Memories of Winter

The old man stared into the dragon’s eyes, and two glittering orbs stared back. Time seemed to stop as they simply took each other in. The elder’s eyes were dark and aged with wisdom, while the dragon’s, though a beautiful ruby-red, were hollow and empty. That couldn’t be helped, however. As skilled a designer he was, no mask could take on a life of its own. It relied on the wearer to give it a soul.

Still, it was a remarkable piece of art, perhaps his best yet. He had spent hours agonizing over it before even starting construction. The firmness of the wood, the quality of the paints—just selecting the correct shade for the eyes took him three days.

It was a masterpiece.

It had been many years since he had taken up the mantle of Storyteller, and it was a role he took seriously. It was an ancient ceremony, one that took place during the coldest and darkest of months. The people of this town relied on his Story to give them the strength and hope to make it through the winter. And what a Story he had prepared for them.

He allowed his experiences to inform his craft, and experience he had in abundance. Time was unstoppable, and each day the sun seemed to set faster than it did the day before.

So impatient, he thought, as he noticed it had already begun its descent below the horizon.

He brought the mask up to cover his face, deftly tying the strings behind his head. He turned to face the small mirror he had propped up against a toolbox, and two crimson eyes, bright with excitement and wild joy, looked back at him.

It was time.

***

“Hurry, hurry!” The boy wriggled impatiently.

“Stop your fidgeting, Ren,” scolded the old woman lightly as she fumbled with the buttons on his jacket. “The more you move around, the longer this is going to take.”

“I’m not fidgeting,” he whined, and stood as still as he could given his current level of excitement. The Festival took place only once a year after all, and this was the first time he had been given permission to stay out after dark.

“You are too,” his mother laughed as she walked into the room. She tousled his hair affectionately before covering it with a woolen hat. She had knitted it for him last winter and it fit snugly about his ears. “Remember, you need to stay close to me or grandma the entire time.”

He nodded obediently and grabbed his grandmother’s frail hand with his left and his mother’s firm hand with his right, a link between generations.

The walk along the snow-covered road was longer than he remembered, but perhaps that was because he had been carried last year. His eyes closed briefly as he remembered the feeling of warmth and safety of his father’s arms, despite the frigid cold. But papa wasn’t here and he was a big kid now, nearly eight years old. He was determined to walk there and back on his own legs.

Finally, they rounded the last corner and were met with the view Ren had waited so impatiently to see. The fairgrounds, normally a frozen landscape this time of year, glowed radiantly. It was as if an artist had poured out each of his paints onto a blank canvas to form a vibrant, swirling cacophony of color. The bright oranges and yellows of the booths boasting in large letters every kind of fried food, the deep reds of the lanterns strung up along the paths guiding traffic, the rich blues and greens of the garments worn by the festival-goers—Ren took in the sights greedily.

Night crept upon the festival, an unspoken signal to the attendees to make their way to the center of the fairgrounds. They crossed paths with others heading in the opposite direction; families taking their young ones home. Ren imagined the children watched him longingly as they passed, just as he had in previous years when he was in their position.

He alternated pulling at his mother’s and grandmother’s arms impatiently as they stopped here and there to chat with acquaintances, but finally managed to shepherd the pair to where the rest of the crowd had already gathered. A decent sized stage had been erected, and on either side, two massive bonfires had been lit, the air around them shimmering.

Excitement buzzed among the crowd. They huddled in groups, rubbing their hands together and stamping their feet in an attempt to stay warm. Ren was starting to lose feeling in his toes, despite the double layer of socks his mother had insisted he wear. But he stayed silent, aware that any complaint could land him a one-way ticket back home.

All thoughts of discomfort were banished as a sudden flurry of activity on stage grabbed his attention, and he found himself swept up by the thunderous beats of drums and the wild dancing of the performers. He watched them in awe, completely transfixed. And then a flicker of movement caught his eye. He blinked, unsure of what he was seeing.

From the shadows emerged a creature, ancient and majestic, that Ren had only seen in picture books. It was pure white, from the tip of its tail to its long whiskers, to the stately horns that protruded from its skull and tapered into delicate points down its back. It turned its head slowly as if taking in the crowd, and Ren felt a shiver run down his spine. Its eyes were a deep red, and they glowed intensely in the light of the fire.

It raised its arms, clawing at the sky as the drumming grew to a crescendo, then brought them down swiftly. Silence fell and it was as if the entire world had taken a deep breath, releasing it only as the creature began to speak.

