Alzheimers in Atacama
Chapter 6 — The Hidden Cottage and the Secret of the Snowflakes
Two ancient strangers, Hawka and Chirapa, shelter the lovers. As Allpa sleeps, Chirapa reveals to Chaska the mystery of snowflakes — and that the stars are waiting for them both.
← Karl Swainston / Alzheimers in Atacama
Kaspi's guards were some four hours off their trail, but they moved without tiring and were soon only a couple of hours away from the little cottage. This isolated home belonged to Hawka and Chirapa, two old people inhabiting the foothills of the great Andes.
Allpa was thoroughly exhausted as he held Chaska in his arms. As he approached the cottage, the cabin door opened, as if it had been expecting them.
"Please, come in. Let me help her," Hawka spoke. Hawka was a very old man, nestled deep in the nineties of his years, and Chirapa, his wife, was no younger.
"Come, my child, and let the poor warmth of our little cottage help you," Chirapa added.
The two old people drew the young lovers into their cottage and closed the door behind them.
The old couple's abode was very meager. Only a hearth with a golden fire burned, and above it sat a kettle from which Chirapa drew hot water. She mixed into the drink some herbs and flowers, which the old woman knew would bring the exhausted child back to her senses.
"Come, child, look at us from your sleep once again, and take this comfort into your soul. You'll feel the stars above shine energy into your life once more."
Chirapa nursed the young girl in her arms, like a mother holding her to her breast, and let her drink the offering. Allpa, still recovering from his plight, gazed upon the scene.
"Where am I?" asked Chaska.
"You're in the arms of an eternal mother, and you must heed what I have to tell you, my child, as time is fast running out. Soon you'll be fleeing once again, and you must listen to my charm."
Allpa was overcome with both his exhaustion and the warmth of the hearth. He fell into a deep sleep and could not be moved.
"Let him sleep," Hawka urged, moving over to his aged wife, who still held Chaska in her arms. "You must tell her now, Chirapa. Tell her."
"Chaska, my child, listen to me."
"How do you know my name?" Chaska spoke, looking up at the old woman.
"Atacama knows your name, and the stars above Atacama know every name and every deed, my child."
"The snow is falling. I can see it outside the small window over there," Chaska noted softly.
"Yes, Heaven," Chirapa replied. "Imagine a crystal of snow, and in each arm of snow extending out from the crystal, there lies a thousand souls—virtuous and good souls waiting to be released upon the howling night. A winter storm isn't horrid; it's a party of happiness, of souls in snowflakes leaving this life, and in rapture, whirling toward an everlasting life in Heaven.
"A snowstorm is one big dating game, my little child. Each snowflake in the howling wind dances before the infinity of stars. She dances, and the star pulls the snowflake and her soul toward his love. He can only see her fluttering white beauty in the storm across the galaxies, but he knows that when she falls and breaks, and her little, beauteous soul is released, she will, in an instant, be with him—warm and beautiful in his arms. And that is why stars shine, little angel, to attract the snowflakes of love."
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About Karl Swainston
Karl Swainston is a writer and storyteller whose work is forged from a life lived across the North of England and far beyond. Growing up on a Leeds council estate in the 1960s, Karl's journey was anything but linear. By the age of thirty, he had already lived a dozen lives: from the rigors of grammar school to a degree in Latin, a stint as a fishmonger, a period of discovery living in Marseille, and a return to the hustle of London. Whether working as a postman, a builder, or competing as a county-level chess player, he was, above all, an avid reader—constantly documenting the world around him. This restless spirit continued into his professional life. Karl later taught in Bradford, where he ran a specialist unit for 244 of the most excluded students from across the region—young people whom even the local Pupil Referral Units could not accommodate. Working alongside his old friend Malcolm, Karl spent his days navigating the volatility of Bradford's most aggressive and dysfunctional teenagers. Throughout his life, Karl has been an avid runner and has always shared his home with a rotating cast of beloved dogs and cats—companions who have been constant witnesses to his work. As a writer, Karl's range is as expansive as his history. He works across a wide breadth of genres, including fiction and short stories, autobiography and memoir, biography, non-fiction, and metaphysical writing, as well as providing sharp commentary, opinion, analysis, and essays. Whether writing about his years managing the Harrogate Arms or offering insights from his current adopted home in South East India, where he lives in a simple village with his dog, Bambi, Karl's voice reflects the full, untidy, and deeply human breadth of life. He continues to draw on the rich, decades-long tapestry of his experiences to tell stories that matter, proving that no matter where you live, the human story remains the same.
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