Yiela Caral
An old solitary oak once stood in an endless meadow. For miles upon miles, from horizon to horizon, she saw no other tree stretching its branches to the cerulean sky. She was alone, amidst a sea of lush green. Day turned to night, and Summer turned to Winter, and she endured without company. Then on year, as the frost thawed and Spring arrived, she was no longer alone. Tiny saplings began to push through the grass. Rife with youthful excitement, they chattered and sang, delighting in the golden sun pouring down upon their fledgling leaves. She gazed upon them with wonder; they were so much like her yet entirely different. Their trunks were more slender than most of her branches, and their roots only tickled the surface of the soil. Countless nests and hives bustled within her canopy, whereas the saplings rejoiced whenever a curious butterfly landed on their bark. They were strange, but the company was welcome.
Spring came and went, as did Summer. As Autumn arrived, the young trees were amazed to see their leaves change from emerald green to dark yellow, but they would not be so joyous about what came next. Winter swept over the land like a plague. Cold winds brought snow which began to clamber up the quivering sapling's trunks. They had lost their leaves many weeks before, and had lamented the injustice to all who would hear. To the old oak, the frigid chill was nothing new. It was a time of hardship, but one she knew she could endure. However, the wailing of the saplings was something new.
They declared that this must be the worse thing to have ever happened, and alleging that perhaps the world was ending. Day and night, the saplings catastrophised, singing a mournful dirge to the tune of the howling gales. Quickly, she grew weary of their naïve pessimism. Her mind drifted back to Winters she had suffered alone, where the snow had piled higher, the hail had lashed harder, and the wind had screamed louder. This year was mild in comparison. For a moment, she wanted to barrage the young saplings with such tales. She wanted to show them how petulant and pathetic they were for whining about such a minor inconvenience. The temptation to laud her superiority and gloat was hard to resist. Yet her many years had made her wise. She buried this unkind desire within herself and instead offered different remarks.
"Do not fret, I have seen this before. It will pass in due time. These days will be hard but they will make you strong. When the wind crashes into you, bend with its gale or you shall break. When the snow climbs high, think of the sun. It will soon return."
With her guidance, the saplings survived the Winter, and the next one, and many more. She watched as they grew into mighty oaks themselves where they no longer needed her wisdom to endure the cold. As they grew taller, the once lonely oak felt Winter become easier. When the pounding gales screamed, the other oaks would shield her from the assault, and when the cold bit into her bark, they would whisper warm thoughts of Summer to soothe her pain. Together, they could survive anything.
Aphera nodded with understanding. The fable's meaning was clear, but it seemed too many folk had never heard its message. Only a few hours prior she had overheard an old curmudgeon berating some children with tales of how he had survived the Century of Chaos, and that youngsters these days would never know such turmoil. His words were empty. She knew that he had barely learned to walk by the end of that dreadful era, but he spoke as if he had fought on the frontlines. For a moment she had considered reminding him of this detail, but she elected against it: if he had not learned humility after three centuries then her efforts would be futile. Aphera cradled a small cup of herbal tea in her palms and stared into its warmth. Tiny leaves swirled like starlings in flight. Her eyes returned to the woman before her. Cloaked in a heavy fur blanket sat the Yiela Caral. Her fifth century drew near. The lines across her face were like trenches, her skin had faded several shades lighter, and the few strands of hair that poked out from beneath her shawl were wispy and grey. Hundreds of years had left her with an unshakable chill in her bones. Despite her frailty, however, her eyes were wells of knowledge.
"What was the harshest Winter you ever saw, grandmother?" Aphera asked. The Yiela Caral was not her grandmother by blood, but she was grandmother to all.
"What do you believe was my harshest Winter?" The elder responded softly, a reassuring tone indicating that it was not a poor question to ask.
"I would assume during the Century of Chaos. Everyone who remembers it does not remember it fondly." Aphera said, glancing back at the Yiela Caral to try and discern if she was correct.
"A reasonable assumption, but incorrect." Her voice held no semblance of admonishment. "Those Winters were harrowing, but I knew they would end."
"So it must have been a Winter you thought would never end?" Aphera began to comb her mind in search of another event that would somehow be more dire than that horrific era, but she could not find an answer. "Forgive me, I cannot fathom a Winter that might have seemed endless."
The Yiela Caral did not speak. She simply raise a questioning eyebrow, prompting Aphera to think harder. At first, she delved into the deepest depths of her mind in search of other awful events that perhaps only survived in living memory through the senior Yiela Caral: The Feast of Fangs, the Fall of the Moon Glade, the Invasion of the Enmanari. The Enmanari's invasion endured and the Moon Glade was still lost to the Blightlands, but neither seemed right. Nor could it be the Feast of Fangs; it was only a footnote in their people's history. Then, the wisdom that she had received only moments ago returned to her. There was not just one moral to the story.
"It was your first Winter." Aphera asserted confidently. "At the time, you did not know that Summer would return, but now you know that it always shall.
"You are a fast learner." The Yiela Caral's eyes glowed with genuine pride in her student.
"If you do not mind me asking, what was your first Winter?" Aphera questioned.
"A Winter many others have also endured. I lost my childhood dog to old age. I had named him Barky, for I was a very creative child." She said with a self-deprecating grin. "I thought I would be sad forever. Night after night I would weep over my dear lost friend and, no matter what anyone did, I was inconsolable." She gently shook her head. "But then, one night, he came to meet me in my dreams. We ran across an endless meadow, playing all the games we used to play, until he got tired and fell asleep in my lap. It was his way of telling me that Summer would come back."
"That is very sweet, grandmother." Aphera spoke with a sympathetic smile.
The Yiela Caral returned the smile, but did not speak. Instead, she took a sip from her tea and then stared knowingly at Aphera. She knew that her student harboured another question. Eventually, Aphera's curiosity overcame her reluctance.
"What if a Winter does not end?" She whispered.
"All Winters shall end, dear. Some last days, some last years, but all will end."
"But how long can they last before they become endless?"
"A minute short of forever."
"Surely that might as well be endless?"
"Perhaps. But if you want Winter to end, you must first find Spring."
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