.png)
Once upon a time, there was a little village nestled in an Alpine valley. Every winter, the villagers eagerly anticipated their annual Ice Festival. During the long, cold winter months there was not much to do in their isolated village. The mountain paths were deep with snow and only the bravest souls ventured across the western peak into the town.
So they spent many days planning the festival, and every year they chopped a large block of ice from a nearby lake and dragged it back to the town square. A master carver who trekked over the mountain would create a beautiful ice sculpture as a centerpiece for all the festivities.
One year, the villagers spent a long time finding the perfect block of ice. It had to be solid and firm, and clear and clean so the master carver had something to work with. It had been a hard winter, and the ice was deep. When at last they had the finished block of ice situated in the town square, all the villagers agreed that this was the best block they had ever had. Now all they needed was the master carver to make his way over the mountain and work his magic on the ice.
Deep within the heart of the icy block, a seed of wonder sprouted. Would he be turned into a masterpiece? Instead of just a jagged hunk of scraped ice? The block listened to the villagers recount previous sculptures that the carver had created, and his excitement grew. Dreams he never knew he had swirled through the frozen block. What would he become? Perhaps a majestic mountain peak like the ones rising on every side of the village. Or maybe a statue of a graceful swan like the ones that flew high overhead? The possibilities seemed endless.
As evening fell, the people headed back to their warm cottages, and the block was left alone with his thoughts. When the first stars began to twinkle, the block trembled. Could he be carved into a star? He decided that was what he wanted to be. Next the moon rose, and he caught his frosty breath. How amazing it was! He would love to be turned into a moon. He watched carefully, trying to imagine how it would feel to be as brilliant as the night sky.
It grew late, and the block fell asleep, so he missed seeing the clouds that crept over the moon. They piled up in the west, and gradually blacked out the stars. The wind howled over the nearest peak. Frozen tree branches moaned. The first snowflake fell and landed on the top of the block, but the block slept on. Faster and faster the snow fell until it covered the roofs of the cottages and drifted along the streets. Heaps of snow covered the block’s icy sides and top.
In the morning, the block peered through the layers of snow in confusion. Where was he? What had happened? He heard the groans of the villagers and didn’t know why they sounded so disheartened. A short while later, he heard shovels scraping away at the snow surrounding him. It took them a long time, but finally he could see out again. The villagers gazed up at him in despair.
“Oh, how will the master carver ever be able to get here now?” they wailed. “He’s never missed a festival, but the storm covered up the passes so deep that no one will be able to get through.” Several of the children started crying.
The mayor of the village stepped forward, chin set. “Come, come,” he said, “We will not allow one storm to ruin our celebration!”
Everyone started talking at once. “But mayor!” “What can we do?” “How?” “What?”
He lifted his hands, waving them until they all settled down. “We will just have to carve the sculpture ourselves!”
Everyone looked at each other in disbelief. No one spoke, until the schoolteacher stepped forward. “I don’t have the slightest idea how to start carving,” he said, “but I will help you if you tell me what to do. It can’t be that hard.”
A few murmurs drifted from the crowd, then several other volunteers sidled up, too.
The mayor rubbed his hands together. “All right, then the first thing we need is a pick and several chisels. I’ve watched the carver often enough that I know how to do this.” Quietly he muttered, “It’s about time someone else got some recognition around here.”
One young man shook his head. “That doesn’t make sense,” he protested. “I’ve watched the women cook the festival feast but I certainly wouldn’t be able to do it myself!”
The mayor glared at him. “Do you have a better idea, then?”
“No, but shouldn’t we wait to make sure the carver can’t get here?”
“Begone,” the mayor shooed him off, then turned to the others. “There’s no way anyone will be able to cross the mountains now. Go get the things we need and let’s get to work.”
The crowd stayed to watch the carving begin. With a grand gesture, the mayor tapped a mighty blow on the chisel. A ragged sliver of ice flew through the air. He struck again, another chunk breaking loose. Several blows later, the mayor stepped back, wiping his forehead.
“What are you making?” one of the others asked tentatively.
“You’ll see,” the mayor snapped, attacking the block again ferociously. An hour later, he blew out a breath. “This is harder than it looks,” he admitted, dropping the chisel. He walked back to get a better view and grimaced. The outer layer had been hacked away, but no magic had emerged from the depths.
“Let me try,” one of the volunteers said. He had watched impatiently and now he strutted up to the block and attempted to copy what he had seen the master carver do. As with the mayor, all he accomplished was to send slivers of ice flying through the air.
The block grimaced. Where was the beauty they had promised him? The volunteers shoved and pushed; each one sure he knew the secrets to ice sculpture. When the shouting and insults finally ceased, they realized what a mess they had made of the fine block of ice they had worked so hard to place in the square.
All was quiet. Then one by one, they edged away and slipped off to their cottages to brood in private. Even the thought of the feast to come didn’t lift their spirits. After all, how could they have the Ice Festival without an ice sculpture? A gloom settled over the little hamlet tucked in the valley.
Early the next morning, just as the first rays of the sun cleared the top of the eastern peak, a tiny figure appeared. High up on the mountainside, striding toward the village, came the master carver. Snowshoes strapped to his shoes, lederhosen dusted with frost, on he came. The mutilated block of ice watched him, not sure whether to feel happiness or trepidation. After the fiasco yesterday, he didn’t relish another dose of chiseling.
No one in the village stirred at this early hour, so the carver had the block all to himself. Gently he ran his hand over the jagged edges. “What have they done to you,” he murmured.
The block relaxed. Surely no one with a voice like that would hurt him. He wished he could tell the carver about the stars and the moon. How he longed to be even a fraction as stunning. But now he was just a hacked-up chunk of ice. Perhaps even the master carver himself would give up on him.
The carver circled around the block, pursing his lips and wrinkling his brow.
Suddenly he stopped. A smile radiated from his bright blue eyes. “Ahh. Just the thing! Yes, yes, I think that will work wonderfully.” He picked up his tools and selected a chisel. The block flinched, but the carver’s touch was smooth and gentle. Tiny bit by tiny speck, the carver worked. The block wished he could see what the carver was doing. A polishing cloth, in the hands of the carver, made the block gleam in the early morning sun.
Slowly at first, the villagers woke up. When they spotted the master carver hard at work, they stopped and gaped. Then the whole town awoke with a shout. The people came running from every street and alley. Children ducked around slower adults and pushed to the front of the crowd. The master carver kept working, not seeming to notice all the hubbub. The sun rose higher in the sky, and the carver finished the last of the polishing. He called for a bucket of water and when one of the little boys came running with a sloshing pail, he poured the sparkling water, dipperful by dipperful, around the base of the block. It froze quickly in the cold mountain air. The block stared at the glassy surface. What was that dazzling reflection in the ice? Then he realized it was him!
The carver had formed him into a faceted crystal, like the geodes the miners found in the mountain caves. Every plane was polished to a sheen, and the sun bounced from the facets in a dazzling display of light. It was as beautiful as the stars. And from deep within the block of ice, a magically pure, silvery gleam burst forth, just like the moon. The block shivered in delight and gratitude.
The Master Carver smiled. He gathered his tools and melted into the crowd. The block knew he would never forget Him. The beauty released from the depth of the ice would never have emerged without the skill and the gentle touch of the Master Carver.