Ren let the words wash over him.

***

Many moons had passed since the dragon had first begun her search for Winter, the story began.

She was not normally this elusive. She was the season the mortals of this land dreaded the most, and she took pleasure in creeping upon them like the hoarfrost that formed spiraling patterns on their windowpanes. She taunted them, urged them to feast and make merry and celebrate their harvest while they could, for she would be upon them soon.

And she always came. With her icy fingers, she plucked the leaves from their trees, poured mountains of snow upon the earth, and elbowed the sun out of the sky. The mortals huddled inside their wooden dens, with no other purpose than to wait for her to leave. And she always did, reluctantly, resentfully, bitterly. Reminding them to watch for her, for she would be back again when the next harvest moon was full.

And yet, the harvest came and went. The sun continued to spread its warmth, the days stayed long, and the trees kept their colorful foliage, which to the dragon circling above was nothing more than a canvas of color—splotches of orange, red, and yellow.

It was a lovely sight to be sure, but she took no notice. She merely snorted and flapped her wings in frustration. Why did Winter tarry?

At first, the earth dwellers seemed confused. Concerned, even. What were they to do with their stores of food? With the wood they had harvested for their fires? When were the farmers to plant their crops?

As the moon continued to wax and wane, the once ever-evolving landscape stayed just as it was. Rumors spread, and the dragon heard snatches of them in her travels. Perhaps this was a judgment on mankind for their wickedness. Or, on the contrary, it was a blessing from the heavens. Perhaps Winter had abandoned her duties and left the mortal plane completely. Each story she heard was more unlikely than the last.

The dragon ignored the frivolous gossip and paid attention only to her own senses. She tasted the air with her tongue, focused her inner ear, and scrutinized her surroundings with sharp eyes. For a long frustrating time, she detected nothing. And then, several nights ago, she began to feel something in the corner of her consciousness. A Nudge. She was not sure where the Nudge originated from, but as a dragon who was innately curious—and at the end of her rope—she saw no other choice but to go where it took her.

It led her far—across mountains and valleys, rivers and plains, and finally to the small forest above which she was now circling. Should I land? She asked it. It did not answer, so she took the silence as an affirmative.

It was an old forest, with trees that made her feel as small as a hatchling, though decades had passed since then. She could sense that these trees were far older than that. She walked quietly among them, with the same deference that she would give to another dragon of equal or higher stature whose domain she was entering.

They seemed to whisper to each other as she passed, and she felt as if every footprint she left in the soft earth, every sweep of her tail that disturbed the delicate underbrush, were being keenly watched and judged by these colossal creatures. She treaded forward carefully.

Finally she reached what was undoubtedly the heart of the forest. The King of Trees—for he unmistakably was—rose up in front of her, his massive limbs stretching towards the sky. The dragon imagined that his roots stretched just as far, all the way to the edges of the wood.

Why have you come here, firedrake? His branches swayed in the wind.

“I am searching for Winter, O Great One. Was it not you who led me here?”

It was not I, little one, although my people have keenly felt her absence. The trees seemed to whisper in agreement. We have been awake for too many moons, and long for the Great Sleep that only she can grant us.

She bristled internally at the term little one, just as any dragon would, though she did not let it show. “Then we share a purpose, for I long for the same. Have you any knowledge of her whereabouts?” She stretched her neck forward eagerly. “Surely one as ancient as you, who has certainly known Winter a long time, must have some idea of where she is.”

A gust of wind blew towards her, as if in gentle admonishment. I existed for an age before Winter was born, young one. And I will continue to exist far after she is gone. My roots go deep, and they extend far beyond the reaches of this forest. If I cannot sense her, then you will not find her in any woodland.

“If she is not here, and you have no knowledge of her, then why was I brought here?”

Sometimes the best way to help yourself is to help someone else.

The dragon snorted in irritation. “This world is out of balance, and finding Winter would set it right. Why should I set my search on hold to help someone else?”

The King of Trees ignored her question and responded with his own. What is your name, she-dragon?

“I am still Nameless. I have not yet earned one.”

Then I give you one, along with this quest. Many moons ago, this child found harbor in our forest and has dwelt here ever since. Bring him back to his family, and take with you the name Fire-eyes.

“What child?”

