The memory of love

If there were a solution, I would have found it long ago.

Silver rain has done nothing but fall for several years now. The harvests are meager, and time only weakens our spirits.

My heart is torn between what I should do and what I can do. In this shadow blanketed by snow, there is no longer any room for reason. I suppose I cannot blame them for persisting despite this tempest, but I do not believe that is the right thing to do.

Surviving is not the same as living.

If I had a solution, I surely would have found it by now, but could I have implemented it ?

In their hearts, which now serve them only as organs, there is no room left for love, let alone peace.

It is possible the storms will calm down. That is what they have been saying for several months now, then years, until finally they all abandoned that idea.

Only the café manager in our village is too optimistic; he has always been that way. The others would not support me for anything in the world, even if the ice melted forever.

I am nothing but chaos and disillusionment in their eyes. It is not because of some legend or superstition, they are simply fools.

Fools I chose to believe in once upon a time, but that era has passed.

I need no one anymore, simply because I have no one to lean on. After walking barefoot across the plains for so long, one eventually walks across peaks of ice. Blood could flow through the deepest part of my body and I would not flinch.

It is their choice to stop believing; it is mine to continue.

They follow those who seem strongest in their eyes, and I am far from the perfect example.

- Ha, pffffff.

The long strands of my hair do nothing but tangle together. To make matters worse, they stick to my face because of the fine snowflakes that mix with the waves of this tempest. No matter how much I tie them back, I do not understand why they always end up flying everywhere !

I continue my struggle as though my life depends on it, while the villagers passing by me do not even pay attention to their surroundings anymore.

Once, they surely would have shouted at me to cut them, that my mother should have taken better care of me, that she should have.

I should have told them to be quiet and leave my life in my own hands, as it has always been.

None of that matters anymore now.

This village is nothing but an endless wind of pain and biting snow. Yet we loved this cold and these mountains filled with snow-covered greenery more than anything in the world.

When the first harvests were found frosted by the cold, people said that the divinity watching over us had abandoned us.

Some proclaimed that we had failed to give her enough offerings; others claimed that our ancestors must have surely angered her. No one agreed, and some were even skeptical of her existence.

We knew these divinities existed, but we had never seen them except in the books of legends left by our ancestors.

That changed nothing about the fact that they brought us good harvests and pleasant weather. Vegetables frosted, yet they became warm by the fire. All of this was common; every food born from the cold was given and designed to protect our lives.

The only real proof we had was in our hearts, my mother would tell me.

It seems our ancestors had rituals to call upon them and give thanks.

Each year, before a statue even whiter than the snow itself, they would place offerings, which made blue flaming fruits grow. This seemed very strange to me, until she showed me this very fruit. I think my memory fails me. I am convinced I saw it and was surprised, but I no longer remember exactly why.

I finally find refuge in an old shop, and fortunately so; I could barely breathe anymore.

My bag, no lighter than usual, thumps against the worn floorboards. The air remaining in my lungs escapes, and I already regret not having suffered a few kilometers further and chosen a warmer place.

My back settles against a chair, and I waste no time opening my bag.

Notebooks, lots of paper—that is not what weighs the most.

It is him.

I do not know why I insist on carrying it everywhere, probably to give myself hope. This old book of legends that my mother used to read to me when I was small. It makes sense, really, she could not do it later.

I have no idea if it is truly an original book or just a copy, but it is of good enough quality to have survived several years. I brush my fingers across its cover—a circle intertwined with other circles. Original.

My eyes close from fatigue; I close my hand and scratch my nails across the raised patterns.

It is funny that it was abandoned here.

I wonder if I have ever paid attention to this place.

Then again, the village is not that big.

I release this old grimoire, as I like to call it, and walk slowly, passing through the various books and furniture arranged here. Nothing particularly interesting. I am not a fan of reading anyway. This book is special to me for one reason, or perhaps more.

Hope is a word that has become taboo in a place like this.

Arranged in a glass base are more books, but these are open and written in a language I do not know.

It is mostly illegible ! Who writes that small, seriously ?

I am not one to snoop, but the latch on the side is open.

If no one is taking care of these old things, I can at least give them a little glory, for a moment.

I lift the glass display with little effort, which exposed the village's treasures, as written on a plaque right in front of it.

The thought only crosses my mind for an instant, but the idea that what they call treasures now gather dust like a common trinket on a shelf gives me a slight pang in my stomach.

The pages glide under my fingers, and I still understand nothing of what is written.

By reflex, I close it and jump at the enormous noise it produces.

I step back a few paces, but from where I am, I recognize it very well.

- Wait a moment...

I return to the table where I had left my things and pick up my mother's book.

Yes, it is the same one.

As though it were as light as a snowflake, I carry it to the other end of the library. I place it on top of the glass display and compare the two symbols.

They are identical.

It would be trivial if I had not searched the entire village to the point of being banned from certain places to find where this book came from. This symbol was all I had as a lead.

Oh, I forgot—I only had the idea, and as for support...

- Zero chance.

I place my two fists on the table and try to put things in perspective. At least I have something. Maybe I can find this divinity before this village dies from cold or hatred.

On the cover, a phrase is written. It is strange because it is in an ancient language, but I am certain I have seen it somewhere before. No matter how much I think, a detail escapes me.

- Yes ! That’s it !

Like a sky clearing above my head, I make the connection and run as if I still had the strength to do so.

I push through the café doors heavily. Fortunately, it is empty at this hour.

- May the gods be praised ! You do not have to make such a racket coming in !

- I need your help.

I do not think any more than usual and hand him the book I have taken.

- Translate this phrase for me, please.

He sighs and sets down the cloth in his hands to take his glasses.

