The Blizzard

  A faint glow of a gas-lantern cast a measly light onto the sodden slopes, as Jack and Saira scraped their lungs for breath. Every few metres, the woman would turn to ensure they had not fallen behind.

  Swiftly and surefootedly, she picked her way through the crumbling pathway, while the sodden wet travellers stumbled behind. Despite their exhaustion, there was something about her imperious glare which spurred them on.

  To their relief, there was an easier way off the cliffside than the lethal route Jack had taken to ascend. Using only a few barked commands, she had told him how to find the iron hook in the slope hammered in many decades ago and unstrung a fine but tough rope from her shoulders, swinging the grapple hook up to him and slowly lowering him to safety. Saira grabbed him as his feet touched the surface, unsure whether she should strike him. Instead they both held each other, shivering in fear and cold.

  The woman said nothing. Her face was burnished with age, yet the smooth skin was taut and free from lines. It was hard for him to say what age she was. Perhaps she had seen her sixtieth year, maybe she was older? But her ramrod straight back suggested strength beyond her years. Dark waterproof trousers were paired with a green jacket of similar material and a close-fitting hood covered her iron-flecked hair. She met their examination with black, bottomless eyes

  “You’re late,” her voice was gravely and thick. Turning on her heel, she started to walk down the hillside, leaving the couple mouthing a silent response. The stern voice called them: “Well, aren’t you coming then?”

  Thus they retraced their steps down the hillside. Or at least they seemed to. Clumps of rock, a patch of mountain scrub, seemed familiar at first. But neither remembered the twisting path. Jack’s limbs still trembled from the climb, and Saira, too, was drained from watching his reckless stunt. Neither had the energy to question this fierce old creature.

  “Hurry! Neither of you are strong enough to walk far in the night.”

  “Where are we going?” Saira didn’t like to be ordered around; and liked less that she had no other choice. “You’ve not told us who you are.”

  “Not far. Keep moving.”

  Never a straight answer. Jack remembered his first encounter with Zarius many months ago. Questions were met with blunt refusals or evasion. There was no good reason how this woman could have known of their presence, no explanation as to why she should be looking for two strangers in the wilderness. And yet, somehow, it seemed natural and right that they should follow. Perhaps it had been destined to happen, the details of their meeting written in the margins of his friend’s book of forecasts.

  As they emerged from the mist and, even through the fading light, Jack and Saira were taken aback at the beauty of the valley below. No lights, roads or pylons could be seen; there was no fingerprint of human activity. The brow of the hill collapsed into broken rock cascading in front of them.

  Their guide was now marching along very edge of the cliff, looking around her as if to check for the presence of others. Then calling, she pointed and they saw it. A thin path ran down the face of the rock, the slightest misjudgement would mean a fall hundreds of feet onto the rocks below. Jack’s heart sank when he realised what was to come.

  Silently, the capable old woman unwound her rope, expertly securing the line to Saira’s waist

  “There is a gap in the rock. It isn’t far. You will see the entrance. Untie yourself when you’re inside.”

  It was Jack’ turn to watch helplessly as his wife stumbled down the narrow ledge, her knuckles whitening on the rockface. He leant over to follow her progress but was called back by a fierce word from the strange woman. After a few moments, he heard Saira’s voice.

  “It’s okay. I’m in.”

  The empty rope returned to the hilltop. Strong hands grabbed his belt as the line was fed across his own waist and tied tight. Tired and barely able to move his feet to the slippery ledge, his hands scoured the wall looking for security. Eventually, he edged himself along, feeling the rope slip behind him as it followed his progress.

  It was now almost dark, yet he could still see the glistening surface of the rock in the half-light. There was a gap, a blank space of darkness in the face of the cliff. As he was lowered closer, the opening in the rock face widened into view. It about four feet high and wide enough to admit a person through. Pulling himself into the gap, he ducked low to avoid a collision with the unseen roof.

  A faint glow leaked from behind the curtain loosely erected across the sides of the tunnel. Brushing away the side of the sheet, he saw Saira knelt by a bundle of animal furs and rags. In the centre of the cave, a small fire crackled and spat.

  A kettle and pots were placed neatly beside a camping rucksack and several large containers. There a strong, overpowering smell, the decaying sweetness of rotten fruit mixed with the tang of sewage.

  Jack was about to speak when he felt a tug around his midriff. The rope. He had not untied it. Fumbling with numb hands, he eventually managed to free the knot and the lined slipped away from him, past the curtain and out of sight.

  Saira turned towards him, tears filled her eyes.

  “I’m sorry. I think we’re too late.” She pulled back the animal covers to reveal a familiar shape. Scored with new lines upon his face and eyes more sunken than he had ever seen, there was no mistaking the figure of Strang. Gasping, Jack fell to his knees and fumbled over the covers to clasp his hand.

  But there was no sign of recognition. The old man’s body was bathed in sweat but shook in the cold evening air. His mouth opened but it only to allow his tongue to wet dry lips.

  Saira sat in silence for several minutes, studying, listening to the deep breaths. Finally she pulled a glowing stick from the embers holding it close to the prostrate figure’s frozen eyes.

  “There’s no reaction. Whatever else is wrong with him, he can’t see.”

  “What you mean he’s gone blind?”

  “It was a bird. A bird did it to him.” The deep voice rasped behind them. The woman had lowered herself into the space and in the dim light seemed bulkier and fiercer than the wiry figure on the hillside. “An animal’s discharge is a powerful thing. Not to be trifled with – it kill a man as easily as poison.”

  She paused and for a moment, a soft look crossed her impassive features. “I don’t think… that he’s got long to go, son.”

  But Jack was calm. The woman’s voice again – melodic and so familiar. It was, he remembered, the voice he had heard in his dormitory in Berlin, handling a half-read airphone message as the Nectar surged through his bloodstream. It was the voice he recognised, before he lost a father and gained a new one. Before he met Zarius, heard his divine claims or read his leather-bound notebook. They were gentle words he knew he would never hear again. The speaker had sunk below the waves.

  But wherever he was – in whatever state of mind – there was only one course of action. Fishing into his anorak, he drew out the small jar. Suspended in the salty oil fluid, the fist gut winked in the fire light like a tiny pickled eyelid.

  Without any sense of his previous revulsion, he squeezed the shrivelled grey matter between his fingers, managing to wring out a few drops of yellow moisture.

  Saira handed him a cloth tissue. “Here use this.”

  He laid soaked the material in the putrid fluid; he bowed low in the style one did from father to son, and gently bathed the man’s closed eyes, squeezing the paste into the lids.

  The old man said nothing but slowly the muscles around his tired mouth melted into a smile. His eyes flicked open pale hand grasped the wrist which hovered above his face with wrenching strength. He spoke.

  “My son! My beautiful son…”