"Changing Planes" is a collection of short stories by Ursula Le Guin. In the story "The Seasons of the Ansarac," she tells of the Ansarac people in whose world the year lasts twenty-four Earth years. This world has two inhabitable regions, a southern desert and a northern hill country. The Ansarac migrate between these two regions. When they migrate south at the end of their summer, the old people are left behind. This is the letter an old Ansar leaves for his family. All rights remain with Ursula Le Guin.
To my beloved children and grandchildren
When you find this letter, I will be dead. Do not look for my body. I intend to go up into the mountains, as far as my feet will still carry me, and await the end there among the splendour of the ice and snow. There is a breath-taking beauty - but more of that later.
Grandmama died a while ago. I did not mark the time, because time has become meaningless to me now. She died when the last leaves still clung to the trees and the ground was still soft. I buried her in the garden, under the apple tree. You will find the spot, I have marked it with a stone. She told me to give this last message to you: that she loves you all very much and wishes you as much happiness in life as she has known.
It has been lonely here since she died. Some neighbours are still alive; Kemirri over by the river keeps going strong and we see each other from time to time, and Rikku comes round as often as he can. But many are gone now, and others are too weak to walk from one house to another. It's a sad thing, this losing of our strength. After a lifetime of walking and making, to find our hands and legs becoming useless…
But I do not want to trouble you with gloomy thoughts. I want to speak about the beauty I have come to know, the beauty that outshines the hardship we now suffer. We have all heard the stories of autumn and winter, the unimaginable things that happen in the North once the sun draws the younger people to the South. Words, though, are insufficient. When you see these things for real, they are so strange, so new, that it takes you a while to recognise them for what they are. When the trees first began to change colour, we thought that a terrible disease had befallen them and we feared for you, feared that you might return to a land that was dead and barren. Eventually, though, we understood that this was the autumn change we had heard about in the old stories. What is it like, I feel unable to describe fully, but I will try to give you some idea. Imagine the colour of the leaves changed, hue by hue, from green into shades of yellow and orange, red and brown. Some trees sport one colour only, others boast a patchy coat of many colours. Looking at the hillside across from our house, the one that a uniform green covered all summer, we suddenly saw what looked like one of the quilted blankets your Grandmama used to make. A colourful blanket big enough to stretch across the whole horizon! It was glorious.
This glory lasted for some time, though looking back it seems too short a span. I would have loved to enjoy it longer. By and by, the leaves fell, sometimes gently drifting down in the same way the petals fall in spring, sometimes blown away by the strong winds that shook the trees more and more often as the year drew to a close. Gusts would shepherd them into hollows and corners, or drive them in a wild run across the meadows. Suddenly there was a different smell in the air, an earthy smell full of yearning. Rains came, not like the sweet, soft rains of summer, but boisterous rains, drumming on the roofs of the houses, pelting anyone who ventured outdoors. It was getting colder.
Ah, the cold! How can I explain the cold to you? Do you remember the time we went into the mountains and found that still turquoise lake fed by a stream coming down from the high grounds? Do you remember how, when we shed our clothes and jumped in with glee, we gasped and shuddered at the sudden chill that embraced us? Now imagine that this chill was not in the water, imagine that you couldn't simply climb out and enjoy the gentle sunshine again. Imagine the same chill in the air, waiting for you every time you step out of the house. Indoors it was getting colder, too. One day we looked at each other and said, we cannot even remember what it feels like to be warm. It was around this time that Grandmama laid down and passed away.
I thought I would follow her swiftly, but it seems that I cling to life with more tenacity. The days went by, ever shortening, ever darker, and I carried on. One morning I awoke to a strange glow from the window. It was still dark, but a pallid shine seemed to illuminate the world outside, though it was not a full moon. I looked and found the land changed. A thick layer of white covered the garden, the fence and all the land beyond. The trees looked as if they had been painted with whipped cream. And yet this cover had a different quality: it sparkled and reflected the starlight. This, I realised, was the snow.
I opened the door to see this wonder up close, and I was startled when I found the snow knee-high and blocking my path. I scooped some of it up in my hand and it began to melt on my palm. It was so cold that it left my skin red and tingly. The air smelled of tin. That morning I worked hard clearing the path with a shovel, and when I reached the garden gate, I saw how futile my efforts had been, because the snow stretched all the way between my house and Kemerri's, and though I could see him and he waved to me, there was no way that we could clear away all the snow between us. And then it began to fall again, in thick, feathery flakes, silently, oh so silently settling on the trees and the ground and on me.
I returned to the house that day in despair, because I felt trapped and abandoned. I had not yet expected never to speak to a living being again. Still, I stood by the window and watched the snow falling, and it soothed my aching mind. Later, many days later I found that a strong crust formed on the snow and I could walk on it and make my way to Kemirri's house. We did not speak much, but we found comfort in each other's presence. And so we have continued since, trying to keep warm, trying to keep up our spirits, sharing the last of the food.
What the snow looks like when the winter sun shines on it and makes every tiny flake glitter, I cannot begin to describe. One day, you might see it for yourself. You might see the trees turned into sparkling jewels. You might see the patterns the frost makes on the windows. You might see the ice on the lake, a glassy shell that allows you to walk on the water. You might see the glaring white summits of the mountains crisply outlined against a deep blue sky. Do not be afraid of what awaits you at the end of your lives. There is darkness and sorrow, but there is also beauty and peace.
I will leave this house now, the house that has been my home for four seasons of our people. Here I was a child, here I courted Grandmama and saw our children born, here I spent the third, the quiet and restful summer and here I returned after my last southern season. Now it is time for me to let go of life. I feel my strength waning. I will give what little food I have left to my neighbours and will follow the path, as best I can make it out under the snow, into the mountains. Perhaps I will find that turquoise lake again and see it in its winter garb, or perhaps I will perish before I reach it.
I will not say, don't cry, because tears of love are never wasted. I cried when I found my mother and father lifeless, huddled together in the corner of their room, and had I not cried, I would be ashamed of the hardness of my heart. So cry, and let your tears soothe you, but know this: I am at peace. I know darkness is coming to claim me and I am ready to go. I have drunk the cup of life to the last drop. My love for you all has lasted to the end.