The Snow Maker’s Revenge: A Winter’s Tale (Complete Edition)

The Snowfall

This is a story of legend and myth; gods and glory. This is a story of the power to change and the inability to control; the desperation of survival but the hope that drives it.

This is the story of the snow maker’s revenge.

The fog of his icy exhale drifted miles above the green earth. The land was blurry through the distance below. He leaned over the side of his mountainous balcony and peered towards the edge of land where it touched the sky. With a quick turn over his shoulder, in a rapid spin, he vanished with a howling gust of wind.

Far in the distance, smoke rose from a field near the horizon. It had turned from a grassy green to a burnt orange and black.

War was in the air.

The battle was becoming brutal, with no side able to gain an advantage. The toll of wounded seemed as if to double with each passing moment.

Despite the horror of battle, no one had been prepared for the maelstrom of terror that then fell upon them. As another wave of torched arrows flew into the air and began to sail down towards their targets, the arrows wobbled mid flight, hovered as if in paralyzed fear, and then exploded and dispersed in all directions. The wayward arrows darted, striking friend and foe a like.

It was the wind.

The oxen snorted as they dragged along the muddy road a cart carrying many wounded. The scenes of battle stretched far and wide. Puffs of dark smoke rose from various sites where torched arrows had landed. Swords and javelins stood like crooked obelisks and monuments placed in some thick mud. They pointed jaggedly to the heavens in respect to all whom were lost.

Suddenly, the oxen stoped. The land before them began to harden and the mud began to freeze. The cracks that had formed between the wagon’s tracks quickly filled with white ice. The oxen breathed out plumes of mist in fearful anticipation of what was to come. The snow was returning.

The two beasts made a final heave, but the rigidity of the cart’s wheels exposed the dire situation. Not even the wounded would make it this time. Their new mission, to warn the others, would be lost.

He paused. He paused for a moment that he then quickly wished had not been for too long. There was not much time.

A thrashing of wind could be heard bellowing towards them. “Hurry!” he shouted. “Everyone get under the cart!”

The huddled mass of wounded scooted and shifted towards the edges of the cart, and those who were able, stretched their legs to stand, and, with what ever hands could, the wounded held each other and together transported themselves to the shelter of the cart. There were grunts and cries of pain, but the mission of shared survival pushed them forward.

The least wounded one, the one who had shouted for everyone to take cover, hobbled to a storage box nailed to the front of the cart. Tearing it open, he pulled out the cover for the oxen.

The wind howled again. The sky had become opaque above. Time was nearly out. He threw the cover in the air so it would quickly unfurl as it landed covering the animals.

It landed, but covered only one Ox, leaving the other bare and unprotected. One ox would not be strong enough to pull the cart alone. Both oxen had to survive.

Hobbling around the cart, the least wounded one dragged off a cloak of wool that a few wounded soldiers had been lying on before hurrying below. In a desperate heave, he flung the cloak over the second ox, landing it to cover its face and barely hide its rear end.

“That will have to do,” the least wounded one said out loud. “Stay strong!” he then commanded, as if uplifted and mournful at the same time.

He did not have time to look up. He hurled himself under the cart, colliding with the others into a heap of safety and warmth.

The first snow flake that hit the surface of the cart above them sounded like an arrow made of glass shattering against a gladiator’s wooden shield. Then came several more. They sounded as if tiny spear tips crashing, cracking, and breaking upon impact with the wooden surface. The snow flakes began whistling in collision above the wounded.

Then came the blizzard. Countless ice crystals all shaped into identical razor blades cascaded down onto the sheltering soldiers. Thin and tiny daggers made of frozen water crashed towards the ground and onto tree branches, covering the scene in a white blanket of fear. The wounded knew they had to hurry if they were to make it in time to complete their mission, to warn the others, but for now, they had to exercise patience and stay safe from the storm.

High in the mountain where the cold air was born, the wind blew into a chamber of ice. Traveling with the wind was a shadow that echoed with angry laughter.

_____________

The Mission

When the wounded awoke, the land was covered in shards of ice. They slowly climbed, scooted, and hobbled from underneath the cart. They peered at the cart’s wooden planks, now dented and nearly torn apart from the cold maelstrom. There were soft howls of pain as several soldiers lost their balance in the vertigo-inducing ice and fell onto their already swollen bodies. Others held back their lips as they scraped their exposed skin on loose jagged pieces of snow.

