Trees, bent by the constant east wind, grow curving out of the ground. They were planted only ten years ago to serve as way markers along the North Road. The fields are covered in snow, which has been falling heavily since midmorning. The first frost came early this year, and the first snow was close behind. Scarcely a week has past, and any sign of summer has been destroyed. Grass lies brown beneath the snow; trees are barren; the birds have long since flown south.
The snow falls upon a group of huddled figures on the road. Bundled in coats, faces masked by scarves, they are returning to their village. One stops and peers through the snow behind them for any sign of movement. Another pulls her gently along, but she resists. Her son is out there. She must find him; he is only a child. The others urge her along. They have been searching all day, and they must get home before nightfall. There is nothing more they can do. She wearily submits, but she pauses to lay a hand upon the trunk of each tree as she walks past, and sends out a prayer along the wind: See this tree, she prays. Follow it home.
The boy watches the group walk farther away. He is, indeed, only a child, having only five years since his birth. As many children at that age, he feels as though he is much older than he is treated, but whether this is the case remains to be seen. More importantly for the mother, perhaps, is that he is her only child, and likely to be so for a while. The father died from an illness early last spring, and none of the eligible men of the village have been eager to take his place.
He stands, shrouded in falling snow, invisible to those who have now stopped searching for him. He is not cold, although he wears only his breeches and thin shirt. He does not question this, it is merely true, and he accepts it as such. In fact, he does not question many of the events of the day. Sometime before noon, he heard a voice. His mother did not seem to hear the voice, but this was not strange. Mother often could not hear the most interesting sounds that the boy discovered. The voice seemed to be coming from behind the house, so the boy quietly left the kitchen, where his mother was putting their midday meal together, and sought out the source of the voice.
He could not see anyone, but the boy could hear the voice coming from a little ways off. The voice beckoned him to follow it away from the village, and into the falling snow. The boy would not have followed: his mother had strictly forbidden him from leaving the village without her, and he had no reason to disobey her. However, the voice knew the boy’s name—his true name, which only his parents and himself knew, not the name by which his village knew him—and so the boy trusted the voice and followed it.
The voice led him into the fields. When the boy shivered at the falling snow, the voice simply said, You are not cold, and it was true. When the mother realized her son was missing, the village formed search parties to track down the boy, but the voice said, They cannot see you.
As the mother touches the trees along the road, the boy hears her plea on the wind, but cannot respond. He knows that he will not return to his village that year or the next, which is as far into the future a child of five can grasp, and he feels old.
The next day, there is no search party. The snow has not let up, and the wind has increased to blizzard conditions. The villagers hole up in their houses. They are convinced that if the boy survived the night, then he will survive the winter, and if he did not survive the night, then it makes no difference. The mother walks the road alone, walking into the wind as far as she dares, then returning home by following the trees’ bent tops. She can barely see the next tree, and still she hopes that she will find her son. She does not. Her son is gone. She returns home, numb from grief and the cold, but on the way she rests a hand upon each tree: See this tree. Follow it home.
The boy has followed the voice into a city. His stomach rumbles, and the voice leads him to a house, telling him, They will feed you. They will not ask questions. It is as the voice says. The owners of the house give the boy all he can eat and pack a bag for him to take without a word as to why a boy of five is traveling alone. The boy eats, takes the bag, and leaves, following the voice.
Months pass, and the built-up snow finally melts. The birds return; the grass turns green; the trees sprout leaves again. There is no sign of the boy. The woman has been labeled “cursed” for losing both her husband and only son in the span of a single year. The villagers, superstitious as they may be, are kind and do not shun the woman. None will now take her as wife, but she remains friend to many.
The boy never questions the voice, which always speaks truth and keeps him warm and fed. When he outgrows his clothes, the voice directs him to a place where clothes will be provided to him. Alone but for the voice that only he can hear, provided for by strangers who don’t ask questions, the boy travels the world.
The first frost comes time and again. To the trees, a mere breath has past and it is ten years to the day that the boy heard the voice and disappeared. The woman has been in the city, and as she walks slowly back to the village, snow begins falling gently. As is her custom, she lays a hand on every tree as she passes: See this tree. Follow it home.
As she nears her home, she stops short. A thin tendril of smoke winds from her chimney. Her windows are lit from within. The snow falls more heavily around her, and the woman shakes herself into action. She walks directly to her house and opens the door. A young man crouches in front of the fire, warming his hands, and turns to view the woman as she enters her house.
“Ma?”
The woman peers at him, a tear jumping to her eye. It is her boy. “Why did you leave?” she asks, embracing him.
“The wind called me by name.”
