The Winter's Vigil

The Winter’s Vigil

In the beginning there were Kindness, Beauty, and unconditional Love. God had blessed the Animals with so much of these gifts that very little was left for People. Perhaps that is why we, in our cautious human way, never kept a pet. For only a few humans are capable of unconditional Love.

Mother said pets could be a handful, and Father insisted that animals carried diseases. Yet, despite these strict rules, that winter brought surprises. That winter bestowed upon us Love and Dedication.

It was a cold winter—one that entered the theatre of our lives not merely as weather, but as a Presence.

Mother peered through the window.

“What a flurry,” she marvelled.

It was more than that. It was a blizzard.

The snow didn’t fall or drift; it swirled—furiously, as if stirred deliberately by Someone.

Father felt the storm’s fury. Something in it pressed against his worried forehead. He paced restlessly.

At last, he dressed hurriedly and plunged into the wilderness to catch the only bus to the Well, to see whether our summer home still stood beneath its armour of ice.

No cars moved. The world had stopped.

He returned after nightfall, soaked to the bone. His face glowed from the wind—and from something else. He stood in the hallway, letting the silence gather around him.

“There’s an owl sitting in the chimney,” he announced with a chuckle.

He had lit a small fire for the animal. The bird was warm.

He nodded to Mother: yes, he had checked the water pipes; no, they weren’t frozen. And yes, he had wrapped the apple trunks in newspaper—a protection against frost and hares. Mother cared deeply about every living thing.

That was Saturday.

The next day, Sunday, no bus came. Only the endless falling of the sky.

When Monday dawned, the world lay buried in snow. My school was closed for the holidays. I was reading. In my book the animals spoke through thoughts. How I wished I had a dog. I would teach him to read. Imagine us performing on TV—I would be famous!

On Tuesday, routine resumed. Father went again, wading through knee-deep snow. He returned at dusk.

Mother, baking her cinnamon rolls, asked, “Have you seen the owl?”

“She’s still there,” Father said sternly; men, he believed, should be hard and determined.

He had built another fire: a tiny torch of warmth in an enormous frozen world. He met no other soul on the path—only snow, only winter.

The next Saturday I begged to go with him.

We carried a small sledge and a bag of carrots. We pushed through untouched whiteness for an hour. White plains dissolved into white sky—a world painted entirely in white.

Our footprints vanished the moment they were made, swallowed instantly by whispering flakes. Trees stood like guardians under a magical spell. The stillness rang in my ears.

Our little house crouched in its drifts like a small, content creature sleeping under glittering snow. And perched in its chimney was the owl—a large brown head, puffed-up, turning toward us. Big eyes followed our steps. She stirred slightly. Snow gathered on her feathers.

We stood motionless in silent admiration. Gigantic flakes landed on my face, my eyelashes; I had to blink. They tasted faintly of chewing gum.

Inside, the kitchen greeted us with the rattle of its clock.

I reached for the firewood.

“No,” Father grumbled, pulling the sticks away. “Too much.”

The fire opened its tiny eye. Warmth swept across our faces. No words were needed. The flames danced.

The hearth crackled softly; the iron clock clattered with theatrical importance.

Father opened the parcel of chicken Mother had bought. He searched for a pink bowl marked CAT. Mother had bought two bowls—CAT and DOG, pink and brown.

Dog had a name, but we never knew it. We never asked. Father called him Lassie. When I called him Dog, he would laugh and come to me. He accepted any name and any breed. Cat never had another name. She couldn’t speak, though she could cough and sneeze. They were Rudi’s animals.

“Can we keep the owl?” I begged.

Father laughed.

“She’s a wild creature. Or maybe it’s a he.”

He added, “Let’s hope by next Saturday the roads will be cleared. Maybe we could buy some leftovers from the butcher at Holy Trinity.” Father was already making plans.

Outside, he cleared snow off the woodpile under Aunt’s barn—her buildings abandoned for the winter. Then he solemnly placed the food atop the pile, offerings on an altar. Two figures standing still as if in deep prayer.

Father flapped his arms to alert the owl. She stirred. I sent her a mental order to wake up. Tried again. Nothing. I cupped my hands around my mouth: “Hoo-hoo…”

The echo came back from the forest.

The owl squinted.

The roof sparkled beneath a thick white duvet. The owl closed her eyes again, basking in gentle warmth.

