Not one of them saw the snow anymore. Rules were not strict in those days, but these always were: stay inside from the winter solstice to the spring equinox, dates of which would be nailed on your door in the dead of night by the appointed council member of organizing for the enclosing.
Everything revolved around winter, nature by extension, so much for a season that was never seen past daring glances through a woolen curtain hiding the dead of night. The children spent summers foraging in the woods or meadow for any assortment of nuts and berries that the earth saw fit to provide that year in the territories still left natural. Caregivers gently tucked hair behind their ears and whispered a reminder to leave the stone circles untouched before sending them off. As soft grass tickled their bare feet and flowers became their main objective of the hunt, older adolescents and adults remained home to perserve what they could and cultive the rest of their stores.
Orange leaves would start to touch the ground, signaling to the village that it was time to start preparing candles. For a month dripping wax and twirling wicks was all anyone could see, no matter how far their eyes carried them. It was not uncommon to go into the square and find a multidude of neighbors burned up and down their arms from the tasks, especially those with young ones underfoot.
The day would come as it always did, blown in on torn paper and nails followed by the wickedest teeth the wind has ever donned. Teary goodbyes were exchanged up and down the streets, filled with the promise of meeting again after the three harshest months had passed. School goers would meet with their teachers for the last time, leaving ladden down with work that was to sit untouched under beds until the sun was able watch them practice again.
For the first night, families would huddle together in the main room, little kids seeking comfort in the laps of parents or siblings before dozing off to the sound of thrashing snow just outside the window.
Nights after that were spent in a futile attempt to keep organized and busy, becoming all too intimately acquainted with the corners of houses that no one should ever need to know about.
Now, perhaps I was overexaggerating when I said that they all stayed inside, but who can blame them when the whole basis for this hibernation was the fear of facing the wrath of barren land?
She snuck out towards the end of the first month, restless, as many who straddle childhood and adulthood are bound to grow after so long spent only in the company of family either too far removed or not yet conscious of the tensions placed on the shoulders of people that have not yet learned to hold them.
Without proper winter attire, something no one would waste their time on when there was no good reason to go outside, every dress was taken from the wardrobe and layered on as snug as could be. Skirts flashed around her trouser covered knees as any resident that had chanced a look outside at that moment would see a figure slipping through a window simply to make a clumsy mad dash to the woods. Any person with sense would assume that the earth had merely made its claim of the year, decided it’s fuel for the future’s bounties.
In and out she went, every night, slowly becoming more accustomed to the truth that is walking through snow that would come up to one’s waist if they were to genuinely sink the whole way to the ground.
The forest provided something she couldn’t find at home, a unique feeling only provided to those daring enough to seek peace; the softness of an adreniline rush. Fear of being caught, of being eaten, of being left to freeze underneath a pine tree would course through her veins. Though at the same time the gentle pitter-patter of snow, the crunch of a bird snapping sticks at the top of a tree would settle over nerves to leave them soothed, able to breathe once again, no matter how much air solidified in the lungs.
Yet as fears are compelled to do, they began to surface one by one. First, it was simply the notion of footsteps trailing behind her in the ice, dragging feet that scraped across the earth with an ungodly screech. Items came next, carelessly left laying in places she could have sworn were devoid of any contact minus hers for weeks.
A compass.
A map, precise spots dotted across parchment.
A pen that wrote with ink so smooth it was unfathomable for it to have been bought in town.
Footprints came next, sunk deep in the snow as dragging tracks right alongside hers whenever she turned to look back. With nowhere else to put them her collected items burned a hole in her pocket, hidden from any family member who might come snooping during the day and the elements that came out to play as agents of chaos during night.
It was only towards the end of hibernation when things truly began to go wrong. The wind dragging her to and fro so that there was hardly a conceivable path back home. Birds that turned their attention from flying to dropping little nuts or sticks on her head, slowly snapping the fibers of her knit hat as the rough edges caught, then rolled off. Leaves that looked like they brushed together but made no sound.
They didn’t truly figure out where she’d gone until the snow melted, even if everyone would have had a good guess.
If you look closely enough at the rings children are supposed to ignore but call fairy circles instead, you may be lucky enough to catch a glimpse of the bones that still fuel the earth.
If you look in the right spot, maybe you’ll even see hers.
In the end, nature has to get energy from somewhere.
