There is a deep stillness with the new moon.
In Sangke, the temperature has fallen to –16°C at night. Norden Camp lies quiet, packed for winter. The little stream beside the arrival path has frozen along its edges, and the yaks have returned from their summer pasture, grazing slowly through the frost. Cabins are shuttered up and black hair tents are wrapped in canvas, protected not only from the cold but from the harsh sun and dry winter air.
When night comes, the wind howls and the temperature drops as the light disappears early. This is the season when families gather close and stories return to the fire. Grandparents often tell the tale of the Old Woman’s Tea, hoping it will usher in a gentler winter, and teach compassion.
Long ago, as frost settled and the wind sharpened, an old woman stayed alone in her tent. One night, the Demon of Winter arrived, his breath colder than stone, his hunger endless.
But the old woman did not hide.
She poured him a bowl of hot butter tea, rich and fragrant, and offered him a place by her fire.
The demon, startled by such calm, drank. As the warmth spread through his chest, the frost on his face began to soften, and he felt, perhaps for the first time, something tender.
“You are not afraid of me?” he asked.
She smiled. “I have known many winters. You are only one.”
When he left, the valley remained gentle that year. And ever since, people say,
“May the Demon of Winter remember the old woman’s tea.”
