It was cold- a dark clinging cold that seemed to be inside the very marrow of my
bones. My feet slipped on the wet muddy ground and I pulled my deerskin cloak closer,
but even that brought no comfort. I was so unbelievably cold and wet. Normally, the
soft supple skin would enfold me within its warmth and comfort; pictures would form
in my mind of the generations of deer that had gone before my time on this earth.
Today, the herds were but a distant memory as the weather closed in on me, Grandmamma
and my 11-year-old sister, Trieainia. ‘Oh for the warmth of a fire,’ I thought, slipping
and sliding on the muddy, sandy ground. I drew nearer to my Grandmamma for warmth
and reassurance. The mist continued to swirl around; creating strange shapes, transforming
the winter trees into mystical, ghostly forms, making me think of weird creatures
waiting to pounce on us. The tree branches, outstretched like big cat claws, loomed
towards us and they seemed to be calling and drawing us nearer and nearer through
the ghostly mist that hung and hovered, drifting through the tree branches. I shuddered
and my imagination took flight, thinking of the world they inhabited once their time
on Earth was spent. The trees that died in winter, I knew, were taken to the gods
of the winter forests to stand forever in a cold dark world of evil black bats and
animals that fiercely guarded their own territories. How, I wondered, could they
live forever in that bleak cold desolate land, covered in black icicles, never again
to feel the warmth of the sun on their boughs or the kiss of a butterfly in the spring?
Always to stand guard over a despairing landscape of frozen black ground and ice
packed pools and lakes, never to hear the babbling of a summer’s silver waterfall
as it gurgles and babbles into the stream. Instead, they stand frozen forever in
a black eternity.
.