They counted among themselves as they slowly tended to their wounds.

You here? one wounded would shout to another. Yeah, the other would reply. What about? and they called off each other’s names until it became clear that all had survived.

“Thanks,” one of the wounded said, quickly, and under their breath. The one least wounded, the one most able to save the oxen and the one who had tried to do so, looked up from the ground.

“Yeah, thanks,” said a few more. They remembered their strength and confidence as they leaned on each other for stability.

The least wounded did not respond. He only asked himself a simple question: if he had not acted, who else would have been able to do so? After all, wasn’t he the least wounded?

One of the soldiers who had fashioned a broken club into a crutch had shuffled to where the beasts of burden stood. The group of wounded all turned their heads and held their breath. Suddenly, the beasts snorted.

The crutched soldier pulled off the covering cloaks and the animals shook off their cold. Both oxen had survived.

“Only a few scratches!” the one leaning on the crutch shouted.

The cheer was quiet, as if it were not wanting to tempt the fates with an easily shattered optimism.

Still, there was a cheer, for the wounded knew one thing was true. They had survived. They had survived at least one more battle, at least one more perilous journey, and now they could complete their mission. They could warn the others.

It was their determination that somehow formed pieces of a far away mystical key floating in a space where both mortals an immortals were unaware. The key floated in ether toward an ancient locked box that, upon reaching it, unlocked it and opened it.

When that box first opened in the ages long before, even before the time when Humans first battled with the Titans, evils were turned loose from inside that box that held them captive for millennia and wickedness and villainy was released into the realm. While the Gods had sheltered humanity from those evils by locking them in that mystical box of Pandora, humanity’s thirst for power continually reopened that box, and released those evils into their being.

Where there once was peace in the realms, there was now disagreement, discord, and war. It had become a forlorn time.

Yet, it was the resolve of the wounded, their determination to survive together, that inspired to life that forgotten little etherial creature that had been left in that box alone, cowering underneath the great escapes of the pieces of evil sprinted toward turmoil on Earth.

That little creature defined by its glow had fallen dormant, left behind by its evil siblings, and was abandoned in the box by disbelief.

This essence long lost, this mythology nearly abandoned, was known to the mortals who could recall it by a simple name: Hope.

Hope, that tiny fairy creature, outstretched a luminescent tether visible only to the gods. The lasso latched onto the hearts of the wounded and pulled them up with gentle tugs of breath and warmth. The survivors were immediately aware of what had found them, and perhaps, what they had found: a chance.

Their journey began once-more. The wounded knew what they had to do.

The sound of a steel blade carving against a hard substance echoed through the cavernous corridors and reverberated around the reflective silver and blue stalactites that hung from the highest reaches of the hollowed mountain peak.

The circular blade, crafted by the brother of the highest god for this singular purpose, frantically carved at a block of magical ice. A long shadow appeared.

The circular blade stopped and hovered above the ice block, rocking in mid air. The part of the ice mass that was now missing, haven fallen into a shaven heap beneath it, suddenly shimmered in the air, as if tiny rapids of water were falling from the wrong directions.

The ice began to reappear. The massive block was made whole again, and as the long shadow moved closer, the circular blade began shaving once more.

This time, he thought, it would be finished, and peace would be restored.

The shadow reached to the shape of its head and removed a crown that appeared to be blowing through the silvery hair it now revealed. As the shadow placed the crown that mimicked the howls of the North wind onto a table of ice, his figure became visible from out of the shadow.

The massive figure stepped forward into the icy chamber with a stride of might. The halls rumbled. The giant stood, but noticed on his cheek, gently falling, slowly tracing a path of ice down toward his lip: a tear.

The tear hit his wild beard. There it froze.

The mighty Snow Maker remembered.

It was the golden god, the eagle god, the king of the gods, the gods of gods, that had first granted the Snow Maker a realm of his own.

It was in this kingdom, divided by the mountain of Trace from the other realms, where the mortals there took the name of their new deity: the Boreas.

The terms were simple. He would be declared ruler of the northern-winds and then obligated to command the seasons in all the mortal realms.

The Boreas, the people of his own realm, it was agreed, would live separately, beyond the northern wind, beyond the mountain Trace.

That was his kingdom, and he decided to leave it free from the other directional winds that plagued the rest of the world. Left free from the stresses of the changing weather, the Snow Maker’s worshipers lived in peace.

