The Snowman

Snooze with a telling of The Snowman, a tender winter tale where a newly built figure in a moonlit yard discovers the strange gravity of warmth. The world around him gleams with frosted trees, sleigh bells, lovers passing in pale breath...and yet his gaze keeps drifting to a single window where a kitchen stove glows like a living ember. So snuggle up in your blankets and have sweet dreams. 

The music in this episode is Aura by Martin Landh. 

Need more Dreamful?

• For more info about the show, episodes, and ways to support; check out our website www.dreamfulstories.com
• Subscribe on Buzzsprout to get bonus episodes in the regular feed & a shout-out in an upcoming episode!
• Subscribe on Apple Podcasts for bonus episodes at apple.co/dreamful
• To get bonus episodes synced to your Spotify app & a shout-out in an upcoming episode, subscribe to dreamful.supercast.com
• You can also support us with ratings, kind words, & sharing this podcast with loved ones.
• Find us on Facebook at facebook.com/dreamfulpodcast & Instagram @dreamfulpodcast!

Dreamful is produced and hosted by Jordan Blair. Edited by Katie Sokolovska. Theme song by Joshua Snodgrass. Cover art by Jordan Blair. ©️ Dreamful LLC

Transcript

Jordan : 0:20

Welcome to Dreamful Podcast. Bedtime Stories or Slumber. In this bonus episode, I will be reading The Snowman. So, snuggle up in your blankets and have sweet dreams. How astonishingly cold it is! My body is carking all over, said the snowman. The night wind swept through the yard like a long icy sigh, rattling the bare branches and sending a drift of powdery snow swirling around his feet. The wind is really cutting one's very life out. And how that fiery thing up there glares. He meant the sun, which was just setting behind the violet horizon. Its last light fell across the white fields like a spilled ribbon of gold. Shand make me blink though, he added proudly. Snow crystals glittering where his eyebrows might have been. I shall keep quite cool and collected. Instead of eyes, he had two large, three-cornered pieces of slate set deep into his head. His mouth was made from an old wooden rake, so that his grin showed like a row of crooked, snowy teeth. He had been born only hours before, lifted into the world amidst the shouts and laughter of children, hands putting snow smooth, boots stamping around him, mittened arms packing him firm. Sleigh bells jingled as sledges rushed past, and the crisp music of winter seemed to applaud his creation. Now the sun sank at last. The full moon rose, large, round, clear, and beautiful in the dark blue sky. It cast silver on the snow, so bright that the whole world seemed carved from white marble. There it is again on the other side, said the snowman. He thought the moon was simply the sun circling back to glare at him again. I have become quite accustomed to it shining. I hope it will stay there a while. I'd like to see myself by its light. Only I knew how one changes one's position. I should very much like to move about, if I could. I would glide across the ice the way the boys did earlier. But somehow, I don't know how to run. His voice was hoarse and rasping, as if winter itself had caught hold of his throat. He lay in a small wooden kennel, frost collecting along its roof. The sun will soon teach you to run, he growled. I saw it happen last winter with your predecessor and the one before him. They all ran away down the gutter once the sun taught them how. I don't understand you, my friend, said the snowman. That glowing up there is to teach me to run. He meant the moon. Why it is already run. I saw it over there, and now it is here. You know nothing at all, said the Yardog, shaking snow from his ears. You've only just been made. The thing you see there is the moon. The one that went down earlier was the sun. He'll come up again tomorrow, bright and warm, and he'll soon show you what running really is. The weather is going to change. I can feel it in my hind leg. Can't understand him, said the snowman softly, but I believe he is warning me about something unpleasant. That glaring thing. The sun is not my friend. The yard dog circled his kennel three times, then curled up to sleep. Soon the only faint sound of his breathing rose into the stillness. The weather did indeed change. Toward morning a thick fog crept across the fields, softening everything it touched. Later came a sharp wind, an icy sweeping broom that brushed the frost away. But when the sun finally rose, the world dazzled. Every tree and shrub was covered with rhyme, transformed into a crystal forest. The branches bent under the white blossoms, glittering as though someone