"When winter comes, where do the forest folk go?"

     The night air carried a storm and a stranger. 

     The storm came from the North and brought with it thick, dark clouds that hung low about the trees, the power of them almost tangible in the air. The temperature dropped steadily with the sun, and just as the last light of sunset glittered away, snow began to fall.

     The winter came like a dam breaking. By morning, the land was painted white. The snow had slowed to a gentle dusting, but still fell steadily. All around the valley, people gathered around their fireplaces and wrapped themselves in blankets, resolving to stay inside where it was warm.

     Outside in the bitter cold, everything was still. The snow fell undisturbed. Every living thing was hidden away for the season.

     All except one.

     The lanterns in the windows of Quincey’s Tavern were lit, bathing the snow in a soft orange glow. The tavern was open, as always, but the only patrons were those whose homes would not hold warmth, so they took shelter in the well-heated tavern. 

     The tavernkeeper, a young man named Quincey, looked up from the drink he was pouring. Did he hear something outside? Who would be out in this weather? A moment later, the door opened. The biting wind infiltrated the room suddenly, before the door was closed again. Quincey knew everyone in the village, and knew that the man standing in the entry was not one of them. He was not like anyone the people in the tavern had ever seen. He was the average height of a man, and his muscles were toned with hard work. His skin was almond, spotted with freckles, and as worn as leather. He wore no shoes- which worried Quincey- and his clothes looked hand-woven with twisted strands of wool. Somehow, The Stranger looked young and old at the same time: he was fit and carried himself with youthful energy, but his face showed years of experience. He looked wise, happy, kind, and somehow… ethereal. He looked like the dancing reflection of water on a wall, the shadows of a fire, a fleeting glint of light in a stream as a silverfish swam past. It was as if eyes could not hold him unless he wanted them to.

     He stood, right inside the room, and took off his straw hat, revealing a mane of brown hair that curled around his forehead, and placed it over his chest. 

“Come in.” The tavernkeeper greeted. “I’m Quincey. What can I get for you?” 

The Stranger looked around, his features showing slight concern, if not confusion. “Nach labhair thu mo chainnt?” He said softly, his voice as gentle and as powerful as an autumn breeze. 

Quincey put his hands out in a shrug. “I’m sorry, I don’t speak that.” He looked around. “Does anyone understand?” The patrons all shook their heads. 

“Chan fheum mi ach fasgadh.” The Stranger said, gesturing to the room and the fireplace, trying to explain. 

Quincey waved his hand, beconing the man over. “You’ve been traveling in the cold? You must be freezing. I’ll get you some tea.”

The Stranger sat down at the bar hesitantly, not understanding, but smiled widely when he saw the steaming mug of tea.

“Tha! Direach!” He took the drink, hardly waiting for it to cool before downing it. Slowly, the color came back to his cheeks.

“What’s your name?” The tavernkeeper asked. When there was no reply, Quincey gestured to himself. “Quincey,” he said, then gestured to The Stranger, expectantly.

The Stranger’s green eyes showed sudden understanding. “Maoir.” He said, gesturing to himself.

     Quincey smiled. It seemed the language barrier was not so much of a barrier after all. 

“Beannaich.” Maior put a hand over his heart thankfully.

“You’re welcome.” Quincey replied, guessing his meaning.

The Stranger looked over to the fire, gestured to it, then himself.

“Make yourself at home.” The tavernkeeper invited, nodding.

“Beannaich” Maior said again. He all but collapsed next to the fire, laying on the wood floor in front of it, and almost immediately fell asleep. 

     “He has no shoes.” an old woman sitting at the bar whispered.

“I saw.” Quincey replied.

“He looks like one of those ranger types, living in the forest alone and such. Do you think so?”

He looked over at the sleeping figure. “Perhaps.”

The old woman sighed. “It’s a hard time to be in the woods, it is. Will you be lettin’ him stay here?”

The tavernkeeper looked back to the elder. “I always will.”

~~~

     The Stranger looked out the window and watched the icicles drip as the afternoon sun thawed them. It had been a few days since the storm and the ground had only just become visible again under the blanket of white. 

     “I made tea.” Quincey caught Maior’s attention by holding out the drink. The Stranger accepted it gratefully. He hadn’t said much since that first day- just sat by the fire or looked out the window, watching the snow melt. The Tavernkeeper, ever perseptive, saw longing in the man’s eyes. He wanted to leave. 

“The snow has thawed out, but I fear the winter is not over.” he said. Maior listened though he could not understand. 

“Tha e seachad, tha mi a faireachdainn.” He whispered. 

Quincey looked down and pointed to Maior’s calloused feet. 

“I will give you shoes. I know the shoemaker.”

The Stranger looked down as well, as if realizing for the first time that everyone else’s feet were covered. He shook his head. “Chan eil feum agam air brogan.”

“I’ll give them to you for no cost.” He searched for a way to communicate to the man that it wouldn't cost him.

“Chan fheum.” He shook his head firmly. The stranger pointed to the window, to outside, then to himself. He was smiling. 

Quincey understood.

“Be safe, my friend. You are always welcome back.”

“Fanaidh mo spiorad, Beannaich.”

The Tavernkeeper thought he’d never seen someone so happy.

     The Strager left that evening.

     Quincey watched him go, a surprising edge of sadness filling him. It wasn’t until his friend had disappeared into the trees that the tavernkeeper looked down and realized with a start that The Stranger left no footprints in the snow.