Join us at the campfire for tales from around the world, told by storytellers of all backgrounds and creeds. From the heros and heroines of old, let us relearn and rediscover the wisdom of our ancestors. Shhh..the story begins..

In a nomad camp in the wilds of the far North, there once lived an old man with his three daughters. The family was very poor. Their tent barely kept out the icy wind and driving snow, and when the frost was keen enough to bite at their naked hands and faces, the three daughters huddled together round the fire. As they lay down to sleep at night, their father would rake through the ashes as they shivered throughout the long cold night until morning came.

One day during the depths of winter, a snowstorm raged across the tundra. It whipped viciously through the camp on the very first day...then the second...and on into the third. There seemed to be no end to the driving snow and fierce wind. Nobody dared step outside and families sat fearfully in their tents, hungry and cold, fearing that the camp would be blown clean away.

The old man and his daughters listened to the howling of the blizzard. "If this continues much longer," said the father, "we shall certainly all perish. Such a storm must surely have been sent by Kotura, Lord of the Winds, and he must be very angry with us. There's only one way to appease him and save the camp. We must send him a wife from our clan, and you, my eldest daughter, must go to Kotura and beg him to halt this blizzard."

"But how am I to go?" asked the girl in alarm. "I do not know the way."

"I shall give you a sled," said her father. "Turn your face to the north wind, push the sled forward and follow wherever it leads. The wind will rip open the strings that bind your coat, yet you must not stop to tie them. The snow will fill your shoes, yet you must not stop to shake it out. Continue on your way until you arrive at a steep hill. When you have climbed to the top, only then may you halt to shake the snow from your shoes and fasten your coat. Soon, a little bird will perch on your shoulder. Do not brush him away, be kind and caress him gently. Then jump on to your sled and let it run down the other side of the hill. It will take you straight to the door of Kotura's tent. Enter and touch nothing...simply sit patiently and wait until Kotura comes...and do exactly as he tells you."

The eldest daughter put on her coat, turned the sled into the north wind, and sent it gliding along before her. She followed on foot and, after a while the strings on her coat came undone, the swirling snow squeezed into her shoes, and she was very, very cold. However, she did not heed her father's words. She stopped to tie the strings of her coat and to shake the snow from her shoes. That having been done, she moved on into the face of the north wind.

On and on through the snow went the eldest daughter until at last she came to a steep hill. When she finally reached the top, a little bird flew down and would have alighted on her shoulder had she not waved her hands to shoo him away. Alarmed, the bird fluttered upward and then circled above her three times before flying away.

The girl sat on her sled and rode down the hillside until she arrived at a giant tent. Upon entering, she glanced around and spied a fat piece of roast venison. Famished from her journey, the eldest daughter made a fire, warmed herself, and then warmed the meat. She tore off pieces of fat and crammed them into her mouth. She ate until she had eaten her fill. Then, as she chewed on the last morsel of fat, she heard a noise behind her and a handsome young giant entered. It was Kotura.

He gazed at the eldest daughter and, in his booming voice, demanded to know, "Where are you from, girl and why are you here?"

"My father sent me," replied the girl, "to be your wife."

Kotura frowned, fell silent, and then sighed. "I have brought home some meat from hunting. Set to work and cook it for me."

The eldest daughter did as she was told and, when the meat was cooked, Kotura bade her divide it in two.

"You and I will eat one part," he said. "The remainder you will take to my neighbor. But heed my words well. Do not go into her tent. Wait outside until the old woman emerges, then give her the meat and wait for her to return to you the empty dish."

The eldest daughter took the meat and went out into the dark night. The wind was howling and the blizzard raged so wildly that she could hardly see a thing before her. She struggled on a little way, then came to a halt, and tossed the meat into the snow. That done, the eldest daughter returned to Kotura with the empty dish.

The giant regarded keenly, saying: "Have you done as I requested."

"I have," responded the girl.

"Then show me the dish," said Kotura. "I wish to see what she gave you in return."

The girl showed him the empty dish. Kotura was silent. He ate his share of the meat hurriedly and lay down to sleep. At first light he rose, brought some untanned deer hides into the tent and said: "While I hunt, I want you to clean these hides and make me a coat, shoes, and mittens from them. I shall try them on when I get back and judge whether you are as clever with your hands as you are with your tongue."

With those words, Kotura went off into the tundra, and the eldest daughter set to work. In time, an old woman covered in snow entered Kotura's tent.

"I have something in my eye, child," said the crone. "Please remove it for me."

"I have no time," answered the eldest daughter. "I am much too busy to help you."