- « When day falls upon the white stars that settle delicately upon the feathers of stone, then love shall resound in the warm heart of our hopes. »

- But yes, that is it ! I have heard this term before in the legends ! When they speak simultaneously of white stars and heart, it always leads to the same place.

The old man steps back several paces.

- And where is that ?

- In the middle of the tempest ! The heart of the white stars, the center, the source of the tempest, where it is strongest—I know where to go.

Or at least I have a small idea of the direction.

- You are completely—

- Thank you very much !

I pick up my grimoire without further delay and run while holding it in my hands.

If the legend proves true, then the place of offerings should be in the middle, or at least where this tempest originates.

Could it really be this divinity who is angry with us? I prefer not to ask myself questions before I am sure such a place exists.

I rush down into the icy cold of the plain without really knowing where I am going. I am surely foolish, as they say, but I do not know what else to do.

Just thinking about having to stay in this house for the rest of my life, watching people hate each other more and more, no longer seeing the shadow of the sun reflected in the snow's blanket—I would rather die in these tempests than watch the heart of what created this village go dark.

At home, I take only what is necessary : my food supplies and my grimoire.

I believe I know what kind of offering it might ask for.

I leave, and fortunately, the tempest has calmed down a bit. The people around me look at me from the corner of their eyes.

I want to tell them, to tell them again to keep hope, that I have surely found a solution.

Then I remember that the last time that happened, I was booed and nearly struck with brooms.

It was not like that before; it is worse now.

I do not understand why.

Certainly the mixture found in this tempest.

I think grief is the feeling that affects them the most.

I continue walking, and eventually I lose myself in my thoughts.

The only things I can hear are the humming of the wind and the sound it makes beating against my coat. The cold does not bother me; it is not unpleasant, but the relentlessness it produces makes me cry.

I think of my mother, that is what they all think.

That she left without saying anything, leaving me alone with my fate to chance.

I do not agree with them, and that is surely why they have difficulty with me. The chaos I cause, simply by contradicting them, disturbs them. They would rather die in their lies than accept the truth. She would never have left me, not without reason and not without leaving a trace.

This book is my trace, my reason.

I have few clues, but it is enough to know where I am going. I feel it deep within my being.

She is calling me like a light passing through these waves of snow.

The cold becomes increasingly intense, and my tears could almost turn to ice.

I barely had time to figure out where I needed to go before I found the place I was meant to be.

The snowflakes mix with the whistling sound that comes beating against my body; my blood freezes, but my eyes are warmed by the hope that stands before me.

This statue, it is her.

It is gigantic, yet it is so ordinary.

I feel as though I know it, that it has always been present around us.

The divinity of frost.

One thing is strange.

If she had truly abandoned us, why is her statue still here ? No, do not think what others think—that is how we ended up with hearts cold from pain and sorrow.

I feel my hair stop moving despite the tempest; the cold has frozen it. My eyelashes are in the same state.

I bend down; I know there is a plaque right in front of me. I touch it with my fingertips and look at the inscription.

"For love to reign, love must exist in the heart of each."

I realize it is not in my language, yet unconsciously, I knew what was written.

This is a place where all barriers are broken.

I have always thought legends were told in a human manner—that is, modified according to our own perception of the world. I still believe that, but I sincerely hope this will work.

The offering—I will place my book there.

The one my mother gave me, something that was dear to her heart. It is the only thing I have left of her that is powerful enough to show how much I care for her.

I feel very emotional; I may be more afraid than I think, but it is too late to turn back, and I would not do so for anything in the world.

I hold it between my hands and do not hesitate for a second to place it on the base in front of me.

I do not understand.

It is supposed to work.

Nothing happens.

The wind is still as violent.

- This is...does anyone hear me ?!

My screams are loud, but no human could hear me in this fog.

Which is just as well.

I am not addressing them.

- Answer me ! I know you hear me ! I refuse to leave until I have an answer !

I know you are there; I feel it.

My eyes wander but settle on a weasel staring at me in the distance.

- Who... Who are you ?

She shines in the tempest, like a light trying to guide me.

I do not think and run toward her. I do not even know how I find the strength to continue, but it is well present; it has always been.

She leads me to a place where the wind is calmer.

Behind her stands a tree. She climbs onto the trunk and then shakes a branch with her little paws.

As soon as she comes back down, she returns with a fruit in her mouth.

I naturally bend down and extend my hands. I notice they are frozen; I think I do not have much time left before I lose consciousness.

This fruit—I know what it is.

I look once more at this animal; her eyes resemble those of my mother.

This is the fruit that had surprised me so much.

One bite, and I feel a forgotten nostalgia.

A fruit frozen on the outside, yet its heart is warm and burning.

My eyes close, and despite the cold, warm tears flow down my cheeks. In my thoughts, a phrase that is not mine slips in.

"There is no greater love than that which one can bear for oneself."

The purest love I have ever held is the one that brought me here, the one that made me love this world. It is mine.

I take an icicle lying on the ground and bring it to a strand of my hair to cut it.

I exchange it for my grimoire, which I hold tightly in my arms.

Head bowed, I whisper a phrase my mother used to tell me:

- "The purest love you can bear begins at the same door as that which you will bear for others."

"That of your heart."

I finally whisper, my last words as a human.

- "My journey is only beginning."

- She is here, look !

- Calm down ! Do not run, you will fall !

Flowers and crowns of leaves are placed before this great statue with golden wings.

Many people come to thank the guides of these snow-covered mountains. The harvests are abundant for those who work the land, and love is infinite for those whose kindness is genuine.

A little further on, a frost-covered tree with a weasel holding a grimoire between its paws. Behind her stands a statue, standing with her eyes looking straight ahead.

A carving before them reads :

"As long as the love of self reigns, immortality shall be."

- Who is she?

- The unknown, the one who guides travelers with pure hearts. The traveler with silver hair. Oh, yes, and the weasel.