Embers and Snow

Her father always said she had a heart-shaped face, elegant and pure. She stared at the reflection in the still surface of the pond. The round face of a little girl gazed back at her, a pointed chin and slanted eyes. Her fingers broke the surface of the reflection as she knelt over the water. She smoothed her hair the way her father used to, her long fingers gliding from her scalp all the way down to the tips, spinning the hair with a flick of her wrist. She deftly struck a pin through the bun.

She stood, a young woman dressed in tawny robes, the gossamer linen flowed like smoke as she moved. Snow fell silently around her, the flakes drifted like downy feathers. She turned away from the pond and marched into the pine forest. Treading through the woods was serene, she moved like a spectre amongst the straight, scattered trunks. Their raw cinnamon bark stood out against the white snow. A cold quietude soothed her. A medicine box bumped against her back. Although the box itself was light, the burden of its responsibility felt as though she were dragging a carcass behind her. She could still see the smiling face of her father, as he handed her off to a strange woman who had once carried this medicine box’s burden. The sadness of his smile was not the face she wanted to remember. But it was the last time she saw it, nearly a decade ago. A sound snatched her from her reverie.

She stopped and looked up into the boughs of a particularly massive pine. It’s trunk was gnarled, too wide to wrap her arms around even half of it. It stood over her like the warden it was. The mother tree.

A tawny shape looked down at her from the lower branches. Its heart-shaped face tilted slightly as it cooed at her. A barn owl. It looked like the face that she saw in the pond. Her face. Its dark eyes stared, unblinking. She watched it in a daze. It spread one wing, preened and with a single hoot took flight. It swooped soundlessly overhead.

A single feather drifted down with the snow, landing on a path. She glanced down the path she was already on, then down the path the feather marked. Deep in thought, she had nearly lost her way.

No one had walked this path in nearly a decade.

She began to carry her burdened steps down the new path. The snow fell thickly now, the pine canopy providing little protection for the owl-faced maiden as she walked. Her feet carefully picked through the overgrowth, leading her as if they knew where to land. They had walked this path hundreds of times.

The sky dimmed with the heavy snow clouds. A faint light flickered through the trees. Her burden suddenly felt twice the weight. She let out a billowing breath.

The wood hut stood alone in a small clearing, surrounded by a dried bamboo fence. Light flickered from within. Smoke puffed weakly from the chimney. The owl-faced maiden stared at it, welcoming the slow bite of cold as she mustered her courage. The owl feather wavered in the wind, stuck into her bun. She walked through the gate, footsteps crunching quietly through the snow. She reached the door and pushed it silently open. Like a ghost, she stood in the threshold. The faint amber glow outlined her features. An old man lay on the opposite side of the fire pit, gaunt and veiled with sickness. A draft of cold air buffeted the dying flames, embers swelled and scattered toward the ceiling.

The old man peeked through his lashes. He motioned for her to enter, his frail hand fell weakly over his blankets. He smiled at her as she knelt across the pit from him. The embers floated lazily between them. Snow fell, embers rose. The maiden’s owl face watched him smile warmly, tears welled at the corners of his wrinkled eyes.

“I suppose this is my punishment, that the face of my daughter appears before me at a time like this.” His voice rasped, hardly more than a whisper.

The owl-faced maiden shook her head once.

He wore the face of her father, but the burdens he carried had tarnished his soul. It reached desperately for her like a child seeking a comforting embrace from its parent.

She wore the face of his daughter, his burdens had tarnished her own soul. She folded her hands in her lap.

He closed his eyes and sank into the blankets. The owl-faced maiden hooded her eyes. She moved to kneel beside him, setting her medicine box down.

Her burden was a vow of grace.

A barn owl perched on the gate outside the hut. The blanket of snow in the yard was undisturbed, unmarred by footsteps. The bird silently took to the air, gliding through the snow with ease.

The old man opened his eyes, the fire in the hut had been rebuilt, flames flickered happily in the pit. He sat up and stretched his shoulders, suddenly relieved of a lifetime of burden.

He glanced down to find a tray with a bowl of tonic beside his pillow. A single owl feather rested beside the bowl.