The old Snow Woman said nothing. Turning away, she left the tent and the eldest daughter continued with her work. She cleaned the hides hastily and began cutting them roughly with a knife, hurrying to get her tasks completed by nightfall. Indeed, she was in such a rush that she did not even try to shape the garments properly, intent only on finishing her work as quickly as possible.

Late that evening, Kotura, young giant and Lord of the Winds, returned home.

"Are my clothes ready?" he immediately asked.

"They are," the eldest daughter replied as, one by one, Kotura inspected the garments and ran his hands over them very carefully. The hides were rough to the touch, so badly had they been cleaned, so poorly had they been cut, and so carelessly had they been sewn together. In addition, they were altogether too small for him.

Flying into a rage, Kotura seized the eldest daughter and flung her far, far into the dark night. She landed in a deep snowdrift and lay there unmoving moving until she eventually froze to death.

And the howling of the wind grew even more fierce.

Back at the camp, the old father sat in his tent and harkened to the severity of the northern winds. Finally, in deep despair, he said to his two remaining daughters: "Your sister did not heed my words, I fear. That is why the wind is still shrieking and roaring its anger. Kotura is in a terrible temper. You must go to him now, my second daughter."

The old man made a sled, instructed the girl as he had her sister, and then sent her on her way. The second daughter pointed the sled into the north wind and, giving it a push, walked along behind it. The strings of her coat came loose and the snow forced its way into her shoes. Before long, she was numb with cold and, heedless of her father's warning, shook the snow from her shoes and tied the strings of her coat sooner than she had been instructed to do so.

She arrived at the steep hill and climbed to the top. There, seeing the little bird fluttering toward her, she waved her hands and shooed him away. Then she quickly climbed into her sled and rode down the hillside straight to Kotura's tent. Upon entering, the second daughter made a fire, ate her fill of the roast venison and then lay down to sleep.

When Kotura returned, he was surprised to find the girl deep in slumber upon his bed. The roar of his deep voice woke her at once and she explained that her father had sent her to be his wife. Kotura frowned, fell silent, and then shouted gruffly: "So, why do you lie there sleeping? I am hungry. Be quick, girl, and prepare some meat."

As soon as the meat was ready, Kotura ordered the second daughter to take it from the pot and cut it in half.

"You and I will eat one half," he told her, "and you will take the other to my neighbor. But do not enter her tent. Wait outside for the dish to be returned."

The second daughter took the meat and went outside into the storm. The wind was howling so hard and the blackness of night so smothering, that she could see and hear nothing at all. Fearful of taking another step, she tossed the meat as far as she could and then returned to Kotura's tent.

"Have you given the meat to my neighbor?" he asked.

"Of course I have," replied the second daughter.

"It did not take you very long," said Kotura. "Show me the dish. I want to see what she gave you in return."

Somewhat afraid, the second daughter did as she was bid. Kotura frowned at the empty dish, but said not a word and went to his bed. In the morning, he delivered some untanned hides to the second daughter, instructing her to make him a coat, shoes and mittens by nightfall.

"Set to work," he said, "for this evening I shall judge your handiwork."

With those words, Kotura went off into the wind and the second daughter got began her task. She was in a great hurry, eager to complete the job by nightfall. By and by, an old woman covered in snow entered the tent.

"I have something in my eye, child," said the old woman. "Pray help me take it out for I cannot manage by myself."

"Go away and don't bother me," said the second daughter, crossly. "I am far too busy to leave my work."

The Snow Woman left without saying a word.

As darkness came, Kotura returned from hunting. "Are my new clothes ready?" he asked.

"They are," replied the second daughter.

Kotura tried on the garments and noticed at once that they were poorly cut and much too small. Flying into a rage, he tossed the second daughter even farther than he had tossed her sister...and she too met a chilled death in the cold snow.

Back in his tent, the old father sat with his youngest daughter, waiting in vain for the storm to pass. But the blizzard only redoubled its force and it seemed that the camp would be blown away at any moment.

"My daughters did not heed my words," the old man sadly reflected. "They have angered Kotura even more. Go to him, my last daughter. It breaks my heart to part with you, but it is you alone who can save our clan from certain destruction."

The youngest daughter left the camp, turned her face into the north wind and pushed the sled before her. The wind shrieked and seethed about her and the snowflakes powdered her red-rimmed eyes, almost blinding her. Yet, she staggered on through the blizzard mindful of her father's words. The strings of her coat came undone...but she did not stop to tie them. The snow forced its way into her shoes...but she did not stop to shake it out. Her face was numb and her lungs were bursting, but she did not pause for breath. Only when she had reached the hilltop did she halt to shake out the snow from her shoes and tie the strings of her coat.

Just at that moment, a little bird flew down and perched on her shoulder. Instead of chasing him away, she gently stroked his downy breast. And, when the bird had taken flight again, the youngest daughter got onto her sled and glided over the snow down the hillside right to Kotura's door.

