Invited After All

20251208

Written for Luna Asli Kolcu’s “Myths of Winter - Week 2” event.

Just as the family finished setting the table and sat down for the Solstice Feast, there was a knock at the door. A traveller, tall and weary, his clothing soaked through with snow.
Of course he was welcomed in, and offered dry clothes (which he declined, though he gratefully accepted a large woollen blanket to wrap himself in), and invited to feast.
“I’ll get you a chair-” Mother began, before realising that the stranger had settled himself in the empty seat nearest the door.
Everyone stared.
He had to be a true foreigner, not to know that chair was decorated and left empty for Old Man Winter. Nobody, not even a child, would ever think to sit in it.
But… well… it seemed a harmless mistake. And the poor fellow looked so tired and cold. It’d be silly to insist on him moving to sit in another chair.
So, while the whole family exchanged uncertain, uncomfortable looks, nobody said anything.
Just as nobody commented when the stranger didn’t bow his head and take part in grace, instead resting his chin on steepled fingers and watching the rest of the table give earnest thanks to the Harvest God and bidding polite welcome to Old Man Winter.
And when grace finished the stranger gave a slight nod, as if he had the right to judge their speech or sincerity! Wherever he was from clearly lacked manners.
Rather than say so (for hospitality was sacred, particularly on nights like Solstice), Father asked “Where were you travelling from?”
“North.” The stranger gestured in a vague arc.
Odd. Wasn’t the winter chair a northern tradition?
“Well, at least you had the wind at your back.”
For it had been blowing from the north all day, a good omen for the winter solstice, being believed to mean Old Man Winter was visiting, which was meant to put him in a good mood.
“It always is.” The stranger’s smile had a hint of smirk to it. The kind of smile which whispered ‘I know that what I just said means more to me than it does to you’.
Father found it off-putting, and decided not to pursue further conversation. Besides, there was plenty to do, serving food and making sure children behaved.
Now, some men are skinny because they eat so little. And some skinny men when given the chance will eat enough to make far stouter men stare.
But nobody in the family had ever seen anyone eat as much as this beanpole stranger! Every time the dishes were passed around (for manners called for offering food whenever a plate was empty) the stranger helped himself. And, while he didn’t seem to eat faster than everyone else, nor take larger bites, his plate was empty whenever they looked at him.
Grandma’s huge tureen of soup (which they’d expected to last another few days) vanished, spoonful by spoonful. The ham joint never got a chance to be cold cuts. For once Father hadn’t made too much stuffing.
The children watched, eyes wide and confused, as a week’s worth of delicious food was nonchalantly slurped down. And Mother and Father exchanged increasingly perturbed glances.
Ringing in their ears was that old advice, which they’d never before taken literally; “treat each guest at your Solstice table with the generosity you wish winter to show you”.
A lovely sentiment that didn’t invite scrutiny or meditating upon. They’d always assumed they understood it perfectly.
Yet here was a guest watching them with colourless, shiny eyes and a wide smile and an endlessly empty plate. His clothes still dark with ice and snow despite sitting in the warm for hours.
Without a word Mother got tomorrow’s loaf and started slicing it while Father fetched his only bottle of wine. And the guest smiled and gave another slight nod.
When it was clear everyone was only going to get one portion of fruitcake this year, Tom blurted “But-!” and was silenced by Mother firmly squeezing his shoulder. He dutiful swallowed his protests, though he pouted and glared down at the table.
The stranger shot him a sideways glance. His smile didn’t waver. Did that mean it was alright?
It was a subdued family indeed who sat around the fire cracking nuts, the only food left in the house, and watching the stranger eat them one by one. Mother was starting to wonder if they’d need to empty the pantry of ingredients and cook a whole other dinner when their ravenous guest suddenly stood.
“Thank you for the lovely evening.” He said, as if they had done no more than hosts ought.
“And a good evening to you.” Father replied, as if tomorrow’s breakfast wasn’t going to be a very sad bowl of pottage.
“Well. I shouldn’t take more of your time.” The stranger shook out the now sodden blanket and set it aside, then picked up the woven evergreen crown on the back of the winter chair and slipped it on like it was his own cap.
Then, without another word or a backwards glance, he walked out into the snowy darkness and let the door slam shut behind him.
Now the children could finally cry, and they did, while their parents held them and wished they could at least confidently promise it had been worth it.
It was a remarkably mild, pleasant winter. People commented on it.
And every year thereafter the family prepared the winter chair with great care, then sat down for the feast in wary silence, every eye on the door.
There had never been another knock… yet. But if there was, they would answer.
Winter could bring far worse than only one helping of cake.

Prompt was “Every winter feast requires one empty chair at the table. This year, someone sits in it.”