大象传媒

The snow lay thickly that night.

As the old grandfather clock struck midnight, its deep chimes bellowing throughout the house, all life was dormant.

A candle flickered upon the mantlepiece, burned down to a stub, illuminating a quiet scene… an ornate, comfortable living room, complete with a plush burgundy sofa, covered in throws and pillows.

Upon this sofa, a small shadow sat, smaller than the cushions among which it took its place, before doing something notably un-shadowlike.

It sat up and stretched its mouth wide in a yawn.

Unfurling itself into its feline form, the inky black cat slipped nimbly down onto the thick, cream carpet and began to make its way towards the exit.

The aged mahogany door stood before the cat like a silent soldier, there was a small opening at the bottom allowing it to slip through into the onyx night.

Stepping out onto the cold concrete, the cat began its twilight prowl.

Following a familiar path: down the steps, along the wall, into the shrubby garden… however, this night was somehow different, magical... cold?

From the feline’s eye level, all that could be seen was an unblemished layer of white, covering the grass like a sheet of marble, sheltering it from the frigid night-time air.

The cat, trepidatious at this new development, looked upon the layer for a few seconds before steeling itself – it was going to touch it.

Slowly, a paw reached out towards the blanket of alabaster ice, finally meeting its mark with a satisfying crunch.

The cat pondered this new sensation – cold, yes, but a refreshing cold, not at all the harsh bite it had expected.

Gaining confidence now, the small shadow stepped boldly forward into the crisp whiteness, to bound about joyously until morning light.

That serendipitous night, shadow met snow.

The pine forest’s sloping, brown floor was blanketed thickly in frost-hardened needles; prickly, whiteish in the wintery conditions.

The branches of the glimmering pine trees swayed silently, now dark grey-green in the frost, in an equally silent wind.

Only a faint and far-off whistle carried through the air.

An owl hooted sharply somewhere high in the metropolis of trees, near the blueish star-flecked night sky, which hosted a faint yellow-white moon, casting white light onto the woodland.

Scarcely anything moved as the celestial body loomed high above the tranquil setting.

Below a sprawling pine was a small stream running cold… gushing, diverted often by rocks which shone wet and slick. The stream in some places was frothy as it flowed, and it was white, like the snow that was looming in the unpredictable time ahead – for winter had yet to take full sway in this bleak and presumably desolate land.

But it wasn’t wholly empty.

On a large rock by the stream sat a boy.

He was bundled up in many furs – a large coat, thick breeches, sturdy boots, and toughened gloves. His breath was misty, face pale as the snow that he hoped and wished for, eyes as blue as ice, hair as black as the wolves that roamed.

He hummed softly, lips upwards in a half-contented smile, turning over a small marble stone in his gloved hands that was grey, streaked with white. He had been there many days, hoping for his beloved snow, and now, finally, had his wish.

He halted his humming as the first flecks of white flurried elegantly through the air, and his lips formed a full smile.

The magical whiteness enclosed the land, blanketing it in winter’s cold bite.

The boy, happy now, viewed his land becoming beautiful once again.

CRACK!

“Winter is the most brutal time of year,” thought the hunter as he trod on yet another twig under the snow.

In the silence of the forest, all noise was amplified until even the most miniscule sound reverberated intrusively amongst the trees.

The hunter knew this better than anyone.

Annoyed, he watched as the wild boar he had been shadowing all morning scrambled off into the woods.

In resignation, the hunter found a nearby rock and sat down.

The day's pickings had been meagre. One small squirrel which he had hung over his shoulder, and a few hardy winter chanterelles, stuffed into the pockets of his fur coat.

Not nearly enough.

Taking a sip of glögg, he allowed the warm, spiced flavour to soothe him.

He marvelled at the way his warm breath manifested in the air, sending out clouds of fluffy, white steam.

He gazed around him.

When he looked up, the pines formed a tunnel up to the white sky. Through the trees, he could just about make out the distant sun.

It was peaceful there, in the forest.

A light crunch in the snow sounded behind him. Instinctively, he twisted round, grabbing his crossbow which had gone unused all morning.

Then he saw them.

Three reindeer, antlers pointing high into the sky, muzzles rooting hopefully in the snow.

So close… there was nothing in the way.

Standing up and approaching them with the light tread, acquired from years of hunting, he took aim.

The deer looked up.

The hunter’s eyes widened; his arm trembled. His arrow startled out of the crossbow, plunging into a tree, inches away from the luminous crimson nose of the reindeer.

A stunned pause.

Then the reindeer met the hunter’s eyes, blinked, and stepped purposefully into the sky.