” The old man, opened his eyes and looked at each of the children one by one, finishing with those closest to him, those who had never heard the Telling before. “Such are we.”

The younger children had been instructed repeatedly on this last part. Parents had gone over it with them again and again. “For here,” they had said, “is why the Telling matters.”

“We are the Aerestils!” the old man declared boldly. It was no longer he alone who spoke, but every voice of the clan, both children and adults. “Those who wait for the wind. Those who watch for the snow. Those who remember that there weren’t always dragons in the Valley.”

The old man stopped to catch his breath, preparing to speak the final words. But then something fell from the sky.

It was small, color indiscernible in the dim light. It landed on the arm of one of the younger children. As she looked to see what it was, it was gone, but looking up, she saw another one. And then another one. Soon the whole sky was full of them. One by one, the attention of the children left the old man and fixated on the new falling flakes, whatever they might be, silhouetted against the light of the fire.

This wasn’t part of the Telling. Younger children looked to the older children to see how they should respond, but the older children looked just as lost. A few of the older children looked to the old man – surely he would know what to do. He was a Teller. Tellers knew much.

But the old man looked around with as much wonder as any of the children had. His eyes darted from flake to flake, appearing to mark each one as it fell. If he didn’t know any better he’d have thought this was—but no, that wasn’t possible. The air was too hot, too dry.

Then a breeze started blowing. The old man shivered. Shivered. That was a sensation he hadn’t felt since he was a boy. Quickly, as if a switch had been flipped, the Valley grew cool. Cool quickly became cold, and cold turned to freezing.

A shout was raised. Parents came into the dim light to collect their children, ushering them to the known warmth of the bunkhouses. For even to many of the adults, this was something new, something they had only ever heard of in the Tellings.

Snow.

Soon, the children were all gone. Only the old man remained. Closing his eyes, relishing the feel of the cold on his skin, cold he hadn’t felt for so many years, he wept once more. But these weren’t the rehearsed tears of the Telling. These were tears of sorrow for the winterless years. Tears of joy for its triumphant return. Alone in the light of the fire, he wept.

But the wind grew harder, the air grew colder, and the tears froze in place on the old man’s face. Only too late did he understand that this had moved far beyond the winters of his youth to something new – something dangerous.

He fell to the ground, unable to move. He tried to open his mouth, but the moisture had frozen, and his lips wouldn’t part.

His final thought was wondering who would take up the Telling, if it even still mattered.