Outside the snow was beginning to melt. Using the already-stretched sleeve of her cardigan, she smeared a hole in the condensation on the window. It was still snowing. Yes, it was a little damp, perhaps, a little direct. But no one could call it sleet. The sight of the piebald ground – straggly tufts of unkillable grass puncturing the white; infectious mud discolouring it from below – was, for some reason, unbearable. Her mouth opened, but a sigh didn’t quite come out. It was only another moment before she had on her Wellingtons, waterproof trousers, and a sturdy jacket. Her ears were enveloped by a hat slightly too large, her neck wound in scarf. She crammed the thicker of her pairs of gloves into a pocket, and set forth. It would still be snowing on the mountain.
After five steps, she could no longer see the front door. It may have been sleet, but it was still thick, and, if she were honest with herself, it was getting a little dusky. The melting of snow had always frightened her. Ugly glimpses of the dark squelchy earth beneath. She began to jog a little, glancing around to see if she must worry about looking silly. Knowing she was not a running person, she could not quite commit to it. Consequently her motion was a strange loping jog. She realized she could have used thicker socks – wellies were not ideal on a steep incline. Although her ears were muffled by fleece, and beyond the wind applauded, she could hear the annoying swish of her legs in the waterproofs. The blue stripes on her boots began to glow like gas as the daylight dimmed. She climbed further, looking down both to be aware of her footing and to avoid squinting into the sleet. The fingers of her gloves poked from the top of her pocket like a litter of black joeys.
After fifteen minutes, she was rewarded. There was no more mud to be seen, and no wet darts of sleet – just snow fairies, ambling and dancing their way down to her. She had reached a small false peak. It was getting lighter again, as she was above the valley and more of the sky to the west was visible. She turned to look back, her back to the wind, the snowflakes swirling past like a universe rushing away from her. The view was no different – the bluish dusk had given way to dove grey once more. Snow grey. She put on her gloves, realizing this past quarter hour her hands had been freezing. It was a relief not to feel the sting of the weather on her face.
She had not the time to acknowledge this, before black feelings piled on her like ants crawling on ants in her head. Facing the snow again, she walked on, her feelings lost in her struggle with the wind and slope, just as the swish of her trousers now was. But even altitude could not hold back the progression of evening. It surely wasn’t getting dark? Surely the snow was just a little thicker higher up. The sky was still a shade of white.
All was going well. It snowed and it snowed. White spots meandering against the white sky like an infinity of tiny babies all coming to meet her. When she trod down, her whole foot was immersed, only a stripy tube led to her knees. Suddenly… she lost her footing… lurching… scree shifting under snow, away from scrambling feet, but her hands saved her. She tested her unsupported ankle. Then, on, forwards, upwards. She did not notice how much harder it was to see her feet and their placement. She did not notice her laboured breathing.
And then she stopped. She had to. There was nothing ahead. No ground, no laid snow – just: Sky. And its snowflakes. She was confused. She knew her mountain. This was not any of her paths. There was no cliff. Where had she…? She turned to retrace her steps, but after only two: another cliff. Had she not just come from here? She walked to one side, another, and another still. All dead ends. She was calm, she could reasonably expect that in at least one direction there was no cliff, because had she not, just this last minute, walked to this spot?
Never mind. What she wanted to do was shout. Very loudly. That must be why she’d come up here. But what if somebody heard her? What if they mistook her jubilation for trouble – a cry for help? She could hardly explain to Rescue. Of course nobody could hear. Nobody could possibly hear. She coughed. Aaaahh she said, dentally. She tried again, aaaeeeeehh…, she didn’t bother to finish. She wasn’t really the screaming type.
Each snowflake exploded on her face in a numb starburst. She lay down. The area on top of the apparent stack was just large enough to accommodate her length. The sky was undeniably grey. The snow against it grey and less discernable. She banged her gloved fists against the earth, impacting circles of snow, and screamed so loud it felt like her lungs had flown out: What are you afraid of? She did not notice the flakes of snow landing in her eyes, their sting and water. She did not notice that now she could no longer see. What was that expression? If you look into the snow too long you’ll go blind?
Early 2005
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