Winter Solstice

The night she was conceived, a faint sliver of light from the new moon travelled the sky. The night she was born, the moon was full and fat, a bright reddish harvest moon. The symbolism had been explained to death when she was still a small child.

Tied to the moon from birth, she was less concerned with the sun. When others mourned the last setting of the sun behind the mountains at midwinter, she remained calm. It would return a few days later.

So she was surprised when that year she was chosen to fetch back the light. Early in the morning they woke her up, and out into the dark and cold she was summoned, where the ritual play was carried out: There was no light in the village, someone had to go to the dragon’s cave and bring back fire, or the sun would never return. Would she be the brave soul?

She set out with a wry smile at the dramatic farewells. It was less than a mile to the cave, the provisions were unnecessary. A short walk later, she was there. She smelled the smoke from the entrance, heard the soft crackling as she stepped inside the big cave, and could just make out the large shape softly lit against the darkness.

Walking towards it, she saw the small fire burning under the belly of the stylised stone dragon, smoke flowing out its nostrils. She had never been party to this side of the ritual before, and briefly wondered who had snuck down earlier and lit the fire. She approached the stone beast head on, and now saw the fire through its holes-for-eyes, bright and flickering in one, softer in the other. Suddenly she understood. They were the sun and the moon, and the fire behind them was one.

She dutifully lit a torch from the dragon fire and carried it back to the village, so lost in thought that she was startled by the crowd that warmly greeted her, the ritual complete. A few days later, she rejoiced with the rest as the sun returned, clearing the mountains briefly for the first time in nearly a week. The light would grow day by day.

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