His voice faded and his branches stilled. Go…

She blinked in frustration. This was not her first time talking to a Tree, but she hoped it would be the last. It was impossible to get a straight answer out of any of them. And he had not even told her where to find this child she was supposed to help.

High up in the Tree, she heard a stirring. A tiny pair of eyes peeked out at her from the leaves.

The child…

A universe away, a young boy was being gently tucked in bed by an elderly woman, who caressed his cheek softly before kissing him goodnight.

***

It was a staring contest, and Ren was determined to win. He crouched on the narrow dusty road as he peered into the underbrush, which was looking intensely back with glowing yellow eyes.

The underbrush didn’t blink, and neither did he. He slowly leaned forward to see if he could get a better glimpse of—

“Ouch!” he yelped as a tiny, orange blur leapt out of the brush, making contact painfully with his chest. He fell over in surprise, and the creature—which Ren could now identify as a small calico cat—darted up the road. He grabbed his schoolbag and hurried after it.

He slowed as he reached the end of the street, lungs burning as he gasped for air. The sprint had been for nothing, however—the cat was nowhere to be seen. He was greeted instead by the sight of his uncle’s house, which had been his original destination. He usually came here after school on the days his mother worked.

Perhaps he could tempt the cat into approaching. He made his way into the back entrance which led directly into the kitchen. He yanked open the door, dumping his bag on the floor and pulling off his shoes. He grabbed a shallow bowl from one of the cabinets and began to rummage around the fridge for some milk. He knew auntie always had a glass with breakfast.

Just as he was fumbling with the carton lid, he heard voices from the next room.

“Hana working late today?” Ren identified the voice as belonging to his uncle.

“She always works late on Thursdays, remember? Ren should be coming up the street any minute,” his auntie responded.

Uncle snorted. “If he even remembers. Honestly, that boy’s got his head in the clouds, or buried in one of his books. He has no awareness of what is happening around him.”

“He is very imaginative,” Auntie answered diplomatically. “He loves his stories.”

“He’s scatterbrained and lazy. Yuka is only a few years younger than him and she’s got better grades and is involved in pretty much every school club. What is Ren doing? He spends all his free time in the library, and not even to study. What is he going to do when he starts middle school in a few months? This is what happens when boys don’t have a father figure to—”

Ren closed the door quietly behind him, and went to sit at the bottom of the steps. He placed the saucer of milk on the ground in front of him and buried his head in his hands. It was not the first time he had heard his uncle voice those opinions.

The sound of footsteps jolted him from his thoughts. He raised his head to see his grandmother walking towards him. She was dressed in her gardening clothes, complete with her floppy hat that kept the sun out of her eyes, and armed with a hoe that she was using as a cane to help her up the small hill.

“Well, if it isn’t my adorable grandson,” she said in greeting, and slowly lowered herself on the step next to him. Ren said nothing, staring into the distance.

“Are we expecting guests?” she asked, nodding at the saucer of milk on the ground. “I’ll have to go change into my best clothes.” She winked, a teasing smile on her face.

Ren sighed and asked, “Do I daydream too much?”

“Oh, sweetheart. I love the stories you tell me.”

“But they’re just stories. It’s not like they’re real. As soon as you’re done telling them, they’re gone.”

“Just because you don’t see it in front of you doesn’t mean that it’s not real. Some of the best things in life can’t be seen. Stories give our life meaning, and they certainly don’t disappear after they’ve been told. If anything, they grow stronger with each telling.”

“Uncle says I just waste my time.”

His grandmother snorted. “Well, that’s my dolt of a son for you.” She leaned over and put her arm around him. “You just keep being who you are. Don’t change just because someone who doesn’t understand you thinks you should. Got it?”

Ren nodded and opened his mouth to respond, but was interrupted by a quiet mew at his feet.

His grandmother laughed. “Well! It looks like our guest finally showed up. And wasted no time in wolfing down its meal,” she noted as the cat began lapping at the milk eagerly.

Ren reached out carefully with one finger and gently stroked its head. It responded with a flick of an ear, but otherwise ignored the touch.

“It’s so colorful. Just like a tiger,” he said, admiring its multicolored, though slightly matted, coat. “Well, maybe a baby tiger,” he amended. It could not be more than a few months old judging by its size.

“Must be,” the old woman nodded. “Perhaps when its grown, it will keep the deer from eating all of my cabbages.”

“I think that’s what I’ll call you—Tora. It means tiger.” The cat mewed as if in acceptance.

