Snowy
A story by Arcturus Maple
The wind buffeted against the windows, making them creak. The snow swirled and whisked across the glass, but could not enter. It was cold out there. It was completely inconceivable that anyone or anything could survive in that blizzard. Even the trees paid testament to this, wrapped in sheets of ice, able to groan in the wind only a little.
If you were to peer through that window, what you'd see was a scarlet sitting room filled with the soft, warm glow of a fireplace. It was home enough that the very sight of it warmed the soul. And sitting on the sofa, looking out on the cold, star-streaked darkness was a young man with brilliant green eyes. He was alone at the moment, though the young woman in the next room was pouring tea for them both. In the next few moments he would smell the peppermint, turn to see her cross the threshold, and smile lovingly. But for just this one moment, it was the snow outside which held his attention. He was remembering a time not so long ago when he had seen the snow dance.
He turned at the smell of peppermint, saw her cross the threshold of the open door, and smiled at her. Her smile was sunshine in that all-enveloping darkness. It was her that made him warm, not the fire. She set the teacups on the table and herself beside him in the dim glow of the fire. It was him that shielded her from the cold, not the walls. The Yule log flickered. She took a short length of elm from the rack and set it in the coals. She settled back into his arms and they sat looking at that fire for a long while.
At a sudden snap, he turned to look at the window. On the other side was something which held him transfixed. Two great yellow eyes looked back at him from under icy brows. He could say nothing, do nothing. She sat up, turned to see what he did. She stood. In a flash she was at the window, undoing the latch. It snapped free and in a flutter of wings and snow, the owl had perched itself on the mantle. She shut the window tight and turned. They both watched the snowy owl shake itself and preen. No one spoke. It was as if a spell had settled on them.
The owl gave a low hoot and hopped down to the woodpile, to the edge of the fire. The young man watched as it spread its wings as a person might hands before the flames. The color of the bird was white, through and through. Beak to tail, all her feathers were white. This was a creature which danced in the snow, much as another owl he remembered. He was conflicted. It was too like his old companion. She had been the only one who had been with him always for six years.
And now his beloved watched him watch the owl and what she saw was two old friends reuniting after a long separation. She went to fetch the biscuits and, maybe, a little bit of sausage for their guest.