When the frozen expanse glimmered a challenge under the still feeble rays carving their way across the misty sky, the Valley People used to know it was time to start the journey. The journey to the Hand Peaks, ever surrounded by storms.
They had spent the long Season of Shadows hunkering down in their house, burning candle after candle and log after log as they sewed, mended, carved and repaired woodwork, as they read, wrote, schooled their children, told stories around the fireplace, reflected on the past harvest. When the Season of Lightening began, it was time to come out of hunkering with their minds ready for plans and decisions. It was time to travel to the mountains.
The Hand Peaks exist since long before the Valley People moved to the valley and took the green expanse as their name and identity. The valley whispers that the storms arrived at the same time as the people, though only the mountains know the truth. And mountains only talk through waterfalls, avalanches, and hollering gales. Halfway up, the challenging path to the Peaks leads to a steep incline, with steps carved into the rock, polished by age and use. A staircase whose top pierces a thick bank of mist and clouds. Those brave enough to climb the steps find a clearing blanketed in snow year-round; if they reach the middle, they are overcome with the sensation of standing in the palm of a hand. The Hand Peaks loom over the clearing like fingers. A hand to support, a hand to crush. This is where the Valley People would head after every Season of Shadows to plead with the Hand Peaks for support in their plans for the coming Lightening.
All village elders from the valley used to meet during the dark season to calculate the Breaking of the Shadows, the moment when the days would begin to lengthen again. The valley all celebrated the Breaking together with a feast lasting three days: one of rituals to thank the shadows for the time of quiet and reflection, one of communal eating, drinking, and merrymaking for the start of the lightening, and one of rest. On the fourth day, a delegation with representatives of each village set out towards the Hand Peaks.
This is how it used to be. Nowadays, the valley steadily empties as its inhabitants move to cities far from the mountains; those who stay are losing the will and the energy for the long trip to the clearing. The borders between the villages are changing from grass to fence to stone, and few hearths are open and ablaze for the Breaking of the Shadows. Still, a handful of souls remember the old stories and rituals; their path is far more treacherous now that they walk alone.
One such traveller is treading cautiously on the gravel and dirt right now, reaching the rock staircase. He is tall and broad-shouldered, his face is young, yet the long hunts in the forest are already carving their marks on his ruddied skin. The hunter’s gloved hand holds his woollen hood firm against the lashings of the wind. His feet leave deep imprints where the soil is softer and his shoulders bend under a heavy sack.
With a sigh, the hunter climbs the steps, guided by the faintest glimmer peeking through the clouds; he no longer holds his hood, and the wind tosses his hair every which way. The clouds engulf him, and he can barely see his feet. Suddenly, two big stones flanking the stairs emerge from the fog: the hunter grabs hold of them and hoists himself up over the edge.
The instant he steps into the clearing, the storm lifts. It doesn’t disappear, the wind still twirling banks of grey and white over the traveller’s head. He looks up, raises a hand as if to touch the rolling mass of mist and water and power, but stops short and proceeds to the centre of the clearing. Blocks of ice of different sizes—some almost dissolved, others twice as tall as the hunter—cover the clearing, surrounding an empty spot right in the middle. The hunter unloads his sack and sits cross-legged on the snow, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath.
The storm descends and envelops the clearing; the hunter, the ice peaks, the snow all disappear, swallowed by the clouds. Then, suddenly, the storm lifts again, and the hunter’s reddened face reflects on the clear surface of a new ice peak that now looms in front of him, shiny and pointy as if newly birthed by the storm. The hunter opens his eyes and stands up, rubbing snowflakes off his face. He walks around the ice peak examining every surface, spike and crevice. When his hand touches the ice, a faint glow appears at the heart of it; a kaleidoscope of light and colour only the hunter can interpret. Witnessing the glow, the hunter’s face opens in a wide smile.
He rushes to his pack and pulls out a tool: a long wooden handle with a double-pointed metal tip on one end. The hunter’s arm descends on the ice peak and shards of ice fly as the pick splits the surface open. The storm overhead seems to roar more furiously, but the hunter doesn’t notice: he hits the ice again and again, his eyes wild and fixed on the pulsating glow at its core. Eventually, an entire side of the ice peak collapses, making way for the hunter to step inside. In the same instant, the glow flickers and fades to nothing as the wind rushes around the hunter once, taunting him. His pickaxe falls to the ground, and he darts inside the ice peak. It is hollow, like a hut. The hunter furiously digs in the snow at the centre, but the kaleidoscope has disappeared. The hunter collapses to his knees and bursts into tears.
Days pass, and an old woman appears on the path towards the Hand Peaks. She walks at a slow yet steady pace, stabbing the ground at every step with two sticks polished by use. A shawl and scarf bundle her head up so that her eyes barely peek through. She camps at the foot of the stairs for one night before ascending. Half of the next day passes before she reaches the top. When the old woman finally crosses the edge, her demeanour transforms. She tosses her sticks aside and rushes to the centre of the clearing where the hunter still sits in the rubble of his own ice peak, the frozen trails of his tears streaking his face, his eyes lost in the emptiness. The old woman turns her back on the hunter and sits stiffly on the ground, facing away from him. The storm descends and rages around her and leaves an ice peak right in front of her face. The old woman stares at her frozen double for a while, then strokes the surface with a bony hand. The peak lights up and the old woman nods slowly. She adjusts her position, wraps her shawl and scarf more tightly around her, and closes her eyes as if she plans to sit there for eternity.
