The Winter King

I'd never been so cold in my life. I thought that growing up in Montana would have made me immune to the winter chill, but the Northern air biting at my exposed skin was a different beast. Even through three layers of fabric, I may as well have been wearing a sheet. I tugged my hat further down over my ears as I followed Irina through the blustering snowstorm, and prayed for a warm fire to greet us at the tavern.

I had expected the winter to come quickly after my arrival, but I'd only arrived a day prior. Kholodnyi was located in the far reaches of Eastern Siberia, far further than any unassuming tourist could ever find themselves. The name itself translated appropriately to "cold". It had taken me two day's ride by train from Moscow, and yet another half day's slow trudge from the nearest train station to the tiny village.

Snow flakes were already settling on the ground as I crested the final pass into the village, and in the night they came again with a vengeance. I had woken in the morning to a world blanketed in white, the village quiet all around me. Irina, the woman had kindly let me stay with her, told me that the villagers were simply waiting for the storm to pass. Stoves were packed tight with wood and chimneys smoked verdantly.

"It is best to keep inside until the storm ends," she had said, "It is easy to become lost in the night."

And yet here we were, outside in the blizzard, because my research couldn't wait. The book I was writing needed firsthand accounts of folklore from the people themselves. There was no way I was going to get that inside, so here I was, struggling to put one foot in front of the other through the blinding snow.

"Foolish girl," Irina had said to me, her voice blazing with irritation. But she had agreed to escort me nonetheless. At the time, it had felt like the most important thing.

But now, as the bitter winds whipped around me and the snowflakes stung my cheeks, I wasn't so sure. I was beginning to lose feeling in my extremities, and I was certain my lips were beginning to turn blue.

Irina was a few paces ahead of me, and as the wind picked up, the snow came with it, and her figure became obscured.

"Irina!" I called out, but my voice was swept away.

"Come along, Nina," came her voice. I pressed on.

A faint glow lit the darkness ahead of me, unmistakable. I knew we must be close. Irina had told me that the tavern was just a mile outside of Kholodnyi proper. It seemed an odd choice, to have the hub of the village so distant from the homes. As I trudged forward, the glow grew brighter, and soon the shape of the tavern was revealed through the haze.

It wasn't much. Two stories tall, and a thatched roof that reached out far past the edge of the building. It had likely been built that way to keep the snow off of the roof, so that the structure wouldn't collapse under the weight.

"I cannot go with you," Irina said, suddenly right next to me. "I must return home, the storm will worsen, and I do not want to become lost."

I looked over at her, my breath forming clouds in front of me, and tried to speak, but she cut me off.

"It is a short walk to the tavern from here. They have room and board, and a hearth for you to warm yourself by," her voice gained an edge of teasing, "And all the stories you so desire." It was clear she still thought I was foolish, but couldn't help the edge of endearment.

Without another word, Irina turned and walked away, and was swallowed by the blizzard.

I turned my attention back to the fast-approaching glow. As I reached the heavy wooden door, I could almost feel the heat coming from within. I pushed, and the door gave way easily. The warmth enveloped me as soon as I stepped through the door. It was an immediate reprieve, and my skin tingled as it thawed. My clothes were still soaked through, however, and they clung to me.

As I pulled the door closed, a few curious faces turned to look at me. There weren't many people there, but it would be sufficient start to my research. A long bar was set against the back wall, and behind it a row of bottles lined a shelf. Tables were scattered around the floor, some full, others empty, and a fire burned bright in an enormous fireplace.

"Can I help you?" A voice drew my attention. I looked up and saw a bear of a man standing behind the bar. He spoke in heavily accented English, and I wondered how out of place I must have looked for him to know I didn't speak Russian.

"Yes, thank you," I replied, walking up to the bar, "My name is Nina. I'm looking for a place to stay for the night."

He regarded me for a moment, eyes traveling from my soaked clothes, to my dripping hat, and finally meeting my gaze.

"Sergey," he said, giving my wet gloved hand a brief shake. Heat flushed my cheeks as I imagined how I must look.

He continued, "I'm sure I could find a spare bed. But first, have a drink. Dry off by the fire. We can't have you catching a chill."

