Legend

Tengri Agnijara’s Tulips grew on the slope above the village and bloomed before the snow was gone – red against white, their leaves sharp and curved like sabres.

At the turning of winter the village held its spring festival. By the fire, the youngest of the girls was to sing. When her turn came, she ran off into the dark.

Tengri found her behind a shed, her face buried in her knees.

“I’ll sing next year,” the girl mumbled. “When I’m not scared anymore.”

Tengri took her by the hand and led her up the slope, the snow creaking underfoot. She stopped beside a patch from which four buds were pushing through.

“Kneel down.”

The girl knelt. She touched a petal, sure it would be frozen. It was cool and springy, full of life. Around the stems the snow was melting into small, round hollows.

“This flower doesn’t know whether the frost will come back either,” said Tengri. “But it doesn’t wait for the last of the snow. If it did, no one would ever see it.”

The girl went back to the fire with a single tulip in her hair and sang, though her voice kept breaking. After that, Tengri picked her Tulips only for those who were afraid.