The Winter Counting
I was inspired recently by the season and the special struggle of a northern winter, to imagine an alternate legend of the winter celebration for those of us who struggle with the long dark night. May it bring you some comfort in the cold. This story is available in audio form on Youtube.
It is said that once long ago, our people dwelt in a shining land, nestled in a valley beneath the mountains of the Sun. We dwelt in harmony with the Sun, and brought offerings to her mountain top, and her shining reign was our prosperity.
But then came a great war. As the people sought to further tame the land in which they lived, there arose a terrible conflict, between the Sun, the Earth, and the Waters. As each of their forces waxed and waned, the valley was struck with one calamity after another. The Earth shook, the Waters flooded, and the Sun scorched the land.
Finally, fearing they should not survive this conflict any longer, some of their number forsook the valley and fled, hoping to find a place of peace. They wandered far, days upon days, weathering yet more torrents of rain, peals of thunder, exhausting heats, and frigid cold.
At last they found a great forest, and in that forest a great meadow, and as the Sun broke through the clouds, they felt that they had been blessed. They had surely found a new home, at last, one blessed by the goddess herself.
Yet the Sun is a jealous god, and their paradise was not to be. Wounded by their forsaking of her holy mountain and betrayed by their shirking of the battlefield of Sun and Earth and Sea, she swore to abandon them to the darkness every year, as the last leaves began to fall in the southern part of the forest.
As an act of mercy, she granted her light from first blossom to the first fallen leaf, that they could construct shelter and and find food for the long night to come. And true to her word, as the last leaves fell from the birch, the days grew shorter and shorter, and the long cold night fell on the meadow village.
It was then that the true nature of her curse became clear. The heart of the people is one with that of the Sun. Without her light, each one in turn grew lonely, broken-hearted, and cold as the bitter chills that soon fell.
As the long night marched on and time lost all meaning, some hearts could not bear the dark. Some retreated inside themselves. Others became inconsolable with tears. And some simply wandered out into the night, into the forest, and were never seen again.
Some feared a monster lurked out in the far darkness of the wood. Others believed that their souls, untethered from the light that gave them strength, and disappeared into the darkness like a shadow when the lights go out. Some in the village swore that they could hear distant wailing in the woods, but dared not go investigate, lest whatever being gave those cries would drag them off into the dark. To this day, parents tell their children to avoid the woods at night, lest the souls of the lost take them into the night.
As the night reached its darkest though, one young soul was struck with an idea. Braving the edge of the woods, they gathered a great bundle of kindling and fallen branches and wood, and made a great pyre in the centre of the village. Calling forth all the people of the village, they struck it ablaze in a great bonfire, one so tall and mighty that it might make even the Sun jealous of its burning beauty.
Then, as all stood in wonder around the great fire, they counted. One by one they called the names of those who dwelt in the village, and each called back in turn, and then all spoke each name aloud. By this, they would hear the voice of all who still braved the cold and the dark, and know that they had lived, and could live still. Together they raised their voices to the sky, crying, “We still await you, we your strongest people, and we have not forgotten.”
Then as an honor to those who had not survived the night, for each soul which had gone into the woods never to be heard, they made an offering. A bundle of scented leaves and pitch was tossed in the flames with a crackle and a burst of bittersweet scent drifting into the heavens. “These,” they said unto the Sun, “these are the souls of those who have gone into the night. They were strong, but none are strong forever. May their souls know peace.”
It is said that as the shouts of triumph and of sorrow reached the heavens, the Sun wept. As the scent of each offering reached the Sun on that night, a single golden tear fell to the sky and became a bright new star to guide the people in the dark. Overwhelmed by this ritual of hope and sorrow, the Sun had mercy, and swore to return to the people of the forest each summer, just as she would leave them again in winter.
And so from that night forward, the darkness lifted shade by shade, and in its place would come a golden summer to rival any of the valley of the Sun. At its peak, the people would once again gather around a great fire, to thank her for her gift, and to revel in the light, before it would fade again into the long dark night.
But in the midst of all the festivities, a few were forgotten: those the forest had not claimed but who struggled against the darkness alone. To them, she gave the Moon, that they might ever be reminded of her warmth, and be able once again to count the days until they could once again share the light of her star or of the fires struck in her name.
To this day, at the darkest part of the bitter winter, families and friends and loved ones gather around the hearth or the bonfire to count their living, honor their lost, and celebrate their survival through another bitter cold night.
And those souls who must wander alone, may sit on a clear night and call their names out to the moon, counting their own survival to the Sun’s pale twin, and claiming her strength to make it another winter.
Joining a bonfire in the sky, they cry, “I am still here. The Moon is mine to witness it. I will live to see another.”
The night is dark and cold, and its sorrows long, but we may live to see the Sun again.
May your count be full.
