Sian and the Winterwife, a Fairytale

Copyright page

  First published 2013

  This book is sold subject to the conditions that it shall not,

  By way of trade or otherwise be lent, resold or hired out,or

  otherwise circulated without the author’s prior consent in

  any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is

  published and without a similar condition, including this

  condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  The author has asserted their moral rights to be identified

  as the author of this work

  Copyright © Avalon Weston 2013

  SIAN and the WINTER WIFE

  Weather is a great maker of tales and who is to say if the tales make the weather or the weather makes the tales.

  My great-grandmother was never sure. She told me this story one mild January evening. The early flowers – snowdrops, primroses and even the occasional daffodil seemed to think it was spring. The unseasonal weather made her cross. She peered at me through her glasses.

  ‘I’ll tell you what happens when someone offends the Winterwife,’ she said.

  ‘The Winterwife?’ said I.

  ‘Yes the Winterwife.’

  She and I looked at each other. I snuggled close to the fire.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It is the right time for such a tale.’

  Great-grandmother’s story

  “We took the Winterwife very seriously round here then. We used to welcome her at Halloween with fire, and we made flowers for her from paper and lace. ‘Snow flowers’ we called them. My mother taught me and I still have few she made.

  Long ago, it was considered lucky start a baby at haymaking in June. Then you would make flowers for the Winterwife at Halloween and be safe through the winter. She’d protect you and your baby would be born healthy with the first of the summer weather.

  The story I am going to tell you happened many years ago, in a village up beyond Beulah called Berthddu. It was so called because of the long black scar on the hill from which coal was dug. Opencast mining they call it now.

  Once a year at the end of summer, the coal was taken to the town. The merchant there paid the men. The money was good for the village. There was softness, extra feather beds, more food, fruit trees and even flowers in the gardens. Coalmining was a summer activity, fitted in around haymaking and market in the men’s lives and housekeeping and children in the women’s.

  Babies could be laid in the sun on the hillside while their mothers carried the down the coal and nursed their infants when they needed it. The whole industry ceased as the Winterwife’s snowy blankets covered the country and the coal vanished.

  The trouble began in Berthddu when the Grey Man arrived. Nobody seemed very certain where he came from, but he had something to do with the coal.

  He met with the men in the evenings. He talked of digging more coal and said how much more money it would bring to the village.

  ‘But winter is the time to sit, to rest, to think,’ the men would respond.

  The Grey Man would reply, again and again, ‘More coal is more money, more things, good times.’

  The man whispered and talked. His words dropped as little seeds here and there. Throughout the summer he tilled the soil of discontent and greed.

  Almost everyone listened.

  The only one who would not was Maire and no one heard her. She had, over the years, delivered too many warnings of doom and disaster.

  As midwife she’d also delivered village babies for two generations and greeted each as ‘Another little yoke for some poor woman’s back.’ So when she said,’ Don’t trust him, don’t listen to him,’ no one even noticed.

  Halloween arrived. The fire was lit.

  ‘But where are the snow flowers?’ asked Sian, the heroine of this tale.

  ‘Hush, we’ll not be needing them this year,' they said to her.

  ‘But, there’ll be no snow.’

  ‘If there isn’t, then the land will be clear and coal can be dug all winter,’ was the reply.

  Only Maire warned and nobody listened.

  *

  The Winterwife didn’t come.

  The land lay clear.

  The men dug coal.

  The women carried it down.

  The ground grew harder and colder.

  The babies couldn’t lie on the grass in the sun.

  There was no grass and no sun.

  The children stayed indoors by the fire, with no one to watch them.

  Olwyn Evans’ house burnt down.

  Her youngest aged three upset the lamp.

  The child, her brother and her sister died.

  Rhianon Davies lost the baby she carried.

  She had carried too much coal.

  The cold bit into the bones.

  Two of the men got pneumonia.

  Sian’s father was one.

  The mound of coal grew, though slowly.

