The Winter Poem
-A Fairy Tale-
Nissa stood patiently waiting for the men to light the fire in the clearing in front of the sacred hut. She was breathing deeply, praying to the gods that she would not forget the old rites, the words she would say for the first time in front of an audience. She had studied all her life for this moment, when the day was the shortest and the night was the longest and when the gods would dance with the people. It was her task to call the gods to the fire, and her people would be terribly disappointed if her village was the only one where the priestess erred and the gods did not come – and of course it would mean bad luck for the following year.
Snowflakes drifted slowly down to the frozen grass. The men in the clearing cursed and moaned because the wet wood took its time to catch an fire. Nissa looked nervously across the fire pit to the second sacred hut. There the priest of winter, Gohtam, waited like her for the arrangements to be finished outside. He was an old man, who had called the gods many times during the winter solstice and the summer solstice while it was the first time for her, the priestess of summer. She wasn’t ready. She knew she wasn’t ready. Mistress Jesna, the former priestess, had died only two month ago and even though Nissa had learned all her life this wasn’t a very long time. She was only eight years old. But she was the only priestess the village had.
The men finished their preparations and the fire started to burn. Slowly the men and women, the boys and the girls of the village arrived on the clearing. The night had started a long time ago. The moon had risen to its highest point. It was time.
Men and women readied their instruments: drums and flutes, lutes and pipes. Everyone else formed circles around the fire, holding each others hands. They only left two opening for the priests, but they would close these too, once they had walked to the middle of the clearing. Somewhere among these people was Nissas mother, but she couldn’t see her. She needed her, needed someone to hold her, to tell her, that everything was good, that she would be fine, but nobody came. The priests and priestesses were left alone for a day before the winter and summer solstice, when the change of power between the two gods took place, to clear their minds and to meditate, but Nissas mind wasn’t clear. She was nervous, she was afraid.
The drums started to beat. Two men opened the wide doors of the hut and the little girl walked out and to the fire. On the other end of the clearing Gohtam did the same. He wasn’t nervous, he was used to this, but Nissa wanted nothing more than to run away.
She stayed. She would say the first stanza of the Winter Poem, Gohtam the second and together they would say the third. The music would swell, the gods – brother and sister, husband and wife – would come and they would dance with the priestess and the priest and the people of her village would dance around them.
“S...Sn...Snow...Snowflakes and fire,” she began with a hushed voice, her arms stretched out to the flames, “c...coldness and heat! I call you, my goddess, in this winter night.” Her voice became stronger with every word. “We offer you wine grapes and flowers and wheat.” While she spoke, men and women laid down the offerings on a fleece next to the fire. “I ask you to change to green all this white.”
The fire burned brighter and crackled loudly and a face appeared in the flames. It was young and bright like the full moon and crowned with long shimmering black hair. While Gohtam intoned the next stanza, a slim body, belonging to the beautiful face formed and so did the face of the other god.
“Harvest and rest, silence and peace! I call you, my god, just dance one last time. We know you are tired, lie down on this fleece. You may stay this night ‘till the hour of prime.”
The gods looked to the fleece and then at each other and their hands touched. The music turned from a solemn, slow piece to a louder, happier tune and Nissa and Gohtam said the next lines of the poem together.
„Goddess of summer, flowers and rain: We call you, we ask you, dance with us now. God of the winter, new crops and fresh grain: Leave when it’s time, remember your vow.”
This part was easier for Nissa, because she wasn’t alone and it wasn’t that obvious if she talked a bit quieter than Gohtam. She even smiled when she saw the god and the goddess starting to dance.
But then it was her turn to speak alone again. “Blossoming flowers, spring and...and” She hated this line. She could never remembered it correctly. And now, when it was most important, she couldn’t remember it either. She stumbled over her words and then was silent. The fire lost its brightness, the music jumbled and stopped. The villagers tripped and fell and the god and goddess vanished.
For a moment it was completely silent on the clearing. Nobody moved, nobody said a word, nobody even breathed. Only the still burning fire could be heard.
And then the screaming started. Nissa droped to her knees and put her head in her hands. Tears streamed through her fingers and fell to the earth. Nissa shivered and tried not to listen to the scream and accusations, but some of the words still reach her ear.
“This stupid girl ruined the festival.”
“More important, she ruined the next year.”
“The gods will punish us.”
“Idiot!” “Bitch” “Dumb shit!” “Cunt!”
“Look at me.” It was the voice of her mother. Nissa looked up. She had hoped for some consolation but she saw only hatred in her face. “Get up!”
Nissa stood. “I’m sorry.”, she said.
“Not sorry enough.”, her mother said and slapped her in the face. Nissa fell to the ground, crying even more than before, but her mother didn’t care. “You ruined the festival, you ruined the next year, you ruined the honour of our family. I always knew Mistress Jesna should have taken your sister as an apprentice. She would not have been so stupid. You are no longer my daughter! I wish I could change the fact that you are still our priestess!” The woman stalked away.
