The old woman will wash her tartan cloak in the whirlpools of the isles, only to pull out a great white sheet from the waters – she will shake it in the winds that will carry snow across the lands.  When everyone has finally hidden in their shacks, she grabs her apron and sets off on her mission. Wading through rivers, her gaze never lifts from the stream of water. Plunging into the cold, she collects the prized stones in her pockets (never mind if her clothes get wet). After a long day of work, she has earned the right to rest. Trudging back along, she slowly feels a weight lift off her back. It is only when she has made it home that she notices all her rocks are gone. When retracing her steps, she finds the mounds of stones that she dropped have grown into mountains. It is out of her hands now, but at least her cloak is dry.