"Spasibo," I said, giving him a grateful smile. He raised an eyebrow and I hoped that I had remembered my rudimentary Russian correctly. I hurried away to remove my hat and gloves, and hung them up on the rack near the door. Then, I settled myself at a small table near the fireplace.

Sergey brought me a steaming mug of tea. I sipped at it and tried not to make a face. The warmth was welcome, but the taste was not.

He was watching me closely. "Not to your liking?" he asked.

I forced a smile. "Just a bit too hot," I said. He didn't look fooled, but he left me to my own devices after that.

As the minutes wore on, and the storm continued to rage outside, I pulled out my notebook and pen, intending to make notes about my arrival. I was disparaged to discover that my pen was useless, having been soaked through. Instead, I stared down at the hot cup of tea, if you could even call it that. With a glance around, I realized that I was the focus of several people's attention. I wasn't surprised. It couldn't be a frequent occurrence to have outsiders here, much less in winter. I smiled and raised my cup in greeting. Some returned the gesture, though most just looked away.

I knew I looked a mess. My hair was beginning to dry and the dark locks were a curly tangle. I tried to tame them into a braid halfheartedly. I could feel how pink my cheeks were still as I recovered from the storm.

"It is an unkind thing, this weather," said a voice.

I looked up to see a woman approaching me. She was thin, and her face was wrinkled with age, but she walked with a gentle grace.

"Please, sit," I said, indicating the chair across from me. "You're right. It's quite vicious."

She smiled at me and sat. Her hair was gray and wispy, her nose somewhat cracked from the frost, and her arms taught with surprising amount of muscle. Although there was an easy way about her, I suspected she had not had an easy life.

"We don't get visitors often. What brings you here, lapochka?" Her English was very good.

The nickname was unfamiliar, but it didn't seem unpleasant, so I smiled back at her. "I am Nina Cordova," I told her, "I'm a writer, a student of folklore. I came here hoping to study your local stories and myths. You see, I'm working on a book."

"Nina," she repeated, as though weighing the word in the palm of her hand, "It is a very Russian name. It suits you."

"What can I call you?" I asked her.

"Zoya," she replied.

"Zoya, it's an honor to meet you. Will you tell me about yourself? How long have you lived in Kholodnyi?"

She smiled. "You are too inquisitive. But I will answer you. I was born here, as were my parents, and their parents before them. I tend to my grandchildren, while my son and his wife work. Before that, I was a teacher. Now I am just a storyteller." Her eyes dropped to my steaming mug, then back up to me. "Drink up, Nina. You must warm up your bones."

At her urging, I took a sip of tea and quickly regretted it. It was sour and cloying, and each sip made me feel dizzy. I set it aside and resolved not to drink any more.

A shiver of excitement rolled through me as I processed her words. A storyteller - just the person I wanted to talk to. I couldn't keep the eagerness from my voice, "Will you share a story with me now? I would very much love to hear one." At that, several of the villagers nearby seemed to perk up and draw closer. It seemed I wasn't the only one here who enjoyed Zoya's stories.

"What would you like to hear, Nina?"

I glanced around the room. Most of the villagers had gathered closer to where we were sitting. A girl about my age pulled up her chair beside me and gave a small nod in greeting. She touched a lock of my hair and I drew back instinctively, but she only smiled and let it drop. Examining my face for a moment, she said, "You're perfect." I didn't know what to say to that, so I smiled awkwardly back at her.

A minute later I gave my seat to a young boy who had come over and knelt on the floor, and instead perched on the stone of the fireplace, grateful for the warmth. When no one was looking, I tipped my remaining tea into the ashes.

"Will you tell me the story of Kholod?" I asked Zoya. It was one of the reasons I had traveled here in the most remote corner of Russia, after all, to learn the folklore of the winter. At my words, Zoya's eyes flicked towards the window. I followed her gaze, but the window was a blurry mess of snow and I couldn't determine what she was looking at.

"That is a dangerous tale to tell, lapochka," she said, "It is the season of the winter king and he can be cruel. Perhaps it would not be wise to turn his attention."

I smiled in what I hoped was an encouraging way, "Please, Zoya. I'm not afraid."

Zoya's gaze returned to me, and the look she gave me made me shiver. It was an unsettling mixture of sadness and fear, but also - strangely - pity. She was silent for a moment, considering. When she spoke, it was with a clear voice, ringing out in the silent room.

