Tik Tik's Winter Tales 3
Story by TikTikKobold on SoFurry
In a cold winter night, Blair Garten imparts some spiritual wisdom.
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Festivals are essential for all who live in this world. In fact, in such festive surroundings, many of our stories are centered around here in this group of tales and in the world at large. Whether factual or fiction, they all speak of some importance in our lives: surviving the harsh realities of the cold.
Some warmest and happiest tales come to paint over the darkest, coldest, and deadest times.
Even so, the specter looms over us all, does it not? It constantly reminds us of things that were or will be gone. At the same time, we so joyously appreciate what we have and the new that emerges from the darkness, much like what we see in this chapter, dear reader.
—
A cry fills the hearth and home, long and scared, ushered out of cozy darkness and into the brightness of the shadowy flame.
Soon, the screaming being is wrapped tightly, given a semblance of the warmth and security it had only known, and brought to the breast of its once-only home.
The cow woman sighs happily as her new calf suckles upon her breast, cradling her child. Meanwhile, her midwife continues to tend to the rest of the duties, looking to the woman's watchful eye, young in years but old in wisdom, standing at the corner.
The woman, the priestess, nods in approval as the final rituals are done, lifting the gift of their goddess, the physical connection between mother and child, and severing it so that the spiritual connection may commence.
Time passed, and the midwife and the priestess stepped outside, leaving the cabin and walking in the cold nighttime together, the midwife shuddering.
“You done did good,” the priestess says, patting the midwife on the back. “Not bad at all for yer first time, ah reckon.”
“T… thank you, Mother Blair,” the midwife says, bowing her head. “I owe it all to your teaching.”
“Shucks, ah weren’t doin’ nothin’ the old priestess wouldn’t ask of me. But ya need to wash up. Come on over!”
The steam in the bathing cabin fills the room, and the bountiful water flowing from the mouth of the statue depicting the ancient goddess of fertility falls warmly down into this greenhouse, making a river to continue cultivation throughout the coldest months of the year. Blair steps naked through this garden, leading the midwife underneath the goddess’s gaze and blessing.
The midwife wraps her arms around herself, shuddering as the final vestigates of cold finally leave her, and the work of midwifery flows away from her form.
The priestess stands behind her, rubbing her shoulders, running her hands through her hair, gently helping the cleansing process.
“Priestess…” the midwife asks, biting her lip. “The fact you teach me… does it mean you will leave us soon?”
Blair shrugs. “Shucks, I don’t rightfully know. Our great Mother Xasandra was once forgotten but now is everywhere worldwide. It only makes sense ah might be called to grow her gardens elsewhere.”
The midwife places her hand on the hand on her shoulder, sighing. “But, you’ve always been here. Ever since I can remember.”
“And I weren’t nothing but a sprout back that far back.”
“But you were always so much more mature.”
“You scared of maturity?”
“Huh?”
Blair spins her around, holding her shoulders firmly. “Just like the seasons change, life changes, too. It may not exactly be predictable, but neither is Xasandra’s nature. Storms, droughts, winters, and’ all sorts ‘of other things get in the way of the sunshine and happiness that make life thrive. If’n something unexpected happens, it's better to have some grain in the silo than to be empty when famine time comes.”
“I suppose.”
“Hey, even if I go somewhere, this will always be my home and people. You got that? Besides, it is a happy time. You helped bring a new life into the world. Ain’t ya excited for that?”
“Y-yeah, a little. Praise Xasandra, it went well.”
“Yer darn tootin’!” Blair extols, stepping away from the manufactured waterfall. “Now, then, once ya get yourself nice n’ dried off, we gotta get a feast goin’ for the new mother so she can make some milk for her calf n all!”
“You’re right,” the midwife says, stepping off with her priestess, clasping her hand. “Let’s enjoy it for the time we have together, for however long that is.”
—
What is this, dear reader? Nothing to be gleaned from this story except from the fluff of the warm and fuzziness? But of course? We expect and share these delightful times in these dark and dreary times. These tiny pinpricks of life in the darkness that we grasp for and bring close to our hearts. Whether it be gardens or stories or the love of others, the warmth of celebration and ritual brings us joy when we claim that there is none to have.
Where are you reading this? Are you snug and cozy, as I had said earlier? Or, are you in the sweltering heat, the unbearable sun burning down upon you? Or, are you in some other clime that I do not know? How strange it is that these words can travel far beyond their original destinations and times, no matter what the intention and no matter the lifespan of the writer.
Oh, but you want another story, do you?
And you want something with a bit more excitement to it? More catharsis? More action?
You may get that. Or perhaps you shall endure the fluff once more? Turn the page, metaphorical or actual, and find out! I’m sure you’ll be intrigued no matter what you find on the other side. That is, after all, the fun of reading, isn’t it?