#roddy flagg

Habit had brought them here, though they also knew the mosquitoes would be in hiding after the rain and they would be safe this cool fresh evening. But sometimes reindeer do what they are used to doing, and so on paths trodden out over the years, they came. Only as the outlines of the camp became visible through the trees did they hesitate. Perhaps back to the forest, for succulent lichen and the new mushrooms? But then the odour of the salt caught them and they hesitated no longer. And behind them, the white calf. By now the only surviving snow would be deep in mountain hollows. Yet here the calf was, white as a fresh fall. The brightest colour in the forest, a pure white shine. It stepped lightly out of the trees, dreamlike. It was too pure a colour to belong to the forest shades.

The snow grew in force, smothering the trees, the ground and the rocks in thick white coat after thick white coat. It made the trees become bulkier, the ground vanish without trace, and the rocks fade from solidity into fuzziness. Even the small stream that runs through the village ceased its usual babbling, going silent beneath the ice. The snow took over each square foot quickly and efficiently, as if carrying out some long-planned attack. The land, transformed and silenced, belonged to the snow now. But the earth beneath seemed unconcerned, content to be wrapped in its blanket and dream deep white dreams. And as I thought these thoughts my own humble cabin seemed even more remote, alone in this endless expanse.