Winter's Eve

Dakho

()[o__o]()
Reaction score
75
'Tis the season, so I wrote a little winter related short story. I tried to make it in the style of folklore, sort of. Anyways, here it is. Merry Christmas!


It was all quiet on that winter’s eve, save for the wailing of the soft wind as it rippled through the forest. With their leaves gone, the trees longed to be beautiful again, and Father Winter sent down a flurry of snow to provide. Tall and proud pine trees wore his snow best, as if it were a fine coat. All the creatures of the woods were silent. Gone was the chattering of squirrels; gone was the singing of birds; gone was the howling of wolves. The creatures all hid from Father Winter, for they feared him. There was only one creature that walked the woods that evening, only one that would walk the land remade to Father Winter’s wishes. That creature was a man, the most inquisitive of all creatures. A woodsman was he, young, brave, and strong. Bound in a coat of sheepskin, he carried a heavy axe over his shoulder. In his other hand, he carried a wooden sled. He whistled a gentle tune as he strolled comfortably through the woods, defying the howling wind and flurrying snow. Father Winter, from his perch in the clouds, looked down upon the man, and frowned. He inspected the axe that the creature carried, looking over every notch and dent. It was a well used axe, and smelled of pine. And it was sharp.

The woodsman knew he was not far. Just over the hill and forward a hundred paces, and he would find his tree. He had seen it a year before; this year it would be perfect. He came upon the hill, and trudged upwards. The sled soon became a considerable burden, but the man kept on. When the snow began to reach up to his knees, he began using his axe as a walking stick. With the aid of his trusty tool he made it up the hill. He was almost there. He lay the axe back upon his shoulder as he continued his trek through the snow, his goal, alas, at hand. He came to a glade, where the snow lay heavier and there were no trees, save one. It was a well sized tree, its pines the color of summer beneath the shimmering white of snow. Its branches were well defined and sturdy. Plentiful enough to look healthy, but not to the point of being crowded. It was, quite simply, the perfect tree. The man set down his sleigh and brandished his axe. As he raised his tool, he suddenly heard a voice: “You should not do that, woodsman. This is not your forest.” The woodsman suddenly stopped his swing, and turned to the one who addressed him. He was a tall man wrapped in a great white fur with a hood made from the lighter wolf fur. He wore a quiver across his back and held a bow in hand. Flowing from his jaw was a great white beard, wide and plentiful, reaching across to his collar and down to top of his stomach. The woodsman, after inspecting the strange man, replied, “You are right. This forest belongs to no one.”
“Oh, but you are wrong. This is my forest.” The woodsman arched his eyebrow. What sort of man could claim a forest as his alone? Especially one so vast and great. “You are mistaken; this forest belongs to no one,” the woodsman repeated.
“If it does not belong to anyone, then it does not belong to you. And so, you are stealing from it.”
“I take this tree from the forest and in the spring plant ten new ones in this glade. Do not fear, old hunter, we from the village take care of the forest.”
“And yet my forest would not require your care at all if you did not use it.”
“Why is it that you’ve come to believe this is your forest?”
“For I have claimed it as mine. With the falling of the snow, it has become mine, until the snow is gone and cold is driven away by joyous spring.” The last words were spoken with spite, to the curiosity of the woodsman.
“So the snow, too, is yours?”
“Aye. The wind and snow and ice. I make it, and what it covers is mine.” The woodsman laughed. “Are you to tell me that you are Father Winter? You should have found yourself a fool, deceiver.”
“But a fool you are for wholly doubting me. Even a dubious claim should be viewed carefully.” The woodsman at last sighed, tired of his enigmatic conversation with the old hunter. “If you’ll excuse me, good sir, I have a tree to chop down.”
“I forbid you!”
“You cannot forbid me, you do not possess this tree, nor any of this forest!” The woodsman now turned to the hunter, axe raised. The hunter did not turn to his bow nor quiver, but merely bellowed a guttural roar. From behind him a flurry of snow picked up, carried by a fearsome wind, and struck the woodsman from his feet. And with that the hunter realized that this truly was Father Winter. And then, in a raised voice, Father Winter spoke: “This is my most beloved tree. It is precious to me, and that is why I do not let any other trees grow near it. You shall not have it! It is mine!”
“I take this tree to my family and neighbors, for all our village shall cherish it! You would have it for yourself?” As the woodsman spoke the words, the old hunters visage turned to sorrow. “You have yourself a family, you say. You have yourself neighbors, you say. You have yourself a village, you say. What do I have? I have only the trees. I cannot love the snow, nor tell the wind my troubles. I cannot discuss matters with the ice. But the trees, those I do have. And that is all I have. Now go.” For the first time since their encounter, the Woodsman looked upon Father Winter with pity. A great being he may be, he had never known love, nor kinship. The woodsman dropped his axe, and reached his hand outward. “Then come with me. Let the clouds tend to the snow, and let wind run wild. You have taught them well, they will not go astray. Come to me, to my village.”
“I…I have seen your village before. It is a beautiful sight. But I do not think I would belong there.”
“People belong where they wish to be. If you wish to be with us, then you belong. You will not be an outsider, looking at us from afar. You will be one of us.” Father Winter had never so much as considered this, but knew it was what he had always wanted. When he did not tend to the forest and to the snow, he watched the village. He watched the children play in the snow, and the parents telling ancient stories over roaring fires. He only then realized that he had always longed to be one of them.
“You’d really take me there?”
“Yes, I would.” Father Winter seized the woodsman’s hand, and shook it heartily. The two turned from the tree. It no longer seemed important to either. The woodsman and hunter left, the axe still resting in the snow.
 

Avaleirra

Is back. Probably.
Reaction score
128
That's a really nice story you wrote there. It's like one of those fireside ones. Good job! :thup:
 

thewrongvine

The Evolved Panda Commandant
Reaction score
506
What a cold story. But heart-warming, too. :thup:
I think Winter shoulda killed the man, hah. He seems a bit lost, that poor Father...

~Hai-Bye-Vine~
 
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