Through the snow, through the pixelated mist of our lives, I see him. Writing about him – only the antlers prevent me to say “her” – is another story: precisely.
Inspiration is like this vision, looking back at us, shrouded in doubt, shying away from the obvious, a myth. The stag will soon disappear, absorbed by the shadows, by the blank page. Alone, the white flakes of memory will, briefly, lit our darkness.
“Don’t get too close!”
“What do you mean? Do you think I could wake him up? It’s a rock, just a big ‘un! Relax!”
The snow continues falling, nothing moves, bar the flakes in the light wind. I know it’s not a rock, I know what’s there, and I don’t want to risk it. But this friend of mine is too cheeky. This could turn out pretty bad.
“I’m not leaving without touching it!” She really wants to tease me. “Come on! Let’s pull its tail!”
And she starts walking, toward the trees, toward it. It.
I see her standing there, in her big coat, pretty, rosy cheeks, her blond hair catching the snow.
“Hey! Look! It’s not moving!”
I sigh. She’s not the first one to do this. But now, it is moving, not the big mass, but the ground around it. I can see, I feel the light vibrations, something deep is fluttering, just a small tremor.
“Come back please, I am getting cold…”
“You’re just such a coward, you are!” She laughs.
She looks so young, her clear voice resonates in my ears, soon a murmur, as she slowly disappears in the frozen ground. A soft motion, silent, as I watch, petrified , and the snow continues falling.
Yesterday… We walked in this valley, under the burning sun, hand in hand, believing in the eternal summer. Yesterday, perhaps, more than you, my love, I longed for Autumn, and the fall of leaves. Did I believe Time had stopped? Did I believe Earth was flat, after all?
Or was I inebriated, drunk in our love?
But now, Winter has come, silent, ineluctable: the hills are white with snow, our shoes leave no trace on the frozen ground. Nature has taken back what is hers, the air is cold, yesterday’s azure sky is now deep grey.
The light is out.
Around them the circle of stones would be their refuge, their protectors against the demons of the night. She looked away toward the snow-covered hills:
“There will be our home. In the morning we will cross those fields, and then climb up. But tonight we will rest. The ancient warriors are there: look! They were expecting us…”
She showed him the stones, some erect, some lying, as if asleep.
He felt, somehow, reassured: they were now in her country, not so far from them, he knew, they would soon meet her tribe. He would follow the rites. He would shed his blood. Later, they would receive him in their rank.
Later still, they would have a child.
He remembered: in his youth, this landscape would have been covered with snow, frozen, for several weeks, even, on a colder year, for months. Now, the thaw had come before Christmas. They’d had two snow storms, and, perhaps, it would be all for the winter…
But he knew. Despite all the speeches, the pledges, the politicians’ grand gestures, nothing really had changed. Nature, the Earth, would wait. It had happened before, long ago, before the great flood. It would happen again.
The old man resumed his walk. The late December sun rays were warm on his skin.
Out of the mist they march
Cloaked in white, invisible,
An army of wraiths, frightening the crows,
Away from the living, they march towards Hell
On their way destroying all evils…
Image: Mieczysław Jakimowicz, Foreboding, 1907, via http://snowce.tumblr.com/
