In the beginning, there was Spring. Well, there were many Springs, actually, and they all had a right and good purpose. They pulled the rain across the earth like a great curtain. They coaxed the trees into blossom. They woke the bears, the bees, and all sleeping things on the face of the earth. They were the laughter in the brook and the rainbow in the sky. They were the slow revelation of life renewed. And they were good.
One of the Springs fell in love with Wealth. They were married by Joy, and danced shoulder to shoulder with all the other spirits and gods and intelligences who ever were, seen and unseen. Their marriage blessed the earth with an abundance of Life, and The Parents looked on with pride and love.
The Holy Spirit came to Spring and Wealth, tempting them.
There is a work for you to do, He said. He explained the requirements—and the rewards. You can decline, He told them. It is given to you to choose.
Spring and Wealth held each other’s hands and looked deeply into each other’s eyes and agreed to do the work. It would take them apart from each other for a time.
You will be different when you are done, He told them.
We will be better when we are done, said Spring, looking ahead.
Some things don’t change, said Wealth, looking at Spring.
So they accepted the work. Wealth went away with some companions. Spring went away alone. She put off her exploding blossoms and her laughing brooks, her rain and her sunshine, and her crocuses bursting through the earth. The Spirit handed her snow and ice and every other accoutrement of Winter. Spring took them with both hands, but despaired in her heart.
This work is so far from what I have ever done, she said. Are you sure it is meant for me?
Are you sure it is not a part of you already? He asked.
This duty requires gravitas, she said. I am too light to carry it.
The Spirit smiled. Just try, He said. I will help you. Many other Winters have gone before you. Many will come after. It is just for a little while.
Spring felt the truth of His words, and remembered that she had already accepted. If you will help me, she said, I will try.
At first, Winter was too big and too heavy for her to wield effectively. She made a Little Ice Age—Oops—and nearly froze everyone to death.
Steady on, said Wealth, appearing beside her. He was different now, but still her own. He was shadowy and difficult to discern, except perhaps out of the corner of her eye. If you wanted to see me, you could just ask. He smiled—at least, she thought he smiled. What a lot of power you have now.
It is not mine, she replied.
It is yours for now, he said. Now, my duty also calls. He reached out to squeeze her hand, but in her new form, he could not find it. He raised his hand in farewell instead, trying to hide the heartbreak from his face, which was not difficult to do, as she could not see it. He walked out among The People and gathered them up, pale and shivering, and brought them home to the Savior. Well done, she heard him say to each one. Come with me and rest.
She was so lonely without him—without any companions, without her sisters, without her brothers. Winter was a difficult calling.
God had compassion on her. The Spirit sent previous Winters to comfort her.
But what shall I do? She wailed to them. I am killing life, when before I only made it. I am all alone when I was always one petal among many. I cannot do this. I cannot.
The other Winters mingled their cries with hers. To be a Winter is to mourn, and such grief never quite leaves one. But eventually grief gave way to silence and rest, which also come with Winter. Never mind, they told her. It will pass. Rest now. Weren’t you tired? All those flowers? All those babies? Come and rest.
How do you do it? she asked.
It doesn’t matter how we did our duty, they said. You will do it your way. We have every confidence in you. Didn’t The Spirit say He would help?
It was kind advice, but unhelpful. The old Winters left, and she grieved alone again for a time. Occasionally she would catch a glimpse of Wealth at his work, but when she turned to look at him, he was gone. Occasionally Wealth would draw close to her, just to be in her presence again, and find that he could not reach her. So although Wealth had many more companions, he was just as lonely as she.
The Spirit at last came to comfort her Himself. Behold the snowflake¸ He said, gesturing to her creation. Behold the bud on the tree. Who can say which is more beautiful?
It helped Winter to think of her work as art. The Spirit sent Jack Frost to teach her the technique. His form and his duty was like hers, and she was glad not to be alone for a while. The first thing he taught her was how to paint. One stroke of frost was really infinite strokes. The ice spread with each touch of hers, like a tree branching, like the veins of a leaf. So much of Winter was about symmetry, she discovered.
She expanded as she embraced her calling. Winter wasn’t just art, but music, too. The chaos of her power was actually a complex and growing symphony. Soon she discovered the order of science and logic inherent in her being, and the beauty of mathematics. It was all there. She’d never seen it in herself before. She looked at it, and herself, and called it good.
