Hello, my friends and the occasional relative!

It is story time once again. BUT, before I get to that I want to let those of you waiting with bated breath for a book update: the book is complete. Proofing is go. We are into the next, one step closer to final, phase.

This week I’m not sharing an old story, but a new one, inspired by my northern hemispherical weather exposure. Fantasied up, of course. And I’m sharing version three with you. The first two were fine, and maybe I’ll share them later, if requested, but I think this is better. I could spend more time on it, but it was meant as a quick piece of fun with some stylistic play thrown in, not as an entrant in the deathless prose Olympics™.  (Ooooh! There is a blog series idea if ever I saw one, hahaha! The DPO!)  

 Find my previous pieces: #1 here, #2 here, # 3 here, # 4 here, #5 here and #6 here. I do of course assert full copyright control over these story ideas, and the one presented today.

If someone wants to use this as a prompt, or continue the story as they wish, they have my permission to do so, provided I am credited for the portion I share below.

Snow

Snow. On days like this, all that remains is snow. Snow. Snow and stones and dirt. Snow and stones and dirt and the baying of dogs. Heavy grey cloud, snow in the air, the baying of dogs. Snow and stones, the dirt slowly hiding under a white blanket.

My foot slips. I panic, try to correct, but snow and dirt slide beneath me, and I fall into a blur of white and grey and brown, arms out as I try to focus, find a spot in my vision to hold me up, but it’s all too fast.

Whoomph. I hit the ground in a spray of white, brown smeared across my face, grey rock gashing my cheek. Of course I hit a rock. Blood for the dogs. The hounds. I grunt, and it sounds panicked. Never heard that sound before.

My hands and feet scrabble through the snow and the dirt, against rock and dead grass, trying to lift me up. Falling snow tries to bury me. My breath explodes in frantic clouds, and a knee stops my slide.

I plant one foot against stone, and lever myself up. Snow and stones and dirt fill the sloping field ahead. Nowhere to hide, here. The hounds bay again, harder, my blood in their questing, quivering nostrils. Are they salivating yet?

Run. Downslope toward the river. Low hill behind won’t hide me for long. Dull glow of cloud-hidden sun guides me across white and grey and brown, my fur-bound feet afraid of the ground they hit, ready for another slippery betrayal.

The hounds cry harder, but I don’t hear the horses, their hooves tearing up the snow, sending clods of brown earth flying behind them. I pray they get stones in their shoes.

I run harder, lengthening my stride, speed worth the risk. If I hear the horses I’m done. The cold burns my lungs, a coat of crusty ice at my nostrils. Is this the most important moment in my life? This grunting, fearful, snot crusted, frozen moment?

A deer path. I follow it, heedless of footprints in snow and crusted mud. The deer seek water. I seek water. Wolves seek deer. I pray for wolves, dream of them fighting the hounds for me. In the snow-light will they howl, and course past me toward my enemies? No. They won’t howl.

The slope deepens, I abandon the run and slide down the slope, trees ahead and below me, promising water.  I pant and recover as I guide my way down the snow and dirt, past the stones that would gash me again, if they could.

Water and ice will freeze me. The hounds behind bay louder, they have caught my fresh blood in their nostrils. I think I can feel the earth thrum with the drumming of hooves.

I stand and sprint and enter the trees, bare-branched and hopeless, no hiding here. Dirt and snow and boulders surround them. I see a rise opposite me through empty branches. This is a defile of sorts. A river must run at its base.

Crashing downhill through the snow, brown branches whip at me, grey boulders ahead, shrugged from the hill an aeon ago. Are they carved in the swirling remembrances of a forgotten time? The snow hides any ancient traces.

Horses. Horses and dogs and men. Horses and dogs and men fill the air with ugly sound. The heavy grey cloud a shroud above me, descending. Horses and dogs, the confident cries of men urging them on.

I slip on ice, fall and slide. The snow falls harder, blanketing it, and me. Here is the river. I crack the ice, feel the cold water bite me. The wolves of my dreams are coming, but for me, not them, their icicle teeth dripping, growing longer.

This isn’t fair. I pull my leg free, stagger to the far side, dark grey boulder with a ring of brown at its base, heavy mantle of white above. So large, but it won’t protect me. Wind presses me on, downhill, snow swirling around the boulder’s base, coating the brown, the grey.

They will find me. In their cruelty they will find me. They made me a sinner so they could hunt me, their long arrogant faces, their voices dripping disdain. I never took what they said, I never looked at what I shouldn’t. It doesn’t matter. They cast me out into the snow.

The wind presses harder, the snow beating hard against my back, flakes fleeing before me in a chaotic torrent, so much faster than I. I can’t see the ground, only feel it. I can’t run. My leg, where the water bit me, is so cold. The blanket of snow it bears does not warm. This isn’t fair.

I can’t hear the dogs anymore, or the horses, or the men. Dogs go quiet before the kill. I feel a new terror, and icy tears streak and stop on my cheek. I want to turn around, I can’t, I want to, I just can’t. But I’m going so slowly, they must be right there. Right behind me. Leaping at my back.

I turn around, arms raised in a pathetic cross before me, cringing. Snow plasters my face, no hot hound breath follows, their teeth bared, ready to warm me in my own blood. Nothing: a cold white vortex closes my eyes, wind clubs at my frozen ears.

They are lost too, in this sudden violent storm. Will their warm hall beckon them? Will they abandon the chase and leave me to die, or do they demand my blood, to be smeared across their children’s faces?

I walk now, slowly, through the white. Brown is gone, grey too. I think downhill. I dream not of wolves, but of warmth, a bright hearth and smiling faces, companionship against the cold outside.

I fall with a muffled terrified cry that makes my earlier sound a bellow of bravery. The snow cushions my fall, and I slide, not far, just enough to make me feel useless. Please, let some kindly king find me in this place, please let me see a friendly light in this white darkness.

But all I see is snow. On days like this, all that remains is snow.