by Lindi Vission

Created on: December 02, 2009

Mountains. Long, sinuous mountains reach across the landscape, encircling everything in sight. Fresh snow flutters in the delicate winter breeze, quietly smothering tall spruce and pine. The trees sparsely dot the plains and valleys created by intertwining arms; they rustle and sigh up tall hills that reach up towards the feet of the mountains themselves. The snow falls thick and fast now, veiling the sky in a whirling blanket of white. Then it is gone. The sun's pale rays glare over the snow, revealing a vast lay of white; mountains of smooth, pristine snow towering over lesser hills, their vast arms outspread as if in welcome. In a silent dream, nothing stirs across the vast, empty expanse.

A lone figure stands at the crest of a hill, a lonely trail of distorted prints winding down behind him. Drawing a thick black coat up comfortably around his neck, he gazes at the surrounding hills, slowly taking it all in. The air is fresh and sharp, but ever so frigid; the snow is delightfully fine and powdery, but unimaginably deep. The silence is broken by the distant crash of snow off a relieved spruce. Then silence again. His gaze shifts in the direction of the disturbance. Another figure stands on the hill beside him. Then it is gone. Hoisting a heavy rucksack, he starts down the hill without hesitation.

He mounts the second hill, but it is empty. There is no trace of presence here; neither a print nor scuffle in the soft, light snow. But the figure is there at the bottom of the hill. It is a person moving away, swiftly, purposefully. He hesitates this time, but follows it again.

The sun is high in the sky. A creek breaks the silence, the rushing water slightly muffled by encasing ice. Long ice crystals hang glimmering over the lip of a waterfall. One on the edge detaches and falls with a crack, burying itself to obscurity in the snow below. Overhead, a clumsy scuffle as the man trips over his snowshoes crossing the ice. The figure is only a handful of metres ahead. It turns. Frowns. Shoulder-length hair gleams icy white in the sun, falling over a robe of sleek fur: it gleams a glossy silver and brown. The face is as though it were crafted of hard snow with all the features caringly smoothed over. The eyes dance black against the high, pale cheekbones. Her face expressionless now, she raises her hand and extends in towards him. Then she turns and begins away, her bare feet gliding over the delicate snow without a mark. He watches her hips as they gyrate gracefully

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