Nissa wrapped her arms around her legs and put her head on her knees. She wept, rocking her whole body. It was still snowing and she was cold, but nobody paid her any attention other than to throw a biting comment in her direction. One after another they left the clearing, left her alone – cold and tired and miserable.
“It wasn’t my fault!”, Nissa sobbed defiantly and threw a stone in the ashes of the still glowing bonfire.
“Yes, it was.”, said a gentle voice Nissa had never heard before from across the clearing, “But, honestly, I don’t care, and neither does my brother and husband.”
“It wasn’t my fault!”, Nissa said again, still staring to the frozen ground through a veil of tears. The woman said nothing and after a while Nissa looked up to see if she was still there. She saw a black-haired woman wearing a wide white coat over a gown shimmering in all colours of the spring. Next to her, their arms linked, stood a white-haired young man in a black robe over white pants and a ice-blue shirt. Nissa remembered them vaguely from the dance.
“It was your fault.”, the woman said again.
“No, it wasn’t! It’s Mistress Jesna’s fault. She should have been here! She shouldn’t have died!”
“It’s still your fault. You knew all your life that you would be the next priestess after her. And when you earned the verses you always stumbled over the same line and Jesna always told you to pay more attention. You knew Jesna would die one day. Time is fleeting. You knew that since your father died two years ago.”
“But I’m too young! I shouldn’t...”
“Yes, Nissa, that you are. You are too young. You shouldn’t be alone in this clearing late at night – or early in the morning.”
The woman walked slowly across the clearing to the little girl and knelt down in front of her. Her companion stayed behind and watched the scene with an expressionless face.
“You shouldn’t cry alone in the dark. The other people of your village should be here and hold you. Your mother should wipe away your tears. Master Gohtam should be sitting next to you and tell you the story of his old Master: how his old Master became forgetful later in life and how he didn’t know the lines of the Summer Poem once and – most important – how nothing bad ever happened because of his error, even though the people blamed him for all the things that went wrong this autumn, things that had gone wrong in previous years and in years after...”
The woman cupped Nissas small head in her hand and stroked her cheeks with her thumb.
“Who are you?”, Nissa asked, choking back some more tears.
The woman laughed. It sounded like snow crunching under heavy boots and a flower blossoming in spring.
“You know who I am.”, she said.
And Nissa did, even though she didn’t want to believe it. “I’m sorry.”, she said.
“I know you are. As I said before: I don’t care that it was your fault. And I don’t care that you said the wrong words. You meant well. Your people have a saying: It is the thought that counts. The thought was definitely right. I don’t care about your error, but I do care about the way your people treated you. If I punish your people then because of what they did to you, not because the ceremony wasn’t exactly right.”
When she said these last words, the gentle voice of the goddess of spring became darker and it seemed like the wind howled louder through the forest and the still falling snow turned colder.
“Please don’t!”, Nissa pleaded, “Please don’t hurt them! Please!”
The goddesses look returned from a place far away from the realm of men when she heard her pleading and her dark eyes shifted back to the little girl.
“I won’t”, she said, “for you. - It would be nice if you remembered the poem next year, though. I actually like it quite a bit.” And then she was gone.
When the normally expressionless goddess smiled the next year while she danced with Nissa, nobody but the priestess noticed.
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I actually wrote the whole poem Nissa tries to recite because I wasn't sure where I would have her forget her lines. Therefore you get two presents for the price of one today:
The Winter Poem
Priestess of summer:
Snowflakes and fire, coldness and heat!
I call you, my goddess, in this winter night.
We offer you wine grapes and flowers and wheat.
I ask you to change to green all this white.
Priest of winter:
Harvest and rest, silence and peace!
I call you, my god, just dance one last time.
We know you are tired, lie down on this fleece.
You may stay this night ‘till the hour of prime.
Both:
Goddess of summer, flowers and rain:
We call you, we ask you, dance with us now.
God of the winter, new crops and fresh grain:
Leave when it’s time, remember your vow.
Priestess of summer:
Blossoming flowers, springtime and sun.
Your brother and husband waits for your kiss
The dance of the spring has now begun.
It’s time for a change, or the world is amiss.
Priest of winter:
Laughter and sadness, beginning and end,
Your work here is done, my god of the fall
You ruled half a year, now please be content
You may return to your ethereal hall.
Both:
Darkness and light, autumn and spring!
We thank for your visit in our fair glade.
Be shadow and hope, be queen and be king
and once you are done, in darkness you fade.
My "official" entry is the story not the poem
It's still a bit early, but as I probably won't be online for a few days:
I wish you all a Merry Christmas! (or whatever other seasonal greeting you would prefer)