  The Grey Man hovered, darker and larger, no longer a wraith.

  *

  Sian’s mother nursed her father and no one had time to notice the cow. It died giving birth to a premature calf.

  Sian howled and howled. It was a very angry child who made her way up the hill to her Aunt Maire’s house. She launched into her cascade of complaint as she stood before the kitchen fire.

  Tad is ill

  The cow is dead.

  There is no milk.

  Mam is tired.

  Everything is wrong.

  No one plays or sings or talks anymore.

  There is no time.

  There is no one to love us.

  It is all coal and more coal.

  For more and more money.

  There is no point.

  And it is all because the Winterwife never came.'

  Her Aunt, startled by the child’s passion tried to calm her.

  ‘What’s done is done. Things will be better by and by, you’ll see.’

  The child banged her fists on the wooden table, in time with her words.

  ‘NO THEY WON’T. HOW CAN THEY BE? I have to find her. She must come. She must cover the mine. Then they’ll have to stop digging and it’ll be good again. She must send the Grey Man away. I must find her.’

  Maire looked at her.

  ‘A wise child you are,’ she said. ‘I should go. But I’m too old now. And you are right, someone must. I shouldn’t let you, but only a girl child, with the eyes of youth will find her. You must take her the flowers and ask her to come. Someone must save the silly folk of this place.’

  ‘And the Grey Man?’ said Sian.

  ‘Don’t you fret about him. If you can find the Winterwife and get her to come, she’ll deal with him. That grey mean thing is no match for her.

  *

  Sian was prepared for her journey. She had with her such advice and provisions as Maire could give, and wrapped in a white woollen pouch in her pocket, she had the best crocheted lace snow flowers from Maire’s box.

  She set off up the mountain. It was the only direction she had. She crept past the long black gash of the mine. She hid from the thin, pinched, blue-skinned women she saw descending with their baskets of coal on their backs.

  She had never ventured beyond the mine before, but there seemed to be a path so she followed it. Night came and the moon rose. She was hungry and sat down to eat the food she had with her. Below her, spread out as she’d never seen it before, was her valley.

  ‘Girls and boys come out to play

  The moon doth shine as bright as day’

  City-dwellers have no idea what that means, but Sian saw. Every little detail of her valley and her life was crisp and clear in the cold pale ligh
t. The frost shone on the ground. There were a few lights in the houses. She could see her own small roof below. A light burned there. She was cold and alone. It looked as it was, like home. She was tempted.

  Her eye moved on and saw the frost glittering again, this time on the black pile of coal beyond the village, and she knew there was no way back for her. Nevertheless her sleepiness was very great. She just had to close her eyes for a little while.

  This she did and had begun to feel warmer and to drift in dream. It was a dangerous comfort. A sharp high bark called her back. She knew the sound. It was a vixen’s cry. It called again – nearer. She listened and understood. The fox wasn’t calling a mate. It was calling her. At the third bark she turned her head and saw it. It was very white and huge against the black ground and it was looking at her. The vixen barked once more.

  Sian stood and turned to follow the giant creature. The mountain rose in front of her. Her path continued to go up, but this time the fox led the way. The girl followed, stumbling, determined to keep the animal in sight. The blood began to flow around her chilled body again and she felt awake.

  The vixen was standing at the top of a small scree bank. The animal watched the girl as she began to scramble over the stones, but they were loose beneath her feet and she didn’t seem to make any progress. The girl reached up again to try and gain a hold and found something harsh and white and hairy under her hand. It was the fox’s brush.

  She held on, first with one hand and then with both and felt herself pulled steadily up the bank. At the top she fell forward on her hands and found the white fox looking down at her. The long pointed nose nuzzled her, urging her to stand. As she did so, she realised what the animal wanted. It seemed plenty big enough, so she climbed astride the broad back and buried her hands in its silver white coat. Unused to riding even a pony, staying on a giant white fox who seemed able to leap over mountains, presented some problems. Eventually she found the only thing to do was to bury her face in fur and hold on tight, with both her arms around the fox’s neck.

