The Snow Remembers

The village of Bazrio was a small encampment on the outskirts of the mountains of Tam’ra. The land used to be lush and green but ever since the old inhabitants moved away it became a land of ice and snow. Some villagers believe that the land is cursed and that the constant snow is a punishment for taking control of the land. But that belief is shrouded in ages-old superstitions. The villagers thrived here and it has stood proudly in its place for exactly 100 years. And just like any other village, the people of Bazrio wanted to celebrate their centennial. Though they could not afford a lavish celebration they did manage to send word to a local ice carver. The village chief had decided that having a centerpiece in village square would be just what was needed to accentuate the celebrations. When the carver arrived the village chief greeted him with open arms.

“Well met sir! Glad you could come to our little village on such short notice.”

The ice carver was wrapped in layers upon layers of old rags. On top of the rags was a large and well padded overcoat. That gave him away as a visitor right away since the major population of Bazrio didn’t wear coats. They had fluffy and well-padded coats of wool to keep them warm. He was bundled up so well you couldn’t even see his face, let alone make out the general shape of his body. The most the village chief could decipher was that he was taller than a decent sized snowbank and that he carried a backpack with him, most likely used for the tools of his craft. When the carver responded back, it seemed as though he was speaking very deliberately. As if he had rehearsed his words.

“Well met, Chief Billik. You are the grandson of Bazrio, no?”

“I see my reputation has preceded me! Come, come I wish to show you around the village.”

Bilik motioned with the horns on his head for the carver to follow him and he and the carver walked through the main thoroughfares of the village. Everyone was very friendly to the carver as he walked with Billik. The rams and ewes of Bazrio had little to fear afterall. The near-constant snowstorms kept the village safe from traveling marauders. Some children even ran to greet him with pieces of ice they had broken off of their houses. Insisting that he carve them into shapes of animals. Billik waved them off and apologized to the carver.

“Do not worry, I was a child once too! I know what it is like to be so filled with wonder.”

“Were you a very happy child?”

The carver goes silent for a few moments before responding.

“For a time. But the world is a cruel place, no? Wonder can only last so long. I try to bring it back in my carvings, but it is difficult to capture the feeling.”

“I suppose that’s why I’m paying you, eh? We’re almost to the village square, I’ll show you where you can set up your equipment.”

Billik brought the carver to the village square. It was connected by a small number of stone paths to the other sections of town. Each individual path ended at the center of the village square forming a kind of sun shape on the ground. It was a leftover from their ancestors, something to do with bringing warmth into the heart of the village. The village hall was directly to the back of the village square so that anyone who needed to see Billik about some matter of importance could do so without having to travel very far. The villagers milled in and out of buildings as they went about their daily business. Criss-crossing through the village square when needed, each busy with their own tasks. Billik motioned to a spot on the ground where he had laid a red cloth for the carver to use.

“This is where you’ll be setting up the carving. Now, as promised here is the first half of my payment. You’ll receive the other half upon completion of the sculpture.”

Billik stretched out his arm and held out five gold coins to the carver in-between his hooves. But the carver pushed them back using his hand. Billik was surprised at how dry and scratchy the carver’s hands felt.  

“I do not need your money. I will do this for free, if you let me choose the sculpture.”

“Well I don’t see the point in having you come all the way here if you won’t carve what I ask you to. Now I was thinking we could...”

“I promise the result will be glorious and bring warmth into the hearts of your people.”

“Be that as it may, I really think I should be able to dictate what you carve.”

“I will only carve what I wish. Save your money. And your breath”, the carver said impatiently.

Billik wanted to argue but thought he could use the surplus money to buy extra spirits for the festivities. Perhaps no one would notice if they were sufficiently liquored up.

“Fine, carve what you want. Just have it done in three days. I’ll have someone come by with the ice blocks later.”

And with that Billik walked into the village hall and slammed the door behind him.

True to his word, Billik had some of the strongest rams in the village bring the carver many blocks of ice. By the time they had arrived the carver had laid out his tools on the bright red cloth. He was seated on the cloth in the middle of applying a pink colored oil to one of his carving knives when they had finished placing the blocks. Without saying anything, the carver stood up, walked over to one of the ice blocks, and sliced through it faster than any of the rams could see. The knife had gone completely through the block as if it were made of butter. The carver dislodged the top piece and set it at his feet.

“Thank you, good sirs. Tell Billik that these ice blocks will do very nicely.”

And with that he waved the rams off back to their chief.

