Outside
the wind howled, whipping snow so fast the temperature had dropped to
-70 below zero. There were no wolves howling in the distance, no foxes
slinking through the quite village, not on this night it was far too
cold, there was only the sound of the whipping wind and snow.
Everything else was all resting safely in dens or under the small
wooden house. The house which creaked with protest as the children
listened intently to the old lady tell them ancient stories, stories
which made them squeal in fear at the ghosts which would steal thumbs
or the little people who would come down from the northern lights to
take them away to the frozen land in the sky. This is not simply a
thought for me, rather it’s a moment in time. I was there, I recall
hunting for ghosts and fairy like creatures on the frozen tundra in the
winter and for blackfish in the swamps and bogs in the summer. I recall
listening to my elders tell stories and warn me about the dangers of
graveyards and other haunted places. So far as I know many of these
stories are not written down, at least I haven’t found them. Rather
they are the tales of my childhood. Some of them are likely very old
but others are newer, additional stories created for the modern and
changing world.
