Mountain Ants and Fire Flies by Virginia Hainsworth

(This piece was inspired by a piece of music, The Intermezzo from The Karelia Suite by Sibelius.  Read this and then listen to the music.  Or better still, do both at the same time)

At midnight, the village normally sleeps.  But not tonight. 

Snow glistens like thousands of tiny diamonds in the pure silver glow of moonlight.  The dusty white powder, deep as the midwinter’s night, covers the ground and rooftops of this small Finnish village, snuggled up at the foot of the mountain.  The villagers have always felt protected by the mountain, especially in the harshest of winters and on this most magical of nights.

The local inhabitants gather outside in the cold night air, as if summoned by an unseen force.  Some of them have simply stepped out of their houses, crunching their way through the snow, out onto the street.  Others have walked briskly to the main square in order to congregate there.  Greetings to each other escape from muffled mouths, as the villagers recognise friends and neighbours from under scarves, woolly hats and huge overcoats.  Smiling eyes are everywhere, glimmering as brightly as the snow underfoot.

Frozen faces regularly turn outwards and upwards, towards the upper reaches of the mountain, where around a hundred shadowy figures can just about be picked out, all clad in black and milling about,  looking like ants to those far below.

These black mountain ants are selected as the best skiers in this and nearby villages. Each one is carrying an as yet unlit torch, fashioned from clumps of twigs, branches and scrub. Steadily, they form themselves into a queue behind the lead skier.  They eventually stand still and wait for the signal.  The hum of their chatter dies down and the only sound is of their skis patting against the snow as each moves his or her weight from one foot to the other, partly because of the intense cold and partly in preparation for what is to come.  So many hearts are in so many mouths as the anticipated moment approaches.

The torch lighter now ignites the torch of the lead skier and then moves silently along the line, making each skier’s beacon come alive and murmuring a few words of encouragement.

Down in the valley, the villagers grow silent as they spot the tiny twinkling lights emerging on the mountainside, reflecting the glimmering stars in the black canopy of the sky.

Back up to the mountain top now.  The time has come and the lead skier raises his burning torch aloft in his right hand.  A moment frozen in time.

And then action.

He suddenly pushes off and begins a graceful slalom down the mountain side, followed by the other skiers as the torch lit procession snakes its fire-lit way downwards, towards the village.  Each skier follows the other, turning left, then right, then left again as the line moves diagonally across the mountain, slowly descending.  Myriads of little flakes of lighted twig escape from the torches and fly towards the skies like tiny fire flies.

Down below, the villagers draw in a collective breath as the beautiful, simply choreographed line of mountain ants weaves its way down, intermittently  releasing its fire flies.   Golden volcanic flames against a backdrop of shimmering snow, lights up the night scene.  This most spectacular of sights is performed on the same night each year and has been for over a hundred years, as skiers and villagers pay silent homage to the mountain which protects them.

And now the second tranche of torch bearing mountain ants follows the first, making its fiery way down.  Each skier’s tension fades as they slide their majestic way down towards the village, torches held high.  Each mountain ant sets his fire flies free.  Each fire fly burns in the night sky and ignites the mountainside.

Finally, as each performer reaches the village, the beacons are extinguished in turn.  The fire flies have lived their moment and are allowed to breath their last as their light fades.  The mountain ants have become villagers again and all is well on this snow covered night.