"Indeed, Nina, I will." The folk around me leaned in. I wondered if they hadn't heard this story often.

Zoya gave me one last appraising look, then she began: "Once upon a time, long ago, the old gods reigned."

...

In one of the inn rooms, I twisted in the blankets, unable to get comfortable. It wasn't the bed, which was quite comfortable. The heat from the downstairs fire seeped up through the cracks in the wood floor and kept me warm. It was the storm that made me uneasy. Every time I was nearly asleep, a howl of wind or the pattering of snow against the window would jerk me back awake.

Zoya's words rolled through my mind. I couldn't explain why her story had scared me so much. I wasn't afraid of the dark, nor of folktales told by the hearth. I'd been to the far reaches of the jungle, heard stories of the Aswang and the Chupacabra. But here in this cold lonely place, a forest of frozen trees, I felt afraid.

"The most vicious of the old gods was Kholod, the winter king, who rules over the frostbitten lands and commands the winds. His touch is bitter, and he does not care for the mortals he leaves behind. A king most cold, cruel, and lonely. He comes for those who stray too far into the chill and cannot find their way home.

In the days of old, villages would offer tribute to Kholod, so he would not unleash his fury upon them. Offerings of the harvest, and of livestock. Maidens, too, would be given to the winter king. Those girls were never seen again. And yet the village would thrive. For the winter king was satisfied, and his cruelty was sated."

The wind picked up, and the shutters rattled in the gale. I pulled the blankets tighter around me.

"As the years wore on, the people began to forget. The world has changed. The harvest is good, and the winter stores plentiful. Each year, fewer unwary souls steal away into the winter night. Few offerings are made. And so each year he grows hungrier than the last. His loneliness festers and becomes an all-consuming anger."

"It is a dangerous thing," Zoya had said, "for a creature such as he to become desperate."

The sound of the storm raged on. I couldn't tell if the whistling in the distance was the wind, or the cries of the winter king himself.

"One night, the storm had raged for hours and the sky was black with clouds. He had gone hungry for too long, and no offerings had been given to appease him. So, he stole out into the darkness, and his rage knew no bounds. The ground shook with the force of his fury, and his howls shook the mountains. He rattled all the windows in the village. Until, at last, his eyes fell on a girl asleep in her bed. She awoke, as though she felt his arrival. She was frightened, for the winter king's form is dark and terrifying, and his touch is cold as ice. But his voice is honeyed and sweet, and his words were kind. He pressed his hand to her frozen window and where his touch landed, a bloom of frost grew in spirals from its center.

He spoke to her then, and promised her things he would not give, and the girl was entranced. She opened the window and allowed him to enter her room. And he was pleased, for though his hunger was great, her offering was sufficient to satisfy him.

When the morning broke, and the clouds cleared, the villagers dug themselves out of their homes. A week passed in which no snow fell, and the air was still and warm. They rejoiced, for the winter king had spared them his fury. Until one morning, when the girl's mother went to check on her daughter. And in her bed she found the girl, curled into the sheets, her heart frozen solid."

I finally drifted off to sleep, my dreams filled with the howling of the wind and a voice as sweet as honey.

...

I awoke with a start, in the dark. The room was cold.

The hairs on the back of my neck prickled, and the feeling of being watched washed over me. My eyes flicked around the room, searching, but there was no one. I was alone, still twisted into the mess of blankets.

My eyes fell on the window. It was open.

That explained why it was so cold. I was certain that I had closed the window before falling asleep, but it must have blown open in the storm. I wrapped the blanket around my shoulders and hurried to close it. Goosebumps were already beginning to rise on my skin. I pulled it shut with a snap, locking it.

The wind whipped at the closed window in frustration, and for a moment I could have sworn I heard something other than the gale. Something like a voice, a low whisper. My imagination was getting the best of me.

I pressed my hand to the glass, feeling the chill seep into my skin, and imagining how it would feel to be on the other side of it looking in.

A sudden puff of steam appeared on the outside of the glass, as though someone's breath had fogged the window. It dissipated in seconds, making me wonder if it had been there at all.

My eyes caught on the shape outside, a silhouette. A man. I blinked, and he was gone. Only a shadow.