Without showing her fear, the young girl went boldly into the tent and sat down patiently waiting for the giant to appear. It was not long before the door flap was lifted and in came the handsome young giant, Lord of the Winds.

When he set eyes on the young girl, a smile lit up his solemn face. "Why have you come to me?" he asked.

"My father sent me to ask you to calm the storm," she quietly responded. "For if you do not, our people will die."

Kotura frowned and said gruffly: "Make up the fire and cook some meat. I am hungry and so must you be, for I see you have touched nothing since you arrived."

The youngest daughter prepared the meat, took it from the pot, and handed it to Kotura in a dish. But he instructed her to take half to his neighbor.

Obediently, the youngest daughter took the dish of meat and went outside into the snowstorm. Where was she to go? Where was the neighbor's tent to be found in this wilderness?

Then suddenly, from out of nowhere, a little bird flew before her face...it was the very same bird that she had caressed on the hillside. Now, it flew before her as if beckoning her on. Whichever way the bird flew, there she followed. At last she could make out a wisp of smoke spiraling upwards and mingling with the swirling snowflakes.

The youngest daughter was very relieved, and she hurried toward the smoke thinking that the tent must be there. Yet, as she drew near, she saw to her surprise that the smoke was coming from a mound of snow. There was no tent was to be seen!

She walked around and around the mound of snow and prodded it with her foot. Immediately, a door appeared before her, and an ancient woman poked out her head.

"Who are you?" screeched the crone. "And why have you come here?"

"I have brought you some meat, Grannie," replied the youngest daughter. "Kotura asked me to bring it to you."

"Kotura, you say?" said the Snow Woman, chewing on a black pipe. "Very well then, wait here."

The youngest daughter waited by the strange snow-house, and at last the old woman reappeared and returned the wooden dish. There was something in the dish, but the girl could not make it out in the dark. With a word of thanks, she took the dish and returned to Kotura.

"Why were you so long?" Kotura asked. "Did you find the Snow Woman's tent?"

"Yes, I did, but it was a long way," replied the youngest daughter.

"Give me the dish that I might see what my neighbor has given you," said the giant.

When he looked into the dish he saw that it contained two sharp knives and some bone needles and scrapers for dressing hides. The giant chuckled. "You have some fine gifts to keep you busy."

At dawn, Kotura rose and brought deerskins into the tent. As before, he gave orders that new shoes, mittens and a coat were to be made by nightfall.

"Should you make them well," he said, "you shall be my wife."

As soon as Kotura had gone, the youngest daughter set to work. The Snow Woman's gifts indeed proved to be very useful, supplying the necessary tools needed to make the garments. But how could she do it in a single day? It surely was impossible!

Nevertheless, she dressed and scraped the skins, cut and sewed so quickly, that her fingers were soon raw and bleeding. As she was about her work, the door flap was raised and in came the old Snow Woman.

"Help me, my child," said the crone. "There is a speck in my eye. Pray help me to take it out."

At once, the youngest daughter set aside her work and soon had the mote out of the old woman's eye.

"That is much better," said the Snow Woman. "My eye does not hurt any more. Now, child, look into my right ear and see what you can see."

The youngest daughter peered into the old woman's right ear and gasped in surprise.

"What do you see?" asked Snow Woman.

"I see a maid sitting in your ear," replied the girl.

"Then, why don't you call to her?" asked the crone. "She will gladly help you make Kotura's clothes."

At the youngest daughter's call, not one but four maids jumped from the Snow Woman's ear and immediately set to work. They dressed the skins, scraped them smooth, cut and sewed them into shape, and very soon the garments were all ready. Then the Snow Woman took the four maids back into her ear and left the tent.

As darkness fell, Kotura returned. "Have you completed your tasks?" he demanded to know.

"Yes, I have," said the youngest daughter.

"Then show me the new clothes that I might try them on."

The girl handed Kotura the clothes. He passed his great hand over them. The skins were soft and supple to the touch. Kotura put them on...the coat and the shoes and the mittens...and they were neither too small nor too large. In fact, they fitted him perfectly.

Kotura smiled. "I like you, youngest daughter," he said. "And my mother and four sisters like you also. You work well and you have much courage. You braved a terrible storm so that your people might not die. And you did all that you were told. Stay with me and be my wife."

No sooner had the words passed Kotura's lips than the storm in the tundra was stilled. No longer did the people tremble from the north wind, hiding in their cold tents. They had been saved. One by one they emerged into the sunshine.

And with them came the old father, tears of joy glistening on his sunken cheeks, proud that his youngest, most dearest daughter had been the one to save the people from such a terrible storm.

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