Over the next two days the carver worked tirelessly on his sculpture. Villagers remarked on his dedication to his craft. The guards at night would leave for their last shift and the bakers would hear the slight ‘tink-tink-tink’ of carving ice as they were making their first batches of bread. No one could tell if he had slept at any point but his energy was always constant. A slow and methodical carving motion with his rag covered arms was always visible in the village square for those forty-eight hours. It was as if he was possessed by some other need. No one saw him eat or drink either, but didn’t want to say anything for fear of interrupting him.

By the end of the first day, the carver had covered his in-progress sculpture with a large white sheet he had pulled from out of his backpack. Billik questioned him about this the next day and he simply replied that it was for “building suspense, as you say”. Billik had a hard time refuting this claim as over the next day he had to keep the children in the town from peeking underneath the sheet. Even the adults were speculating about it as before Billik called the village meeting for the day to order the main point of conversation was what the carver was carving.

By the end of the second day, one of the children had run under the tarp and grabbed a tool from the carver’s belt. Once Billik had caught up to the child, he scolded him and asked to see the tool. The child reluctantly handed the tool over and then ran off to their home. Billik examined the tool and found that it didn’t match any carving tools he was familiar with. In any case, he had to return the tool to the carver and walked over to the village square.

As he approached he heard the telltale ‘tink-tink-tink’ that meant the carver was busily shaping the sculpture. He called out to him and the sound stopped abruptly. The carver walked out

“Ah, you have come to return my tool! I was not quick enough to snatch up that child when he ran through here.”

“Yes, but I must say I’ve never seen a tool quite like this one before. How do you cut ice with such a small blade?”

Billik gestured to the tool’s metal blade which was at best only a quarter of an inch. The blade had a small green stone inlaid into it, making the tool look more decorative than functional.

“It is used for the finer details. After all the eyes are the windows to the soul, no? Let me show you how it works.”

With that the carver took the tool from Billik and passed his rough hand over the inlaid stone. Instantly the tool whirred to life and began to vibrate in his hand. The blade moving back and forth in a blur. Billik was not impressed.

“I didn’t know you trafficked in magics, carver. You should have told me.”

“Oh? Do you not like magics, Billik?” the carver said sarcastically.

“We try to keep life here peaceful and simple. Magics complicate matters far more than they solve them.”

“I would not worry, dear chief. I only use magic in the tools for my craft. How else did you think I was going to finish your sculpture in only three days?”

That last question had a bit of a sting to it. As if the carver was used to working with persnickety clients.

“Just be sure to keep an eye on your tools from now on. Wouldn’t want you to have to leave the village prematurely.” Billik emphasized that last word to scare the carver, but it didn’t seem to have any effect.

“As you wish.”

And with that the carver disappeared under the tarp and the familiar ‘tink-tink-tink’ could be heard again.

The last day of carving passed without trouble. Billik wanted to spend more time keeping an eye on the carver now that he knew magic was involved, but unfortunately he had other business to attend to with setting up the last of the preparations for the festival. He made sure to order that extra batch of spirits as well. Didn’t want that extra money to go to waste. Once he had finished getting the festivities in order, he went around to all the houses and greeted the villagers as they walked to the village square in their party attire.

The villagers of Bazrio rarely wore extra clothing as their natural wool was warm enough as is, but tonight was a special occasion and many were dressed to the nines. Some of the women wore bright red and purple colored scarves and hung jewelry around their hooves. The men wore sashes and robes of more subdued browns and greens. A style that called back to their ancestors that lived in the mountains. Everyone gathered around the village square as the carver stepped out from under the tarp. Billik stepped up and stood between him and the crowd of people. He addressed them in a booming voice and said,  

“Fine people of Bazrio, I give you this grand ice sculpture in celebration of our centennial! May we prosper ever more in the centuries to come!”

And with that he gestured to the carver to pull down the tarp. The carver whipped it off the sculpture with a flourish and the villagers could finally see what he carved. The sculpture stood two and a half houses tall and was at least a house wide. The shape was that of a great and terrible dragon from tales of old. It looked as though it was ripped straight from the Bazrian mythology, taken from the page and made manifest in ice before them. The dragon itself was posed very statically with all four of its legs planted firmly on the ground and the tail held high behind its hindquarters. However, the detail that was carved into the ice was astonishing. Each leg had four claws that were sharp enough to tear through flesh. The tail had a massive spiked tip that gleamed in the waning light of the setting sun. The wings that adorned its back stretched up and out over each side. The dragon’s horns curled upwards downwards and sideways. Multiple sets adorned the beast’s head to form a crown of sorts. The mouth was partially open and contained row after row of jagged teeth. The eyes were carved into a reptillian slit and in each hole there was a bright yellow stone. And if that wasn’t enough the entire body was covered in a thin scale pattern that traveled along the curves and dips in the dragon’s form. It was magnificent to look upon.

