Once upon a time, there was a village that hated snow. Unfortunately, this village was located way to the north, in a distant valley whose mountains made sure that, during the winter, the snow was abundant. And this made the villagers quite sad and quite angry. "Damn snow!" they would say. "It's always cold and wet! Stand in it too long, and you freeze to death! Nossir! Snow is not for me!" They spent their winters huddled in their little houses, which were usually just one room with exceptionally thick walls so the awful snow couldn't find its way in. No one dared venture outside, because no one knew what the snow was capable of doing, and no one wanted to find out. So for six months out of every year, people remained indoors, tending their little fires (which they hoped would last until the snow finally packed up and left) or taking really long naps, in which they dreamed of a life where snow was never around. And they would wake up, look outside, see the snow, sigh in a way that suggests that dreams are silly childish fantasies, and then huddle back under the blankets for another long nap, hopefully this time about bikini-clad ladies dancing on the sun-kissed beaches of distant, exotic lands, like Florida. They grew to hate the colour white and banned it from their lives: brides were married in gowns of verdant green and chickens laid eggs that were only speckled brown. Children were taught that the snow hid many evil temptations, like a bad man in a big car with an infinite number of lollipops, and that they should stay as far away from it as possible. After many years of this. fewer and fewer people ventured outside, even in the warm days of summer. "I'm not going out there!" they'd say. "You watch! We'll be all set up for a party, and then it'll snow! Just like that! Nossir! Not willing to take that risk!" And so, after a while, no one ever went outside. Now you might be asking, Gentle Reader: If they hate the snow so much, why don't they just leave? Pack up the kids and the dog and move to Florida? No one knows. Instead, they stayed in their little homes, tended their little fires, dreamed their little dreams, and slept a good deal of the time. Then one day, at the very height of winter, when the snow was angrily flying about and lying deep in wait to pounce like a vengeful ex-boyfriend, a stranger made his way into the valley. He was cold and tired, for he'd walked many miles and had no idea where he was. When he saw the lights of the village, his heart rose in joy, because now he was saved. But joy turned to confusion when he realized no one in the village would open their doors to him. "No!" they would angrily shout through the 2" thick glass as they would point up at the sky. "Go away! We don't need any more problems around here! Just go!" "But I have no idea where I am, and there's nowhere else to go!" he cried piteously. "Don't care! Not my problem! Next time, bring a map! I aint opening that door! So go away!" He'd tried many doors and gotten the same reaction at all, and this made the stranger very sad. He was about to consign himself to a lonely death in the cold when he tried one last time at one last door. "Please, for the love of God, open up and let me in!" There was the sound of several deadbolts being turned, then the door creaked ever so slightly open. The stranger saw a wizened old lady peering out at him. "Who are you?" she asked in that sweet yet demanding voice unique to wizened old ladies. "I am a stranger in your land, and I am lost. May I please come in and warm myself by the fire?" She shut the door, and he thought all was lost… until he heard the sound of more locks being tumbled open and chains pulled from gutters, and then finally…. "Come inside, quickly!" she hissed, slamming the door behind him. "Stay there! You're covered with the stuff, and I wont have it in my house!" She took a long-handled broom and brusquely knocked the snow off his coat and his hat and his boots. And when she was satisfied that there wasn't enough on him to be a threat, she said, "There. Warm yourself by the fire." "Thank you," he said happily. "Bless you, wizened old lady!" So they sat by the fire and spoke of many things. He spun many tales for her, of tanned, muscular men in tiny swimsuits dancing on the sun-kissed beaches of distant lands, like Florida. "Oh my," she would laugh. "I'd certainly love to see that!" "You have saved my life, and as reward, I would be happy to take you to see them. In my land, I am a great Prince of the Realm, with sufficient air miles that we could visit these exotic lands together." "Oh, what a tale you tell…" she sighed. "But I cannot leave. None of us can. The snow, you know." And so the wizened old lady told him about the snow, how everyone feared it so much that they stayed inside, even in the warm days of summer, because, after all, you never know when it might come for an unexpected visit and bring lollipops. "An entire village? Afraid of the snow?" he laughed. "Yes, the snow is a terrible and deadly thing, but it can also be a wondrous thing!" She laughed. "Snow? Wondrous? Go on, you!" "Of course! Here, let me show you!" and so saying he took two bowls and, under her watchful eye, slightly opened the door and set them outside. Then he asked, "Have you any fruit juice? Or chocolate? Or nutmeg?" "I have all those things," she said. "But — " "No, just show me, and I will make for you a dish fit for my father the King himself." And so she showed him her larder, where he found fruit juice and chocolate and nutmeg. He mixed them in a bowl and ground them all together as she watched with no small amount of well-warranted suspicion. Then he opened the door again and brought in two bowls filled to overflowing with pure white snow. She shrieked in fear and hid under her blanket, wishing she'd never opened that damn door… until, after much coaxing on his part, she came out and found the snow in the bowls was now a completely different colour! It was no longer white: it was red and yellow and green and brown! "What magic is this?" she asked, her eyes wide. "None whatsoever," he grinned. He put a tin spoon in one bowl and handed it to her. "Taste it. I promise, nothing will happen." "You're certain?" "On my honor as a Prince of the Realm." So she took the bowl and giggled a bit as she felt the cold clay in her fingers. Then carefully, cautiously, she lifted a tiny spoonful of the now red-and-green-and-yellow-and-brown snow to her lips… … and to her amazement, it was good. He sat happily by the fire. "We call it icing. It is a prized delicacy that we can only have when the snow falls. As such, in my country, everyone awaits the first snowfall with much anticipation, and it is greeted with a huge festival." "People?? Outside?? In the snow??" He nodded. "And no one dies??" He smiled, warmly. "No one dies. We love the snow, because it gives us gifts such as this." And then he told her of the many things possible in the winter snow, everything from sleigh riding to après-ski parties with beautiful women and muscular men who drank a good deal of wine and merrily danced around large open fires. He told her about snowboarding and heavy rock music and bunny slopes and 1960s Italian films in black and white, and they laughed until the wee hours of the morning. "You sleep here, by the fire," she said, watching over him until he was fast asleep….. — at which point she took a large, heavy shovel and dashed his brains in, killing him on the spot. Then she looked out the window, up at the snow, flurrying hither and about, and grinned. "A prince of the realm, huh?" she sneered. "Thought you'd catch me, huh?" she cackled. "I don't think so!" Because, you know, you just never know...