“It must have wandered far from home.”

Ren nodded excitedly. “I bet it’s a noble from the Kingdom of Tigers! In one of the books I read, they were attacked by a neighboring empire. They had no choice but to…”

The boy grew more and more animated as he told his story. The old woman simply sat on the small stone steps, a smile tugging at her lips as she listened.

***

The tiger stretched out next to the fire, nibbling at the remains of a carcass. The fur on his face and paws were bloody, proof of a successful hunt.

From the other side of the flames, Fire-eyes observed him with disdain. “Honestly,” she said. “Tigers are the messiest creatures I’ve ever met.”

“And dragons are the most judgmental,” the tiger shot back. “It’s not like I see you eating so daintily with a fork and knife like the humans do.”

“No,” she sniffed. “But I at least cook my food before tearing into it.”

“My apologies, I wasn’t born with an internal furnace like some people,” came the sarcastic response.

She ignored the jab and stared into the fire she had built. Had she been on her own, she would not have needed it, for the fire that burned inside her could keep her warm no matter the weather. It was for the sake of the child that slept at her side that she had built it. She thought back to the events of the last few months, still in disbelief in all that had transpired. The conversation in the forest, adopting the child, meeting the oversized tabby that had forced his way into their small group.

He interrupted her reverie.

“Tell me, dragon, why it is that you have decided to take this child under your wing. Quite literally, I might add,” he said wryly.

“We have discussed this before, O Striped One. I gave you my answer then.”

“Yes, yes, this was a quest thrust upon you by the forest. So?” He yawned, showing off an impressive display of razor-sharp teeth. “You do not seem like one to sit meekly and do as you are told.”

“I am not,” she answered primly. “I accepted the quest because I felt like it.” She dug her talons into the ground, kneading the soft earth.

“Hah! You’re lying.” The tiger rolled on its back, eyeing the now upside-down dragon. “You always do that thing with your claws when you’re avoiding the truth.”

Fire-eyes snorted in frustration. “Fine. If you insist on knowing, I was promised that returning this child to his home is the key to finding Winter.”

The tiger looked up in curiosity. “Winter? You’re looking for Winter?”

“And if I am?”

He shrugged. “Why bother? What good is she?”

The dragon’s eyes widened in disbelief. “You are out of touch with nature. Winter is an integral part of this universe. The world will continue to spiral out of balance without her.”

“My life is exactly the same without her, just a little less cold. I hunt, I kill, I eat. No matter what season it is. That’s how it is now, that’s how it was before I lost my kingdom. Why would we need her?”

“She is the season of rest. A chance for all creatures to take respite, to shed their leaves, to hibernate—even the humans cease their laboring. It has been far too long since they—since I—have rested. I long to eat my fill and curl up in my cave and sleep until spring.”

The tiger lay for several minutes, his eyes closed. The dragon thought he had dozed off, but then—

“I never liked Winter. It’s bloody cold. And the snow makes my paws wet.”

“Just because it has a few aspects that are unpleasant doesn’t mean that it’s bad. It’s how the world is. There is a season for everything. For life, for growth, for death, for rebirth. It’s how the world has always been.”

The tiger did not answer. He was already curled up, snoring softly.

***

“And this is one that I bought yesterday with my birthday money. I’ve been waiting for ages for it to come out.” Ren held up the book, showing off its glossy cover and crisp pages.

“Ren, honey,” The teenager turned his head. His mother had poked her head around the corner. “I bet your father would like to hear about how your life is going, not just about the books you’ve been reading.”

“Right,” he said. He turned back to look at the small shrine that sat in the corner of their living room. A picture of his father smiled down at him amongst the flowers and food offerings his mother had placed earlier in the day.

“Well, school is fine, I guess.” He paused. He always felt awkward talking about himself.

“I got full marks on my English test yesterday. Which is good, because I’ll need it. Mom’s company just promoted her and now we’re moving overseas. To America. Remember how you used to promise you would take me to Disneyworld?

“I don’t think Tora will be too happy about us leaving.” He looked over to where the cat was curled up on a cushion. “She’ll be going to live with Cousin Yuka. Poor kitty—she’s never liked her. Every time she comes over she tries to pull on her tail and put her in doll clothes.

“Mom says it will be an adventure. Like the ones in my books. But it won’t be. I mean, there won’t be dragons, will there? Can you even have an adventure without dragons?”