Sometime later, a mother and her child are also making their way up to the Peaks. The child is bundled up from head to toe and saunters along the path, tripping over rocks and catching himself at the last moment. The mother follows, her keen eyes focused on both him and the path. When they reach the staircase, she calls the child to her side, takes his hand for the climb. The child buries his face in the mother’s side, holds tightly onto her until they reach the top.
When they finally stand on the clearing, the mother and child stop for a second. On one side, the hunter is almost completely white with frost, a tiny cloud of breath barely escaping his lips. On the other side, the old woman still sits motionless with her eyes closed. A coating of frost has begun to cover her as well. The child pulls free from his mother, runs to the middle of the clearing and stares up at the clouds hovering and swirling above them. He lifts his hands to the sky and twirls.
The mother crosses her arms, looking from the old woman to the hunter with a frown. Then, she strides ahead, calling her child. They dig into the snow in the middle of the clearing until they find the remains of a hearth. The mother retrieves bundles of moss and sticks from her pack, and soon a lively fire is crackling and smoking, melting the snow around it. As the child keeps an eye on the fire from a safe distance, the mother goes to the hunter. She kneels in front of him and says:
‘Come, you need to warm up.’
He doesn’t answer, but his eyes slowly focus on her. She gently takes his arms, guides him up. Leaning on her, the hunter can barely walk the few steps to the fire. The mother helps him sit and goes to the old woman, who is unable to stand up. With the help of the child, they carry her to the fire, sit her down next to the hunter. For a long time, the only sounds in the clearing are the fire crackling, the storm looming above, and the frost dripping off the hunter and the old woman. Then, the child pulls on his mother’s sleeve:
‘I am hungry,’ he pleads.
The mother smiles and opens her pack again, pulling out a small pot that she fills with clean snow and places gently on the hearth. The snow immediately melts; the mother adds a mix of crushed grains, seeds, and dried fruits, mixing slowly with a wooden spoon. A warm scent envelops them, and soon the mother is wrapping her shawl around her hands to take the pot out, careful not to touch the flames. Her child already has a spoon in his hand and eagerly digs in.
‘Careful, it’s hot,’ the mother warns him. The hunter and the old woman are more alert now, watching the child eat. Soon, he lifts his eyes from the pot and looks at them. They look down. The child glances at his mother, who nods. He puts the spoon down in the pot and uses his scarf to lift it towards the old woman. She also looks at the mother, who nods again.
‘Thank you,’ croaks the old woman with a voice that hasn’t been used in a long time. She takes the pot and eats with shaky hands. She then passes the food back to the mother, who hands it to the hunter. He whispers thanks and eats, his eyes shiny with new tears. After the mother has finished the food from the pot, the hunter gingerly stands up and drags his sack to the fire. He pulls out handfuls of dried meat and biscuits and distributes them to everyone.
The old woman breaks the biscuits and meat into tiny pieces and chews with her gums. When she notices the child staring in fascination, she crinkles her nose into a grimace, still chewing; the child laughs and pulls out his tongue covered in food. The old woman chuckles, rummaging under her shawl. She pulls out a small box that she hands to the child, then a small flask; she takes a swig, then passes it to the mother. The mother drinks and gives the flask to the hunter, whilst the child eats dried fruits from the box.
They take turns sleeping and tending to the fire until morning. When the first rays of light slip through the storm to twinkle on the ice, everyone prepares to leave the clearing. Hoisting her bag over her shoulders as the child wraps his scarf around his neck, the mother asks:
‘Are you coming with us?’
The hunter and the old woman both nod. They do not enquire why the mother and the child came to the Circle of Frozen Dreams.
The group who arrived separately returns to the valley together. The ice peaks stand still and silent and the storm rages on under the watch of the Hand Peaks.
Writing musings and news
‘Better late than never.’ These are the words that are guiding my writing practice and publishing at the start of this year. In the middle of a move across countries, completing and putting out this story was a challenge.
Huge thanks to my writing mentor and amazing author Nikki Ali who helped edit this piece and is always and forever my favourite reader. You can find her Substack for creatives here:
As her mentoring alias Mistress M, Nikki is also at the helm of the Heart Art Anthology, whose second volume is coming out in less than a week! I was honoured to take part again in this endeavour of love and creativity. If you are a lover of art, poetry, and the way words and visual imagery can play together, this anthology is for you!
Once again, thank you for being here, I will see you at the end of the month with a new oddball tale!
Magnolia Fay
Aww! Magnolia!! 🥹 you are 100% my favorite too! Can’t wait for the second iteration of our Heart Art Anthology to come out this upcoming week!! 🙌🏾
I love this story. So atmospheric and mysterious and mythological. Perfect for the dreamy winter season.
Xox