Soon, Winter found that while her strength was in stillness and silence, there was room for laughter as well. Ice tinkled on the bare trees. The pale morning sun glittered on fresh powder. Water burbled along deep beneath the ice. The joy spilled out of her. She didn’t think it was possible.
Winter never laughed before, The Spirit told her.
The only thing marring her joy was her loneliness. She no longer wished for release, nor did she waste her days swirling around at every shadow, hoping it was Wealth. She saw him from time to time, as though from across a far field. She wasn’t even sure it was him—except, sometimes he knew she was there, too. He would turn towards her every time and raise his hand in greeting.
I love you, he said, far away. I miss you. I’ll see you soon.
She sent her winds all around him in reply, but Winter did not affect spirits the same way. Still, she thought he understood.
The Spirit came to her again with a new skill for her to learn, an unusual skill for Winter or any Season. Watch The People, He said. You were like them, once, or you will be like them, soon.
So she watched The People. They shone like little lights in the darkness. Some of them saw her. Some of them prayed to her, even. Most of them feared her. They misunderstood Winter just as she had. She tried to teach them. She brought them renewal, rest, and peace. She made them slow down and stop. She made them cling together. Their lights grew brighter, and she cherished them.
One day, a very direct assignment arrived, even more unusual than the last. This mortal will ask you something—by His name, not yours. The Spirit showed her the woman’s face, elderly and luminous with faith. You may do whatever she asks.
It was May, and she tarried overlong, hoping to greet her sister in passing. The People did seem to be distressed about it, but Winter was not concerned. Spring would arrive soon, and Winter would take her storms elsewhere for a time. Normally she had leave to come and go as she pleased, within certain parameters. Prayer was not on her list of duties—in fact, was not allowed to be one of her duties. All the prayers she received, she redirected to those with power to answer them. She was not quite sure she knew how to hear a prayer properly, much less respond to it.
She found the woman and listened carefully, but for a long time, she heard only tepid, inchoate worry—not from the woman, but from The People around her. Winter couldn’t do anything with worry. The woman spoke to The People around her, and as she spoke, their lights blazed brighter and brighter. Other spirits joined Winter as the woman spoke, ready to fulfill their own assignments. A Great Change was coming.
The woman stood on a boat on the Erie Canal. The ice was thick and high and blocked their passage. She said, at last, “And now, brethren and sisters, if you will, all of you, raise your desires to heaven that the ice may give way before us and we be set at liberty to go on our way, as sure as the Lord lives it shall be done.”
It burned Winter at first, all that light flaming before her. She took their fervency and let it pass through her, cleansing her, and turned it towards her beautiful ice. It cracked under the heat of their faith. It was not a symmetrical break, but it was still beautiful. Winter expanded again.
She watched The People closely after that, all their little comings and goings. She remembered how The Spirit had told her she was like them, or would be. She studied them closely, looking for similarities. It was a marvelous thing to be mortal. Everything was so important. They had no sense of Time. They cared so much about the smallest things. They were mighty and spoke with authority—Winter was not the only spirit they commanded—but they were so small and so brief.
Winter found herself looking for ways to aid them, in her limited scope. Her duty was not really to make things easier for them. She froze the water when they needed to cross, and let it melt and flood when they needed space. She brought blizzards to bear down on their enemies, and sunshine to guide their escape. She learned to love them. Their joys became her joys. Their concerns became her concerns. She expanded again.
This is charity, The Spirit said. The pure love of Christ, most desirable above all things.
And most joyous to my soul, Winter said. I did not know love like this as Spring.
She felt a little disloyal saying so. She did not mean to slight the love she had for her sisters or her husband. But she had been small then, and loved in a small way. In learning to love The People, she learned to love everyone more.
You should tell him so when next you see him, The Spirit told her. It will probably be soon.
At first Winter thought she would be released soon, and the wrongness of it twisted her around. She raged across the Plains, unwilling to give up her duty yet.
Peace, the Lord Himself quieted her. It is not your time. But look, and do your duty.
She looked and beheld first her husband, sliding up beside her from the corner of her eye. She squealed with delight and spun a snow squall around him as an embrace. He smiled—she thought—and held out his arms as though to embrace the sky. He carried a pile of fluffy blankets with him.
Are you cold? she asked. Will you rest here?
He shook his head and pointed at The People. She had not noticed them struggling through her snow. For them, he said.
Blow as hard as you can, The Spirit said. Bring the might of Winter to bear down on this place.