Absolute silence. Stillness.

In that profound quiet, I heard my own memories.

***

Autumn

Autumn returned to me.

It had exploded in colours and voices. Before the snow, the Well echoed with clattering wind-rattles and shouts from vineyards—sounds magnified by the amphitheatre of hills. The vines were heavy with grapes. The apple trees bowed under their burden. The forest glittered in yellows and reds.

Black swallows circled above me, excited before their departure.

I ran to Aunt, gasping, asking if they were gathering yet.

“Yes,” she replied. “Twenty birds yesterday.”

She meant twenty swallows perched on the electric wire in her backyard.

I ran to Father. I wanted to know how many swallows we had.

Father recorded our life in his diary in magnificent cursive, with the precision of a ship’s captain. His ledger kept the year’s small secrets: thirteen cherries from the young tree; eighty walnuts! “Thirty?” swallows—last season—with a question mark.

The numbers of apples, plums, apricots, and grapes were lost in abundance.

One fox in the third forest, on September 5th. We named the forests by their distance from our house; the first forest touched our yard.

Father had stumbled on a fox burrow while foraging for mushrooms. That night the fox visited him—one deep bark in the orchard set Dog howling. A chain of eerie replies swept across distant hills and made my skin prickle.

Under crimson sunset clouds, we gathered around Aunt’s well, its bucket resting on wooden covers. It was Rudi who had found the water spot with his divining rods. He found all the wells around here. On Sundays, if Aunt had visitors, he would come to demonstrate his gift. In my hands the rods never moved. No one I knew could make the metal shift—except Rudi. I suspected him of being a wizard.

Leaning on the well’s rig, Mother's slender silhouette. She talked about her marmalade jars: “A layer of rum on the top makes all the difference.” Bourbon would not do. Aunt talked about her rose gardens, her voice soft, almost a whisper. Father listened, following the birds with his binoculars.

I listened to these people, my people—children of an era when Friendship and Integrity walked the earth, when thoughts and actions were shaped in the heart. My T-shirt said HAPPY. And I wished Mother could preserve these moments in a jar; with a layer of rum.

Above us, the swallows chattered like a festival. I counted twenty-eight. Father claimed thirty-one. They squabbled and shifted too much to be certain. Aunt seized the binoculars and counted thirty-three. That night we entered thirty-three swallows in the diary.

Rudi appeared at the garden door, Cat at his heels. He laughed, touched his grey hair with a lean hand, and pointed at the quarrelling swallows. “They are ready to go. Rain is coming.” He turned on the cellar lights, carefully lit a candle, and climbed the granite boulders sideways. The depths swallowed the flickering glow.

Aunt kept the best wine west of Jeruzalem, and Rudi was its keeper—a “connoisseur,” she said. He handled the massive oak barrels with the same skill as his scythe and sickle. Always kind, always working.

Aunt bowed to Cat with great respect, and Cat answered silently.

L

***

Winter Again

The memory faded.

“I would like to visit Cat and Dog,” I said aloud. My breath rose into the sky.

“The snow is too deep,” Father replied, glancing toward Rudi’s distant home and stomping his frozen feet.

As day closed, Night spread its gentle silver glow across the valley.

Father fed a few more chips into the stove. We latched the shutters and laid carrots beneath the paper-wrapped apple trees—for hares and deer.

The owl sat utterly still, dreaming. A snow cape already covered her head. I waved. No response.

In my mind, I sent her a farewell message.

I imagined a tray piled with meatballs, sausages, and chips. I focused with all my strength.

The owl opened her eyes and shook off the snow.

“I did it!” I screamed. “I can do it! I can talk to the animals.”

The snowflakes tasted delicious.

Father fetched apples and potatoes from the cellar and loaded the sledge. Then we plunged blindly into the whiteness.

Snow fell like a blessing—soft, kind, joyful.

I sang. I sang to the whole world.

From that day forward, we worshipped Winter with reverence and dedication. With chicken and carrots, every Saturday we made a pilgrimage along the lonely path to Winter’s shrine. In cold, in wind, in snow. Our gifts were accepted—with gratitude.

***

Departure

The owl stayed with us all winter.

And when spring arrived—

when the first warm breeze whispered across the Well—

she rose into the air without sound

and glided away,

a silent miracle released back into the sky.

We knew then that this freedom is Love in its purest essence:

always, and beautifully, unconditional.