This story actually began years ago, in the first winter without snow that the town had ever seen, but nobody knew it then.
The old-timers always said that the Old Ways had been dying, and without the regular tributes put on the grave of Albedo, we would be subject to his wrath. For years, I think, people had put flowers, milk, and rice on his grave, but I guess that year, not a single person had. The last of the old guard had died, and no one was left.
And Albedo apparently was not at all happy about that.
The area began to dry up. The snows stopped coming. The rivers began to run dry as the snows no longer melted to fill them. The rains gradually stopped coming in. I remember my mother frantically pleading before Albedo's grave, trying to convince him to bring the water back, or else her crops would die, and we would starve that year. He didn't listen.
For years, the trees began to die out, the place becoming as brittle as aged bone. And I started to become curious. I tried to find out why Albedo's grave was important, what it could have to do with the weather, and simply put, no one knew. My suspicions started then.
We weren't dealing with a ghost. We were dealing with something else.
I took a trip to Albedo's grave, and I set up camp, along with food. No one had ever tried to stand vigil over the place, and I wondered if perhaps I could get a glimpse of whatever it was that we had angered. We didn't have the money to hire a witcher, so I would have to do. Stupid, young, foolish me. I had no idea what I was in for.
It was something I later learned was called a dockhaint, a trickster spirit. Had I not armed myself with my father's iron hoe, I would have been in for more than just a beating. I asked it what I needed to do to get the rains to come back, and it answered that it demanded tribute, but this time even more, to make up for the lean years he had had without our tribute. I didn't believe it needed it.
I struck the grave with the hoe on accident, and it hissed. Realizing what I had done, I began to dig with the hoe, and the dockhaint pleaded not to free the bones of Albedo, a holy man who had managed to bind the spirit to these mountains and provide harvest. The dockhaint, realizing that word had died down of Albedo, demanded tribute in Albedo's name, regardless of the fact he could still call down rain anyways.
I threatened to expose his bones, and the dockhaint agreed to bring back the rains. I made the stipulation that no harmful rains were necessary, no floods or blizzards, and the dockhaint acquiesced to my commands. Satisfied, I said I would tend to the dockhaint myself, and that he would no longer threaten the people of the village.
So, every year, when I come back from a voyage, I go to the grave of Albedo to leave behind a bowl of rice, a glass of milk, some butter cookies, and a book. And if that didn't help - well, I always have Dad's trusty iron hoe.