He frowned and examined the photograph again, trying to find similarities between his father’s face and his own. They had the same bushy eyebrows at least.

A thump and a muffled curse came from the next room, as if someone had dropped a heavy box on their foot. Ren sighed and went to find the first aid kit.

***

“No, you can’t stay! You have to come with us!”

The boy sobbed loudly, his face buried in the tiger’s neck. The tiger placed one massive paw on the child’s back in comfort.

“Hush, child. It is the way it is meant to be. Your home lies across the sea and there are very few cats who enjoy swimming.” His eyes twinkled mischievously as he whispered, “And I would not trust that oversized lizard to not drop me into the ocean out of spite.”

Fire-eyes grunted.

“But we’ve been through so much together,” he pleaded, looking up through eyes brimming with tears.

“Indeed, we have. And we will always have those memories. But there are times we must leave the ones we love, though it is hard to accept. It is the nature of things.”

The tiger nudged the boy with his snout.

“Our paths came together for a short time, and I am very glad they did. But now we have reached the fork in the road, little one.”

He nuzzled the child affectionately, then grabbed the back of his tunic in his jaws, rearing up on his hind legs to help him onto the dragon’s back. Fire-eyes turned and the two creatures gazed at each other for a moment, their expressions inscrutable. Then she crouched, spread her wings, and took flight.

The boy looked down at his late companion, refusing to turn away until he became one with the landscape—a tiny orange splotch, like one of the many autumn leaves that refused to fall from their branches.

***

It happened quickly, they said, with no suffering. It was just her time to go.

It was two in the morning when they got the call. That couldn’t be helped; there was a 12-hour time difference after all. Ren woke up when he heard the sobs down the hallway. He didn’t have to ask to know what was wrong.

Everything was already wrong.

Before, he felt like a tiny ship in the middle of the vast ocean. Alone, untethered, unsure of where to go. Barely able to communicate with anyone, uncertain of what he would say even if he could.

Now it was storming and he could barely stay afloat.

Weeks passed by in a haze. He went through all of the motions—wake up, go to school, agonize over his failure to grasp even the simplest of instructions, and come home. He was glad that he had at least brought his book collection, as they were his only solace. His escape from reality. He wished he could dive in them and leave behind his life for good.

He rarely saw his mother, as she was always working late. Many days she was already gone before he even woke up, and locked in his room before she came home. Like ships that pass in the night, they slept in the same house, ate their meals in the same kitchen, and seldom crossed paths.

Until one evening he got up to get a glass of water from the kitchen and saw his mother standing at the counter, her shoulders shaking.

He was so caught up in his own grief and struggling that he had forgotten she was struggling too. Gently, he took her hand and led her to the couch. There they sat for a few minutes in silence.

“She used to listen to all of my stories.”

“Tell me one.”

He thought for a moment and let the words come.

***

“Mama!” The boy cried and ran towards the white-clad woman at the end of the hall.

“Oh, my child!” She met him halfway and wrapped him in her arms, swinging him around in a circle before gently placing him on the ground.

Fire-eyes observed the emotional exchange in front of her as her own unidentified feelings welled up in her throat. She pushed them back down.

“Thank you for bringing my son back to me,” said the woman, as she turned to face the bone-white dragon who had made a sudden, unexpected appearance in the castle. “What can I ever do to repay you?”

Her face, her voice, her manner of speech—Fire-eyes realized then who she was talking to. That crafty old Tree, she thought with a mixture of frustration and amusement.

“All I ask is that you resume your duties, my lady. I hope it is not too bold of me to say that you have been neglecting them for quite a while. And the world has felt it.”

Winter, as Fire-eyes had realized she was, had decency to blush. “Yes, I suppose I have. After my son was taken from me, I looked everywhere for him. When I could not find him, I took to bed, unable to rise when my appointed season came,” she said, hugging the boy tightly at her side.

“But now that he has been returned to me, I shall take action at once. However—” she paused and clapped twice loudly. Tables appeared, laden with dishes. “First we shall feast, and then I will hear the story of how you found my son. Winter is a good time to tell stories, after all.”

And they feasted until dawn, laughing and talking loudly. From a nearby window, the dragon watched the snow outside swirl in gentle drifts. She excused herself, thanking the hostess and lightly brushing her snout against the child’s forehead in farewell.

And then Fire-eyes, with a light heart and heavy stomach, slept.