  The thrill of the ride and the crisp cold night air made her feel more than alive.

  The lurching movement stopped and Sian tumbled in a heap on the ground. The white fox stood beside her and as the world ceased moving up and down the scene around her began to take shape.

  She saw before her a grey stone farmhouse. A stream ran in front of it, but frozen hard, with frost bright icicles hanging from the plank bridge by which the house was reached. A twisted and leafless tree bent over the bridge. It too, was coated in silver by the frost.

  Sian held on to the white vixen’s neck as they crossed the bridge to the front door. Beside the door was another tree, this time festooned with bundles of red berries. In those days every house had a rowan tree to keep wickedness away.

  As girl and fox walked towards the door it opened before them and they entered. The room appeared far larger than it should have done.

  Sian felt tiny. Her companion the fox crossed over to the hearth and curled up on the mat. But hadn’t she just ridden that fox like a pony? She looked around her and found that she herself was no taller than the poker leaning against the wall by the fire.

  An enormous hand reached down and patted the fox’s neck.

  ‘Good girl Arian,’ said a firm deep voice.

  Sian looked up into a very old face. The hair was white. The face itself was creased and lined and wore gold rimmed glasses. It wasn’t a soft face, rather a stern one. It made Sian nervous, but having come so far she didn’t seem to have much choice. She took a deep breath.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she said, ‘but please are you the Winterwife?’

  ‘And if I am young woman?’

  ‘I am Sian from Berthddu, below the coal, and my Aunt is Maire Davies. You have not come to visit us. We need you so much that I came to fetch you. Aunt Maire sent you these…’

  She pulled the white wool purse from her pocket and held it out. The Winterwife, for it was she, took it from her and opened it. She laid the lacy snow flowers on her lap where they showed up clearly against her long black skirt. In her hands they were no bigger than summer daisies growing in the lawn ..or winter snowflakes.

  ‘These are old my child, and the best. I am honoured, but why does Berthddu want me now? There was no welcome at Halloween. That is why I passed by.’

  ‘It is the Grey Man. He changed everybody. He said that if you didn’t come, the village could go on digging coal and there would be more money.’

  ‘For him too, I daresay.’

  ‘But then it got cold. The babies couldn’t lie in the sun and Olwyn’s house burnt down with Evan and Ellen and baby Lisa inside, but it wasn’t Ellen’s fault. She was only eight and too young to watch them and now they are all dead. And Tad has pneumonia. Mam is so tired. And May died, so did her calf and so now there is no milk either. Everyone is thin and cold and Berthddu isn’t home anymore. They are all working and carrying coal and no one stops to be warm and happy.

  There has been no playing and singing since the Grey Man came.’

  ‘And what do you want me to do about it, Sian from Berthddu, niece of Maire, the Watcher?’

  Sian stood her ground and looked firmly into the great face above her. She had thought hard and knew clearly what she wanted.

  ‘If you came back with me, you could make it snow. That would close the mine and cover the coal as you used to do. Then everyone would have to stop working and come home and all would be alright again,’she paused. ‘Aunt Maire said you could deal with the Grey Man?’

  ‘That I could,’ said the Winterwife, ‘but I can’t change what’s happened, you know. I can help make the balance right and put things in order, but I cannot take time back. Do you understand?’

  ‘You mean Ellen and Evan and Lisa and May. You mean they can’t come alive again.’

  ‘It’s a wise child. Everything has a place and a time. What happens must be borne. Death is death as birth is birth. I cannot change that.’ Her gaze became less gentle. ‘The Watchers must have wisdom, hold the threads, keep the skein untangled. It’s no good just giving up.’ She stood up and looked around her room. ‘If we are going I suppose we’d better make a start.’

