The Mountain That Screamed in Winter

The Mountain That Cried in Winter

In a land far to the north, where the winds howled like ancient wolves and the snow fell in endless sheets, there stood a mountain known as Ilmenar. Towering over the valley below, it was a place of mystery and reverence, its jagged peaks always crowned in white, its slopes so steep that no creature dared to climb too high. The people of the nearby village, nestled at the foot of Ilmenar, had always believed that the mountain was alive-an ancient, silent guardian watching over them, its heart hidden beneath layers of ice and stone.

The Mountain That Screamed in Winter.

But there was a legend that few spoke of, a tale passed down in whispers, a story that chilled the bones of anyone who heard it. It was said that on the coldest nights of winter, when the sky was as black as pitch and the stars shone like shards of glass, the mountain wept.

No one knew why, and no one dared to ask.

Lena, a young girl from the village, had grown up hearing the stories, but she had never truly believed them. The mountain was a giant of rock and ice, unmoving and unchanging. Why would it cry? It was just a mountain, wasn’t it?

One winter, when Lena was twelve, the village was hit by the fiercest storm they had ever known. The winds raged like a beast trapped in a cage, the snow falling so thick that the villagers couldn’t see beyond their doorsteps. It lasted for days, burying homes and roads, cutting off the village from the world. But on the third night, as the storm reached its peak, something strange happened.

Lena was lying in bed, her breath misting the air in the cold room, when she heard it.

A soft, mournful sound.

It came from the direction of Ilmenar.

At first, she thought it was the wind, howling through the trees. But no, this was different. It was deeper, like a groan, a cry that seemed to vibrate in her chest. It was as though the mountain itself was speaking, or perhaps—was it crying?

Her heart pounded in her chest, a mixture of fear and curiosity flooding her veins. She had heard the legends, of course. But no one had ever really believed them, not until now. And yet, the sound was unmistakable. The mountain was crying.

Lena could not ignore it. There was something in her, a pull, a strange sense of responsibility that called her to the mountain. The village elders had always told their children to avoid the mountain during the harshest of winters, but Lena felt the need to find out the truth. What was causing the mountain to cry?

The next morning, the storm had not let up, but Lena gathered all her courage. She wrapped herself in a thick cloak, her breath freezing in the frigid air as she made her way out of the village. The path to Ilmenar was treacherous, and the snow had piled up in deep drifts, but Lena pressed on, the strange cry still echoing in her mind.

The closer she got to the mountain, the more the sound seemed to intensify. It wasn’t just a cry—it was a wail, like a grieving spirit trapped beneath the earth. The wind had died down, and there was an eerie silence that seemed to hang in the air. The snow, untouched by the storm, lay still, as if the world itself were holding its breath.

Lena reached the base of the mountain, where the trees thinned out and the sheer rock face of Ilmenar loomed above her. She could feel the weight of its presence, the ancient power of the mountain pressing down on her. The wail grew louder, vibrating in the very ground beneath her feet. It was as though the mountain itself was in pain.

Her legs trembling, Lena began to climb, her hands gripping the cold stone. She had no clear idea of where she was going, but something deep inside urged her forward. The cries were guiding her, pulling her toward something hidden.

Hours passed as Lena ascended, the climb growing steeper and more difficult. The cold cut through her like sharp knives, but she could not turn back. She had to know what was causing the mountain’s sorrow.

At last, she reached a small plateau, a hidden ledge high up the mountain, where the wind was calmer and the snow less deep. There, in a crevice of the rock, she found it.

A single, ancient tree.

It was unlike any tree Lena had ever seen. Its bark was dark and cracked, like the weathered skin of a creature long forgotten. Its branches stretched toward the sky, twisted and broken, as though they had been reaching out for centuries. And at the base of the tree, there was something else—a large, jagged stone, half-buried in the snow. It was glowing faintly, a pale blue light that seemed to pulse with life.

Lena knelt beside the tree, her breath coming in ragged gasps. The cry, the wail, was now a soft whimper, as though it were coming from the very earth itself. She placed her hand on the stone, and in that moment, the mountain’s sorrowful cry stopped.

The world around her grew still.

And then, in the quiet, she heard a voice—not from the mountain, but from within the stone itself.

"I am bound," it whispered. "I am bound to this land, to this tree. I am the spirit of the mountain, once the guardian of this world. I was betrayed long ago, bound to this stone by those who sought to control the land, to take its power for themselves. I have wept for centuries, my tears falling as snow upon the earth, because I cannot break free. I cannot escape."

Lena’s heart raced, and her mind spun. She looked at the tree, its twisted branches seeming to bow under the weight of an unseen burden. She looked at the stone, glowing with the trapped spirit’s pain.

“What can I do to help you?” Lena asked, her voice trembling.

The spirit’s voice was filled with sorrow. "Only one can release me—someone pure of heart, who has not been tainted by greed or fear. But it is too late now. I have been trapped for too long."

Lena’s hand tightened around the stone. She thought of her village, of the people who lived in the shadow of Ilmenar, of the generations that had come before her. She knew that the mountain’s tears were not just its own—they were the tears of the land, the sorrow of a spirit that had been forgotten, imprisoned by the very people it had once protected.

"I will help you," Lena said, her voice firm. "I won’t let you suffer any longer."

And with those words, she closed her eyes, and pressed her palm against the stone.

There was a great tremor, a rumble deep within the mountain, and the stone pulsed with light. The ground shook beneath her feet as the cry of the mountain transformed into a roar of release. The tree’s branches trembled, and slowly, the stone began to crack, splintering apart as the spirit within it was freed.

For the first time in centuries, the mountain was silent.

The air around Lena shimmered with energy, and a great wind swept across the plateau, as though the very spirit of the mountain was stretching its wings. The snow began to melt, the frozen landscape awakening. The cries had stopped, but the mountain’s power was now no longer one of sorrow—it was one of freedom.

Lena stood there, breathless and amazed. The mountain was no longer weeping. It had been freed, and with it, the land would heal. She knew that Ilmenar would never be the same again.

And when she returned to her village, she spoke of what she had seen—the mountain that had cried in winter, and the spirit that had been released. The people no longer feared the mountain, for they understood that it was not a place of sorrow, but of rebirth.

And so, every winter, when the winds howled through the valley, the people of the village would look up at Ilmenar and remember the mountain that had cried—and the girl who had set it free.