Fairy tales for young and old ~ English version

The Snow Maiden of Siberia

 Once upon a time, in the icy tundras of Siberia, there lived a snow maiden named Frosya. Born from the breath of winter spirits, her skin shimmered like fresh snow under the moonlight, and her eyes glinted with the pale blue of ice. Frosya was a being of enchantment and grace, but she bore a curse that threatened to steal her warmth and turn her heart to ice.

The spirits had warned her that to remain alive, she must find the legendary Fire of Life before the first bloom of spring. This fire, hidden in the depths of the Siberian wilderness, was the only thing that could melt the encroaching frost within her.

Frosya set out on her quest, her path lit by the auroras that danced across the sky. In a clearing veiled by the breath of winter, Frosya encountered the Babay, a guardian of the threshold between worlds. His voice was the sound of rustling leaves, and his gaze held the depth of the starry sky. "Brave maiden," he spoke, "the path you tread is woven with danger and hope. Take this amulet, carved from the bone of the earth, and let it guide you when the way grows dark." With a nod, Frosya clasped the amulet around her neck, feeling its warmth seep into her being.

As night fell, the Bauk emerged from its shadowy haunt, its eyes gleaming with malice. It moved with a silence that belied its monstrous form, creeping closer to the maiden of snow. The Bauk lunged at her with gnarled fingers, but Frosya, with the courage of the spirits that birthed her, stood her ground. She raised her hands, and from her fingertips sprang a light so pure, so fierce, that the Bauk recoiled into the darkness from whence it came.

The forest whispered of her bravery, and the trees bowed their branches in respect as she passed. It was not long before the hut on chicken legs appeared, the domain of Baba Yaga. The witch, with her eyes like coals and a smile sharp as a knife's edge, watched Frosya approach. "Child of winter," she hissed, "your heart seeks what many have failed to grasp. Prove your worth, and the Fire of Life shall be within your reach." Frosya accepted the challenge, her resolve as unyielding as the ice that sheathed her world.

In the realm of trials, where the very air was thick with enchantment and peril, Frosya's journey unfolded like a tapestry of valor and heart. The vampires, creatures of shadow and thirst, emerged from the crevices of nightmares, their eyes hollow with eternal hunger. They circled Frosya, their whispers like the rustling of dead leaves, speaking of endless night and the sweet surrender of warmth. But Frosya, whose essence was born of winter's purest snow, shone with an inner radiance that repelled the darkness. Her spirit, a lighthouse in the tempest of their despair, cast a protective halo around her, and the vampires retreated, their power rendered futile against her indomitable will.

As the zenith of the sun crowned the sky, Lady Midday appeared before Frosya, a mirage of heat and light. Her presence was an oppressive wave, a desert's breath that sought to desiccate all it touched. Frosya's skin, cool and delicate as frost patterns on glass, began to glisten with the kiss of perspiration, her breaths coming in short, rapid bursts. Yet within her, a melody stirred—a song of the north, of the silent dance of the auroras, and the gentle caress of snowflakes upon the earth. She sang with a voice that carried the tranquility of winter nights, and Lady Midday, entranced by the purity of the tune, found her fury cooled. Her tears, born of the sun's fierce love, fell and evaporated, leaving behind a tender mist that embraced Frosya in a soft, cooling shroud.

The Moryana, spirits of the deep and sorrowful waters, watched Frosya approach their icy domain. Their hearts, bound to the ebb and flow of tides, ached with empathy for the maiden whose heart risked becoming as cold and still as their own frozen lakes. With a collective sigh that stirred the waters, they wept, their tears crystallizing into a magnificent bridge that spanned the expanse of their realm. It was a path wrought from their compassion, a testament to the power of shared sorrow and the strength found in unity.

Polkan, the offspring of equine grace and ursine might, stood as a sentinel against the gales that howled like wolves seeking their prey. He saw in Frosya a kindred spirit, one who bore the wild's call in her heart. With a voice that rumbled like thunder over the steppes, he imparted his wisdom to her. "To endure is to live," he said, "to stand tall against the storm is to conquer fear." Frosya listened, her resolve hardening like ice beneath the winter moon, and she found within herself a fortitude that could weather any tempest.

And in the twilight of her quest, the Shatans emerged from the flickering shadows, their eyes aglow with mischief and malice. They whispered sweet lies, spun tales of warmth and safety, of hearths and hearts unburdened by the quest's weight. But Frosya, guided by the celestial tapestry above and the murmurs of the spirits that had set her upon this path, saw through their deceit. She navigated the labyrinth of their temptations, her gaze fixed upon the horizon where the Fire of Life awaited.

With each step toward the sacred flame, the chill that had claimed Frosya's heart receded, replaced by a burgeoning warmth that pulsed with the rhythm of life itself. She reached out, her fingers trembling not with cold but with anticipation, and as she touched the fire, a surge of vitality flooded her being. The ice that had been her flesh melted away, revealing the woman she was always meant to become—a woman whose heart burned with passion and strength, ready to forge her destiny in a world ripe for her embrace.

Frosya's tale, woven from the threads of courage, determination, and the relentless pursuit of life, became a legend whispered in awe across the lands. It was a story that ignited the hearts of those who heard it, inspiring them to seek the fire within themselves, to embrace the warmth of their own indomitable spirits.