  The giant woman walked over to the door and from the black iron hook screwed to the back of it, she lifted down a long black coat. She put on the coat and a cap and wound a scarf around her neck. She picked up a wicker basket and hanging it on her arm, turned first to the vixen.

  ‘Come Arian, we’ve got work to do,’ and then to Sian. 'Ready cariad? You’d better ride with me or we’ll never get there.’

  Sian found herself lifted in a giant hand and placed in the wicker shopping basket. She was of a height to be able to hold on to the plaited border and still see over the rim. They left the house. Woman and fox seemed to Sian to step out into the sky. Spread out below her she could see mountains and valleys, many more than just her own. She could see the roofs of houses and the little secrets of people’s backyards.

  She turned to look behind her and could see nothing. Ground and sky were equally invisible. A whirling, swirling blanket of snowflakes followed the giant woman and her vixen.

  As Sian watched, the snow clouds passed across the moon and the land below became dark. She caught a snowflake on her hand and watched the filigree creation melt to a blob of muddy water.

  The Winterwife stepped onto the land. Sian felt the change of pace. In front of her appeared the black gash across the hillside that was the mine. As Sian watched the huge woman leant over and pointed. The fury of the snowstorm concentrated itself over the black dyke which rapidly became a long white bolster, fit for any giant’s bed.

  ‘And it’s time for you to go home young woman, to your Aunt Maire’s, I think.’

  The hand lifted her from the basket and placed her on the familiar doorstep. Sian however remained determined to the last. Her breathless voice managed a croak.

  ‘The Grey Man? What of him?’

  The ancient
bespectacled face came towards her and laughed.

  ‘I haven’t come all this way from my fireside for nothing young woman. I always finish a job. Go inside. You have done your part. Remember me.’

  She swept her scarf around her and the windows of Maire’s cottage rattled. The front door opened and Aunt Maire pulled Sian inside.

  ‘Are you perished, child?’ she asked.

  ‘Did you see her? Did you see her? And the fox?’

  ‘No child, and I don’t expect to. All I saw was the swirling of the storm, and you almost a bundle of snow yourself, on my doorstep.’

  ‘She is going to see to the Grey Man and she wouldn’t let me go with her. It’s not fair.’

  ‘Come, come with me,’ said Maire. Together they climbed to the attic of the stone cottage. The view out from under the eaves was down to the village and across the valley.

  Sian could see the Winterwife and could hear the vixen yelping. The giantess and the fox were the hunters. The Grey Man was their quarry. The spiky figure fled in front of them down the hill. His top hat had fallen off and his grey hair straggled out behind him.

  ‘Look Aunt, look, I can see them.’

  ‘Tell me what you see child. My eyes are older.’

  Sian did. She described it all to her Aunt, watching intently until every last sign of the visitors had faded away. She turned to her Aunt.

  ‘Couldn’t you see? You must have.’

  ‘Of course not child. All I could see was that twisting tempest of snow rushing down the valley, carrying an old dead tree in front of it.’

  ‘But the noise? Couldn’t you hear Arian barking?’

  ‘Just the howl of the wind, my dear. Such sights aren’t for my old eyes. They are for the young.’

  ‘But I saw! It was real!’ said Sian fiercely.

  ‘Hush, calm down cariad. Of course it was real. You must hold such happenings in your heart and your head. They are your memories, your strength for the future.’

  ‘But she was there. I saw her and her house. We flew through the air. I rode on Arian’s back. It all happened I tell you.’

  ‘Yes, I know it happened. I am a Watcher. But no one else will ever know, or believe you. You fetched the Winterwife when we needed her. You helped balance things again. All will be well now, you’ll see. And that is your reward. That is what a Watcher does. I haven’t been very good at it, or these troubles wouldn’t have come down on us. But people wouldn’t listen to me. They thought I was a silly old woman. I lost their respect. That is another lesson for you. Somehow you have to keep people listening. Anyway, enough. It is bedtime now and life will be life again tomorrow.’