Her heart quailed within her. But I love them, Winter said. They cannot withstand my might. They are too fragile.
So were you, once upon a time, said The Spirit.
It is His plan, Death said. She recognized him now that she understood The People, and could name his new role. They were told the way would be dangerous. They wanted to come anyway.
You’re here to collect them? she said.
Only a few, Death said. We’re here to help them move along, wherever their path lies.
Winter looked around and saw Death’s many companions standing around The People. Some were pale shades, like himself. Others were strong, with heavy, bright wings. A Great Work was to be done.
It will teach them what their faith is worth, said the Lord. And I can protect My Own People.
Winter dared not argue with Him, Best Friend and Kindest Master. She gathered her mighty winds and unleashed them on The People. She painted their brows and lashes with frost. She turned their precious toes blue, then black. She snatched their shawls and scarves away. She found the holes in their clothes and stabbed with icy fingers. She buried them in snow, drift after drift. Still The People continued forward. They left red footprints behind them. She froze their bloody path.
Her husband moved in and out of the crowd. He caught The People as they stumbled. He tapped them on the shoulder as they pushed their carts. He shook their shoulders as they slept. This way, he beckoned. He wrapped each person in a blanket and embraced them. You’ve done well, he said to them. He held the children’s hands. A few, he carried in his arms. He handed them off to the Savior, who stood just out of Winter’s sight. Winter could almost weep at the tenderness of her husband. He had always been kind, but his kindness was deeper and more serious now. He had grown, just as she had. So she knew that though they were different, as promised, they had not grown too different from each other.
Death’s companions stood alongside The People, pulling or pushing their carts beside them. One valiant messenger with an especially strong back lifted the cart and its People and flew it across the top of the snow. The People tried to sing even as Winter snatched their breath away. “All is well,” they sang. “Push along,” they sang. One pale companion went from person to person, tapping their chests. When he did this, a light blossomed within them, and they found the strength to sing more loudly and pull harder. When The People’s voices quavered, the companions sang out loudly beside them. When The People were quiet, the companions whispered words of encouragement to them: Help is coming. Almost there. Keep going.
Winter, exhausted, was grateful when permission to abate was given. She was quite spent, and it was early in the season yet. Other People tromped through the snow and picked up where Death and his companions left off. They wrapped their kin in blankets as he had done. They fed the starvelings. They carried the weak ones. Death stood a while with Winter and watched The People care for their own. The other messengers faded away, their work complete for the time being.
Winter found a place of stillness within herself, and found she could shiver herself into a form more familiar to her husband. He, likewise, seemed a little more solid than he had before.
What a beautiful Winter, he said, moving as though to brush a lock of hair out of her face. He could not quite manage it, but she leaned into the gesture anyway.
Winter smiled back at him and moved her hand as though to cover his. I have missed you, she said. She found his eyes. They were different now, but still his. He was yet himself.
Every moment, he said, in or outside of time, would be improved by your presence.
They stood there together for a span, embracing and yet not, simply basking in each other’s presence.
Soon, he said, beginning to fade.
Soon, she said. An act of faith.
Not long thereafter, she felt the calling begin to detach from her, bit by bit. She felt herself burning out, though she resisted as best she could. She loved The People. She loved her snow. She loved the frozen cold. Her winters became weepy—rainy and wet when they ought to have been snowy. There was less and less of her to go around. If pressed, she might confess to feeling tired. She tried to hold in her heart all that it meant to be Winter—the grief, the beauty, the joy, the growth.
When she saw that a new Death had been sustained, she knew her time was done. A new Winter was called—a passionate spirit with a Summer soul. Summer did not think she was right for the job. It is too difficult, too still. But Winter saw the potential in her. She could even see some of the paths along which Summer would expand, as she herself had expanded.
What can I do? wailed the new Winter.
I will always be here for you, said Winter, But you do not need me. Whatever strength you have is all Winter needs.
It was perhaps unhelpful, but it was true.
She looked across the frozen plain to see Generosity waiting for her. She let go of Winter, and embraced him as Peace. And they were never parted again.
Susan Jeffers received her B.A. in English from BYU and her M.A. in English from Abilene Christian University. Her work has appeared in Segullah, BYU Studies Quarterly, and Timeless Tales Magazine. She is the author of Arda Inhabited: Environmental Relationships in The Lord of the Rings. She spends her time writing and teaching in southern Maryland with her family and a succession of ill-tempered betta fish.
