Wintry Path

Wintry Path

                Once, a long time ago now, I used to travel the lands. I saw many things, and met many people. One of the saddest I ever met was a man who lived a ways up Mount Arbile, where it snows every year.

                I was traveling the road up the mountain to reach the pass - my next stop the Deserts of Arbile (the man had a habit of naming things after himself). It was an arduous journey - one of my first experiences traveling in snow - and it turned out that I could not get as far in one day as I had hoped. Not wishing to camp in the snow (I'll tell you how you can survive that another day) I looked for shelter along the road as I went.

                Luck was with me - not far further along was a large log cabin; a curling stream of smoke billowing from its chimney. Chuffed, I wandered down the road and reached it just as dawn fell. Light came from inside, and I rapped upon the door in hope of gaining a place to spend the night.

                A lovely, matronly woman answered the door. "Hello!" she said, "Are you traveling to the mountain pass?"

                "I, well, yes," I replied. "Do many travelers find themselves caught this far out?"

                "Oh, a few, perhaps two or three every cold season," she replied. "Please, come in, our hearth is warm and dinner is on the way!"

                "Why thank you, but please let me introduce myself! I am Phillippe of Jeanton, and I am wandering to see the world while my legs will still carry me," I said, giving my regular introduction.

                "Greetings, Phillippe. I am Angeline, and I live here with my husband, Francis (though I must tell you that he prefers Frank)," replied Angeline.

                With a smile and a beckoning hand she bad me to come inside, and I complied. "Frank is just through there," she said, before yelling, "Frank! We have a guest!"

                Taking the door Angeline indicated led me to a dining room, with two places set around a small square table - a chair on each side. Her husband, Frank, sat awaiting his meal. He was a burly man, the result of the woodcutting, hunting, slaughtering and farming that supported him and his wife on the snowy mountain. The two places set were opposite one another, so I sat on a side between them.

                "Greetings!" said Frank cheerfully as I took a seat. "You might find it odd for us to be so accepting of guests, but we have nothing worth robbing and so few travel this mountain that kindness only begets kindness. At least, as far as I have seen!"

                I smiled, and began a conversation with Frank. We talked about the kindness of humans to one another, and of the mountain, of the trees that grew upon it, of the animals in the woods. Of how he spent his days, so far away from civilisation.

                Time passed quickly, and soon Angeline bustled in bearing the evening meal. "I had to play around with the servings to fit in a guest so late," she said, "But I think we've all got a good feed."

                And she was certainly right about that - each plate was piled high with boar meat, surrounded by cooked vegetables (I know you're picturing fresh ones from the garden, these were long lasting root vegetables but delicious nonetheless). She even graciously served Frank and I a tankard of ale apiece and herself some wine while setting my place.

                Around that small table we crowded, staring at our meals. "Thank you, Angeline," Frank said. It struck me as strange even then how thankful he was.

                "It's nothing dear, dig in!" Angeline replied, smiling.

                Frank needed no further prompting to start tearing the meat apart with his knife and fork, and I quickly followed his lead. I have to say, compared to the two I was slow and clumsy - only rarely have I seen such efficient eating. Over the food, the chatted about their day to day life. I, myself, spent most of my time eating and not much talking.

                Conversation eventually turned to me, and my travels, which I'm sure you've all heard enough about for me not to need to repeat here. I told the story of my encounter with the stone-king, and the time I found a group of people trapped in a time bubble. Unfortunately my best act - my favourite tale - had yet to come to pass, but they laughed and enjoyed my recollections anyway.

                Then I asked a few questions of my hosts; "How did you come to live out here?" Well, they loved the snow and the woods and it was peaceful and plentiful if one knew how to live there so they traveled up the mountain and there they were!  "How long ago?" Oh, at least ten years - eleven dear. "Do you see many travelers like myself?" Maybe two or three a year, something like that. Mostly during the winter season, as the rest of the year travelers just head on by. "Are you planning to have children?"

                "Ah," replied Frank, looking at Angeline solemnly.

                "We've been trying, ever since we came out here," replied Angeline. "But we haven't succeeded." Angeline frowned.

                "It's not your fault, my love," said Frank, placing his hands on one of Angeline's.

                Angeline smiled sadly and nodded.

                "I'm sorry I brought it up," I said. "I beg your pardon."

                "It's alright, almost everyone who drops by asks," replied Frank.

                "Yes, that's true. We should talk about something else though - why don't you tell Philippe about the time you met a talking wolf?" suggested Angeline.

                "Ah, now that's a tale," said Frank, my faux pas forgotten.

                The ensuing tale was quite marvelous - although, technically, it was not a talking wolf. If you have heard of the beasts that sometimes look like women yet are certainly not, this wolf was a similar creature - but one with the form of a wolf. It could not truly talk (as with other such beasts), but it lured Frank into the woods - yet he wised up and slew the creature before it could harm him.

                Angeline clapped and smiled as Frank finished his story. Frank's face bore one of the most happy, loving smiles I have ever seen as he beamed at her. Now, during Frank's tale I had (finally) managed to finish my meal, and Angeline stood and began to clear the table.

                "I'll show you where you can bed," said Frank. He led me off through a passage and towards a cluster of four doors.

                "That's my room, and that's the guest room," he said, indicated the door opposite. "Make yourself at home - I'll be in my workshop on the far side of the dining room if you're inclined to chat a while before taking rest."

                I nodded and thanked him and Angeline both profusely. I quickly settled in - setting up my bedroll on the floor (many would dirty a clean bed with their long unwashed self, but I could not bring myself to do so), preparing some nightclothes, gumming my teeth. I added a couple of pages to my diary (logging my stay and Frank's story) as well, which took me some time.

                I decided to seek out Angeline and offer my assistance cleaning up after the meal, and then perhaps to speak with Frank about hunting in the region. She had already finished (which was unsurprising), so I decided to seek her out to offer her thanks for the meal in person instead.

                I moved through all rooms of the house, even looking outside. I couldn't find her - though more strangely, I couldn't find anywhere she would really have gone after cleaning up. There was no sewing room, no craftswork room, nothing. Soon enough I almost smacked myself on the head - she'd be in the workshop with Frank.

                But she wasn't. I opened the door and stepped in only to find Frank, working on some arrows. Considering how far they lived from civilisation, it was a useful skill. "Good evening," I said.

                "Good evening to you as well, Philippe," he replied.

                "I was wondering, where has your wife gotten to? I wish to thank her for the lovely meal, and I took too long with my diary to catch her cleaning up," I said.

                Seeing sadness - such deep sadness - set in so quickly almost made me cry then and there. "She's gone," he said.

                "Gone? Gone... Gone how?" I asked. But I already knew it had to be something so terrible.

                "She's been dead for seven years, but she doesn't know it," said Frank. He had to have already explained it to so many, but saying it was bringing him to the verge of tears. I couldn't say anything.

                "I can't bring myself to tell her. Every night, she comes back in time to make dinner. She doesn't know that I haven't seen her all day, since last night. She makes it, we eat it, and then right after she finishes cleaning up she's gone again," Frank said in a rush.

                As soon as he finished saying it, he covered his eyes with his hand. I let him have some time, and a minute later he wiped his eyes. "Follow me," he said, and stood.

                I followed him out of the log house he and Angeline had built together, out to a copse not far away. Frank walked to the centre and kneeled, sobbing just barely audibly.

                In the centre of the copse lay Angeline's grave; covered by snow and worn by time.