The other gods marveled at the prosperity of these mortals. These mortals, however, became too prosperous.

Forgetting their patron deity, their gratefulness turned to greed. Without the challenges of the changing weather, the mortals invented challenges of their own.

Soon, aspiration became indignation. Cooperation became resentment. It was not long before the people known as the Boreas were at war.

The other gods mocked and jeered the Snow Maker’s failed efforts for perfection. Storming back from the ridicule of the highest peak of Olympus, his anger broiled through his shadowy cloak and melted drops of ice hanging near him.

His beard and wild hair ruffled and swayed violently in an unseen wind. Several more ice crystals had appeared on his face, frozen with numb anger. He walked over to where his carving blade hovered and he looked at the pile of shining shards that was forming near the block of carving ice.

Soon the pile would grow to fill the hall, and the furry of the North winds would be released. The snow maker would have his revenge.

Suddenly, he noticed something.

_____________

The Battle

They could not believe what they saw. Some of the wounded rubbed their eyes while others rubbed their torsos where they had felt their courage drop.

It was this disbelief that began to scare away that fragile and effervescent ether that had breezed between them. That thing called Hope tended to linger only where it was welcome.

They had all known that without another battle they would make it back in time, and, being ahead of the front, they knew they could avoid confrontation.

They had seen what the winds could do. This small band of wounded had become all that was left to save the realm. If they could stop the battle from happening, all would be spared the horrors of the North wind.

Grief shook them, as now the band of wounded could see the invading army far ahead of them, marching its way towards the capital city.

The invading arsenal glimmered in the light of the setting sun and drew dark silhouettes against the sky. The clouds sifted between the fading shades of orange in a chilling way.

That invisible glow that they had all felt lift them from beneath their chests now began to fade. The wounded began to feel despair, and as the light of that ethereal being called Hope faded once more, it saw something that gave it the power to stay.

“I will go,” he said, surprising himself as much as the others. “I am the least wounded– it has to be me.”

The other wounded briefly looked up, but then their heads fell shaking side to side. “They are an entire day ahead of us, and at your pace, you are no faster than the cart.”

They all knew that their mission had to be completed. They had to race the invading army to the capital city in time to stop the battle, in time to save the realm from the furry of the winds.

“I know you are right,” the least wounded said. “You and the oxen can get there just as quickly as I could. That is why you must all hurry there. Get to the capital city before the battle starts. Then buy me as much time as possible.”

“Where are you going?” The one with the crutch asked.

“There,” the least wounded said, looking up and raising his hand to point above the path that they had come. There, at the end of his finger, visible in the clouds and bearing over them, over the path they had traveled with the cart and the oxen, and over the battlefield from where they had fled, was the icy peak that the elders called the Mountain of Trace.

“Stay strong,” the wounded all said.

Darkness of the next day had already fallen by the time the wounded bunch made it to the outskirts of the capital city. They panted and squinted their eyes.

Camps of readying soldiers dotted the land in front of them, their campfires glowing in specs that appeared to mirror the stars above. Over one hill, the band of wounded could see the large pieces of war weaponry being placed along the flanks of the city. The invasion would soon begin.

“If we go around, we can beat them to the back gate,” one said, and the other wounded agreed.

“We can’t,” the wounded with the crutch said. “If we warn only one side, the other side will still attack. We have to convince both of our sides.”

The wounded looked around at each other, and nodding slowly, silently agreed on what to do. They readied the cart, boarded it, and made their way to the front line.

Darkness had already fallen by the time the least wounded made it to the base of the mountain. He looked up at the peak and understood he would not be able to climb to its summit in time. That was not his intention.

“Who dares approach my throne!” a great wind bellowed.

“Only a meek one humbled to help!” the wounded one replied.

“I am a god and you are a wounded mortal. How can you help?”

“I know how to end the war! I will build you a weapon to end this once and for all!”

Daylight was breaking. The soldiers at the front of the line had grown restless and eager for the fight to start. The heavily armed cohorts peered angrily at the band of the wounded who stood before the gates of the city in their attempt to block the battle.

“Alright!” the warlord of the invading forces shouted. “We gave you your night of peace, it is time to see who the mighty are now!” The forces that were gathered outside the capital city walls banged their swords against their shields and held their javelins in the air.

