The day had been lively, even noisy – brightly-coloured cloth strewn over every surface that would support it, children laughing and playing, youth and adults playing at all manner of competitions. The sun was warm, the breeze was mild, and the hills were green again after the winter’s chill. What wasn’t to celebrate?

Now the fires were lit, the sun was sinking under the mountains to the west, and the sky was darkening; it was time for the games to be set aside, time for the energy to settle down. The people gathered around the bonfire, mothers gathering their children close, and one by one, chattering voices fell silent.

When all that remained was the hiss and crackle of the fire, the wise woman emerged from her hut.

The edges of her shawl fluttered in the light evening breeze as she advanced slowly towards the fire, tugging on the beaded tassels of her herb pouch. Her fingers dipped into the mouth of the pouch, emerged with a generous pinch of dried leaves, and scattered them over the fire, lending an array of new scents to the smoke.

And then she mounted the dais, placing her hands on the lectern and looking over the assembly. All the people looked back attentively, focused on this woman who was mother to several and grandmother to many, but still strong and vital.

“My people,” she called, “I thank you all for coming tonight.

“Winter was hard this year, but we kept together even in the bitterest nights, and now they are behind us, and the sun is growing strong again. Tomorrow, days will again be longer than nights, and spring will be truly upon us.

“This year, we’ve been fortunate, and the winter claimed no lives. But still I ask you now, here around this fire, to think of the things people have done to help you to this point, and to remember their sacrifice always.”

For a few moments she fell silent, letting the fire again dominate the proceedings; then, softly but clearly, she asked, “Who will start?”

The first to step was a boy of nine or so, who said, in an uncertain but clear voice, “I remember the day there was a big ice storm, and my Da and I had to spend the day up in a cave in the hills because we couldn’t get home before the storm. We had no food, and we were both cold and hungry when we finally got back, and Adren saw us come back, and took us into his house, and gave us the roast pig he’d cooked for himself.” A ways around the fire, fair-haired Adren smiled at the boy, and he in turn smiled back.

It was the first, but it was far from the last. Almost everyone, young and old, had at least one tale told about them, some deed that was committed to the collective memory of the people. And when the last tale had been recited and all eyes turned back to the wise woman, she said, “I remember when many of you were born. I remember the smiles you’ve given me and each other. And I will always remember these kindnesses you’ve spoken of today.”

Bending down, she took up one of the split logs that had been set beside the fire. “Winter is behind us now. Let it be so, as the fire welcomes the spring. But never forget what you have all done for one another.” And with that, she threw the night’s first log onto the fire.