had shaken powdered diamonds over them. Even the smallest twigs, hidden in summer's green, now sparkled under winter's spell. The birches swayed gently, their silver bark gleaming. The whole garden shimmered like a palace made of frost. Isn't it wonderful? exclaimed a young girl walking arm in arm with a young man. Their breath rose in pale clouds, drifting like ghosts in the cold air. They paused near the snowman to admire the glistening trees. Summer can never show a sight more beautiful, she said. And you wouldn't find a fellow like this in summer either, the young man added, pointing to the snowman. He's magnificent. The girl laughed, nodded at the snowman, and together they danced lightly away over the snow, leaving two intertwined trails of footprints. Who are those two? asked the snowman. You know everyone here. Please tell me about them. Do I know them? said the yard dog. She has often pet me. He has given me bones. I don't bite either of them. But what are they? asked the snowman. Lovers, said the yard dog. Are they the same kind of beings we are? They are masters, said the yard dog proudly. You young ones know very little. Now I have age and wisdom, and many memories besides. Bow Wow. The cold is splendid, said the snowman, who felt quite proud of the frost, beginning to stiffen his body. Tell me more, but don't rattle your chain so it makes me crack. The yard dog told him of earlier days, of velvet cushions, of gentle hands stroking him, of sleeping beneath a warm stove that glowed like a small red sun in winter time. Stove, asked the snowman. Is it beautiful? Is it anything like me? The opposite of you, said the dog. Coal black with a long brass neck. It devours firewood and glows with heat. There, look through that window. You can see it shining. The snowman turned his slight eyes toward the kitchen window. Through its frosted panes, he saw a warm, flickering light. Golden, alive, beckoning. Something stirred inside him. Something warm and yearning. Though he cannot name it. Why did you leave such a place? He asked in wonder. I had to, the dog says sadly. I bit the youngest boy when he took my bone. And that was the end of comfort. Now I stay out here in the cold and dream of that stove. But the snowman hardly heard him. His whole being leaned towards the glowing window. The stove's light pulled softly like a heartbeat. Steady, welcoming, impossible to ignore. Shall I never reach that place? If only I could move, I would go to it, even if I had to break the window to get inside. If you reach the stove, warned the dog, you would disappear. I'm disappearing already, the snowman murmured. He stood all day, gazing toward the stove. As dusk fell, the room inside looked even more inviting. The stove glowed warmly, casting rosy flickers across the glass. When the housekeeper opened the door, its fire flared brightly, and the warm light trembled over the snowman's face. I can't bear it, he cried. How beautiful it is, how bright its tongue aflame. It was a long night, yet he did not notice the hours. He stood there dreaming, and his dreams froze into the cracks spreading slowly through a snowy heart. In the morning, the kitchen window was covered with thick ice flowers, delicate ferns, stars and feathers, so lovely that even a snowman might envy them. But they hid the stove completely. He could see nothing of his beloved flame. The cracking inside him grew worse. Yours is a bad illness for a snowman, said the dog. I had it once myself, but I got over it. Well wow, the weather's going to change. And change it did. A thaw began. On the first warm morning, the snowman did not speak. He did not complain. He simply softened. Hour by hour, he shrank silently into himself. The children did not notice until midday, when he collapsed altogether into a shining heap of slush. Where he has stood, a single broomstick jabbed upward into the air. Now I understand, cried the yard dog. The stove rigger, that's what it was inside of him. The very tool used to stir the stove's fire. No wonder he loved the stove. He shook his head and gave a low hoarse bark. And now it is all over with him. Soon it was over with winter as well. The ice loosened on the branches. The snow melted into soft brown earth. Green tips showed on willow boughs, and birds began singing as though they'd been waiting their whole lives for spring to arrive. And no one thought of the snowman. Yet sometimes on crisp winter nights, when frost flowers bloom again on the kitchen windows, it is said that the stove flickers a little brighter, as if remembering the snowman who once stood outside in the moonlight, wishing only to be nearest warmth.