“Wait!” The wounded one with the crutch shouted. “You heard what we said! If we fight we will all be doomed. Look at us. We are all the wounded who survived the battle, near the mountains. We are not one armies’ wounded who are left. We are the only wounded who are left. We each belong to different armies, and all of us are pleading for an end to this war!”

“Then what chance have we anyway!” the invading warlord shouted back. “If this power of the North wind is upon us, I would rather fight and die than live in fear of it!” The invaders cheered.

“We have a chance!” The one on the crutch shouted back. “There was another of us. Another one of us who went to the mountains. He was on his way to Trace.”

“Oh, yeah?” the warlord said, raising an eye brow and coughing a laugh

“What army did this other one belong to? The one you trust? What army does this other one have to invade the mountain Trace?”

The wounded ones looked at each other. They shook their heads, and then they nodded.

“He wasn’t with any of us,” the one on the crutch said. “We did not know what side he belonged to.”

The least wounded had promised to create a new weapon for the snow maker. He closed his eyes and felt the little ethereal spirit that had lingered inside him.

He clenched his teeth as he jabbed the magical blade into the ice, forcing to appear a spider web of cracks. The jagged shapes that were formed evoked fear in his mind as he saw jagged and icy shards fall before him. He stood back and gazed upon his terrible creation. The crack grew deeper and spread like twisted and gnarled wood of a dying tree. Sounds like wood cracking in a fire distorted the cold view as the snow formed.

The least wounded had done what he thought was best.

The god of the Boreas, who was pacing behind, paused. He peered at the pile of shaven ice that was growing rapidly before him. The cracks within the ice continued to grow at an increasingly violent pace. The block of mystical ice began to shatter outright, and the pile of the white glistening weapon grew.

The god laughed. “Yes!” he shouted. “Yes!” he laughed again. “This will do it!”

“My reinforcements will arrive at sunset tonight,” the warlord bellowed at the city gate and the wounded who stood in front of it. “When these other forces arrive, my army will be able to conquer you and whatever other force it comes across. You have until sundown to prepare to meet your fate.”

Giant piles of glistening shards were forming to fill the hall. The hovering blade chiseled away. The great figure appeared in a shadow that blew in from the balcony. He rested his crown of wind onto his table of ice. He walked towards the growing, white mound.

“This is perfect,” the god said. The lord of the northern wind gently picked a shard from the growing pile and held up the small flake of ice. He admired its sharp cut angles. “Yes,” he said. “This will do. Now is the

time.”

The sky grew darker. Time had run out. The soldiers of the invading forces swelled in numbers. They drew back their bows. They readied their javelins. They thrashed their swords in the air. They awaited the call to charge.

The wounded ones in front of the gate leaned on each other so each could stand. Not one of them, they had silently agreed, would enter the battle on their knees. They would all meet their fate standing.

“Stay strong.”

The sky began to swirl above them. A horrific wind could be heard charging toward the battle.

“Charge!” the warlord shouted. A mortal furry unleashed as a horde of invaders poured towards the front gate of the city.

Suddenly many were knocked from their feet by a gust from the North.

Others flew from the ground in an updraft from a direction not before known.

A third wind high above brought with it something that shimmered in the light. The shimmering grew, and the pieces of ice began to fall from the heavens.

The soldiers gasped. They stopped. They stood still. They marveled.

Falling from high above them, blowing towards them and suddenly all around them, were the brilliantly sparkling flurries of snow.

These flakes were not like the snowfalls that besieged the fields of the other battles. These were different. Each one was different.

The snow flakes were jagged and crystalline, but they were soft, gentle, and flowed like sheets of cotton being laid on the ground.

The tiny white stars and shapes each danced their own path through the air, and each glittered in its own way as it hit the light.

Soon it was realized: these flakes of ice were not identical razors and blades. They were unique. They were individual. From the harshness of their similarity came the tranquility of their differences.

The ground became a white cloud, and the trees around the scene glittered. The soldiers stared.

One by one, the soldiers dropped their weapons.

Mortality comes with fragility. Its imperfection bares forth not failure, but identity. This ethereal truth, while it may seem familiar on its surface, is unique to its beholder. It has jagged pieces that can be difficult to accept, but it’s stunning individuality brings courage to those who welcome it.

That simple-truth is hidden in the smallest of places, be it in a simple word, a tiny box filled with trials or hope, or in a sparkling fleck falling from the sky.

And so it lifts us.

And so it inspires us.

And so it snows.