Behind me, the door opened quietly. I turned to watch as a large figure entered the room and stopped. Sergey and I just looked at each other for a moment, both equally surprised. A moment passed in confused silence.

"You didn't drink your tea," he said, and I frowned. When he remained standing in the doorway a second longer, I puzzled on his words. Surely he wasn't waking me in the middle of the night for a culinary critique?

I recalled the fuzziness growing in me with each sip. Had I been drugged? Had he put something in the tea? All at once I was taken by a growing panic, and my mouth felt dry. I took an unconscious step back from him.

"Nina," he said, and the way he said my name almost sounded like a plea. He held his hand out to me, beckoning. And if I didn't come? What would he do then? He was standing between me and the door.

I shook my head, my hair falling loose from its braid.

"Please, I don't want any trouble." My voice sounded strange.

"Then come with me," he insisted.

"What was in the tea?" I asked, afraid to hear his answer. I tried to speak steadily though my heart was thumping like a frightened deer.

"Something to make you sleep," he said simply, "To make it easier."

"Easier? Make what easier?" My words tumbled out in a stutter.

"I do not wish to hurt you," he said. To my surprise, he sounded completely earnest. His eyes were soft and remorseful, clearly whatever he was intending would have been much easier for him if I'd just drank his tea like I was supposed to. Now he had to look into my eyes and see the growing terror there as I tried to understand what was happening. "Our village has suffered much this year and our stores for the winter won't last. Already, the children grow thin. There is only the hope that the winter, the frost demon, will spare us. He demands a sacrifice."

He didn't mean... "Kholod?" I asked him, aghast, "You think that by sacrificing me to a fairytale character, you'll save your village? Kholod is a story. A story told by old women around the hearth to keep children indoors." Out here, in the frozen landscape, it was easy to see how the old gods might feel real.

"The winter king is as real as you and I. I have seen him with my own eyes many years ago, when he took my brother."

"You're insane." I was starting to get hysterical, "I'm leaving now. I'm going back to Moscow."

"You of all people should know that stories have power. And for that, I cannot let you leave."

At that, he sprung towards me. I had nowhere to go, and he caught me around the waist, holding me tight against him. The blankets fell away as I struggled uselessly. I was left in nothing more than my thin white dressing gown, offering no protection. "Help! Somebody help!" I screamed.

The sound of the wind outside was the only answer.

He dragged me out into the hall and I fought against him every step of the way, kicking and screaming.

"Somebody! Please! Help me!"

I clawed at his arms and his face, but his grip was firm and unyielding. He didn't say a word, he just continued to drag me down the hallway and towards the staircase. He was a big man, and his skin was tough from a lifetime in the far reaches of the world.

As we pushed into the main area of the tavern, I saw a group of people gathered. I recognized Zoya, and the girl who had been sitting beside me. Even the little boy who had taken my seat. I recognized some of them as the other patrons of the tavern from earlier, but others still were strangers.

"Please!" I cried out, desperately, "You have to help me! Pomogi mne!" I tried in Russian, wracking my brain for the words.

At that, the boy turned his gaze from me as though he couldn't bear to watch.

Zoya gave me a sad smile. "An offering must be made, lapochka. Your blood will warm the winter king's bones."

Sergey dragged me to the door, and my screams were cut off by the sudden rush of air. Icy crystals of snow flew at my skin, and I gasped as the freezing wind stole my breath. Sergey pushed me to the ground in the snow.

"Please, please," I sobbed, "Don't do this."

He didn't respond, merely pulling a dagger from his belt. The blade was already slick with frost. I scrambled away from him, stumbling to my feet in snow that was nearly up to my calves. At the crunch of his boots behind me, I took off into the night.

I just had to make it to the village, Irina would help me. She had to. Because if she was somehow in on this, too, then I was alone. "Irina!" I called, hoping she would hear me. It was foolish, the wind would carry my voice away.

I ran, and the wind and snow swirled around me, a flurry of ice crystals blinding me. I was soaked through and freezing, but fear fueled my flight. The trees all looked the same, stretching on endlessly. The night was dark, the moon obscured by the thick storm clouds. Once the light of the tavern faded from view, I was surrounded only by blackness and the faint glow of the snow.