The Winter Willow

I was walking through a bitter mountain pass where the sun dazzled beautifully upon the snow. The frost took the form of hammers which violently knocked at my skin making it tinged a bright pink colour. I was with my father who I had to crane my neck upwards every time I needed to talk to him. The withered marks of old age were etched across his face. His long black hair was unkempt and disheveled which he fiddled with in the blistering wind having to wipe renegade strokes from his eyes. We were heading to a secluded village named little Brottington which was buried among the valley between two large mountains. The rare trees that stood wrapped there gnarled branches around us as we walked, blocking from sight the already fading sky, mournful and dead. I found the trek quite perilous in parts and the innocent child that I was did not no pain or suffering. I was becoming a man.

“Are you alright Ollie?”

“I am fine”, I lied. I hoped this would be the last time I would hear the trudge and sludge of snow.

As the distance we had traveled mounted up, my limbs became agitated and my feet ached in anguish. The fog towered in front of me like a colossus icy wall which blurred my vision. I could only sense the transparent shapes in front of me. Then, all of a sudden an orange glow loomed in ahead. I jumped back in surprise, ready to defend myself against whatever it was… A solitary slender fox made itself visible and with it I calmed, but only slightly, as I was unaware of its intentions. For a few seconds the fox and I gazed apprehensively at each other. It was as though both our minds had opened up and we were transferring thoughts to one another. My father approached behind me, his joints moaning. He was also startled.

I contemplated, pulling thoughts and ideas from every orifice. On impulse, I said

“I think it wants us to follow it”.

My father did not respond. His face was blank. His muscles forced themselves to be stiff, as though they had only just frozen there…

“Dad…Dad!”

“Calm your self Oliver, I am thinking of what to do”.

I saw in his distant, wizened eyes the same feeling I had experienced when looking into the bold, furred fox.

“I think we should follow it's”, my father said to my astonishment, and almost momentarily the fox galloped off into the dreary distance, a warhorse among a carpet of perils, fearless, a beacon.

My father and I shortly followed after it, slightly apprehensive that it was lost but luckily enough there was a winding trail of neatly sliced footprints that were left behind.

We had no idea where we were going but we carried on. Somehow the fox gave the misty valley an ethereal glow which brought hope and being to the crumpled trees and frozen animals. I imagined a once prosperous ecosystem where instead of leer down, the icicles glistened like stars and the snow would dance upon the ground. The cold would have merely made the warmth seem more merry and blissful. My mood lifted and my limbs became agitated up to every promising corner as I ran, excited as to what may befall my vision. I could sense it now. It was something wondrous. Then I stopped…The fox was nowhere to be seen. The trail of footprints had ended in a flurry of high spirits. But then I saw a sight which was worth the woe. The village of little Brottington was nestled in the valley not so far away. The atmosphere was sleepy from the slumber of hibernation. The sun was sumptuous in the now warming winter air.