The villagers were taken aback by the beauty in front of them. Many stood mouth agape drinking in the craftsmanship on display, but Billik was uneasy. Something was not adding up. Why would the carver know of such a specific myth from their history? And how could he render it in such perfect detail? As an outsider he shouldn’t have such knowledge.  

As the sun set over the horizon the carver stepped in front of his sculpture and looked Billik straight in the eye. For the first time Billik could see the carver’s eyes and what he saw made his blood run cold. In the next moment the carver tore off his cloak and threw it to the ground. There was an audible gasp from the crowd when they saw his true form.

The carver was also a dragon, but age had withered his frame and made him sickly. The rags that clung to him were so tight that it looked as though they had fused with his scales. His scales were rough and scratchy and some were flaking off of his exposed hide. The color of the scales had diminished over time so it was hard to say if he used to be a red dragon or a green dragon as his scales now were decidedly brown. He had wings as well, but they weren’t nearly as majestic as his sculpture. They were extremely small and certainly couldn’t support him in flight. But the most notable feature on the carver was his face. Or rather lack of it. It appeared as though the carver was missing half of his snout. Teeth and bone were exposed at the very end giving him a permanent toothy smile. His eyes were the same color as the sculpture. The one thing they shared in common. The carver addressed the crowd,

“My name is Sarask! Years ago I was a young drake living on this land. I have come to take it back”

Billik stepped forward and put his hand on the carver. He hissed at him,

“Whatever you are planning, Dragon. Cease it now. I don’t want to kill on a night of celebration.”

Sarask grinned at Billik and whispered,

“You think I am but a fragile old man, no? Then come and fight me!”

Billik wasted no time and went to throw the meanest left hook he could muster towards Sarask’s smiling face. Instead of colliding with flaky scale however, Billik felt the bones in his hand crunch against a solid block of ice. When he looked up to see what his hand had hit he noticed that the sculpture had moved ever so slightly in front of Sarask. Shielding him from the blow. Before he could react further, Sarask put his hand on Billik’s chest and gently pushed him back. Billik went flying backwards into the crowd of onlookers as Sarask moved his hand to touch the base of his creation.

“Good villagers of Bazrio, your village chief has lied to you. Your ancient texts are wrong! You were not gifted this land from the dragons of old. You stole it from us.”

As he spoke, Sarask traced invisible lines in the dragon sculpture with his hands. Everywhere he traced the pattern became visible a few seconds later in a brilliant yellow hue.

“Your ancestors grew tired of living on the mountains and so decided that you wanted our flat and fertile plains to graze on. So the good king Bazrio came down from the mountain and asked to purchase the land from us. When we told him no, he became furious and vowed he would have our land one way or another.”

Sarask’s motions were getting more fluid now. His pace of making the symbols on the sculpture increased with the speed of his words.

“Bazrio was a fool and tried to use old magics he had learned to chase us off our land. What was meant to be a small snowstorm to weaken us, turned into a blizzard, and then became the never-ending snow squall you all know today.”

Sarask was moving rapidly around the sculpture now, intermittently hitting certain key points of the sculpture in between his speech.

“We were ambushed and many of my people were killed. I was only a boy but Bazrio still managed to leave me with a gift. He sliced my muzzle in two and left me to bleed. It was quite fortunate that when he left my sight I ran. The rest of my clan were hunted down and killed, but I survived. And do you know why?”

At this Sarask gently pet the snout of his creation and the eyes crackled to life with magical energy.

“It’s rude to receive a gift, without giving one in return, no?”

The patterns on the sculpture flashed to life and crackled with the same energy that the eyes now had. The sculpture slowly came to life as it moved one foot closer to the crowd. And then another. And another. Until it was directly above Billik. Sarask looked out over the villagers and saw in their faces genuine fear. He drank it in happily.

“Blessed Centennial, Billik.”

And with that the villagers could see a bright glowing light emanate from the bowels of the sculpture. It grew in intensity until it escaped the maw of the great ice dragon in a brilliant gout of yellow flame.

Within the week the land had returned to normal. The snowstorm had subsided and the first seeds of grass were beginning to sprout again. The only sign of the village of Bazrio were the half-destroyed houses that hadn’t crumbled to dust yet. Sarask the carver was nowhere to be found. Though if one were to try and look for him, they might find his bones among the fledgling trees.