91热爆

She drifted off on the heat of the suns rays, shut her eyes and let the soft wind bring scents of summer to her, of flower and cut wheat and seabird and distantly, raucous crow....
And somewhere within the boundaries of summer and her mind, winter came, with the chill of snow and ice and the harsh bitter air that hurt the lungs to breathe.
And somewhere within that landscape she stood up and began to walk, not across a tiny island busy with farming activity, but across a tundra with spirals of dancing snowdrifts, beneath a wide and corpse grey sky heavy with thunder.
And she followed the track of wild geese in the vast skies, north.
And she followed the song of the hungered wolf in the dips and hollows of the landscape, wolves from the north.
And she walked for an age, heedless of time, north.
And stopped at the edge of a ravine and looked down.
Steep and ragged sides spat patters of loose snow and skree into the hollow bottom of it. She laughed and her laughter echoed and faded.
And was answered by the ragged whine of a hound in pain.

So it took another age to climb the ravine, a best left story of slip and slide and heart in the throat at the danger of it, til, leaving bloody handprints on the virgin snow, she blinked in the darkness at the bottom of the ravine and let her sight adjust.
And there, in a corner, half under a fallen boulder, a wild hound lay, eyes rolling in wariness, sides heaving and panting.
A bristled, brindled, grey mottled hound it was, ragged and hurt and watching her approach and still spirited, ready to take a hand, rip a throat, if it could but move.
So softly, quietly, not baring teeth in any foolish grin, she walked toward the hound, and without thinking, put her shoulder to the stone and rolled it away from the torn flank of the beast.
Snarling, the hound half slid, half hauled itself to the relative cover of the side of the ravine, and began to lick the flank clean of blood, still showing her the whites of its eyes.
She just stood, and watched this happen and watched the hound minister to itself the only healing it knew how.
And saw, it was a young male beast, skinny and unkempt, one of the tundras wild hounds which raced the wolves for fleetfooted meat and, sometimes, won, one of the wild hounds which, if winter bit extra hard, took an unwary child or old woman for meat, leaving behind only bones, and tattered strips of cloth, and maybe a half gnawed shoe....

Seeing the twist and turn of the ravine ahead, she turned away from the hound and walked the path of it.
Snow began to fall, soft fat flakes, thickening the quietness, blanketing the light.
Out from the ravine she walked, and into the twilight the snow gifted the vast space ahead.
Hearing the soft pat of the hounds paws behind her, she stopped walking and turned around.
A mere foot away from her, head waist high, soft glowing eyes watched hers, and slowly, he inched forward until he reached where she stood, and the narrow, feral head moved forward to let a damp and rough tongue lick her fingers.
She saw the wound had stopped bleeding now...he limped a little but it would heal.
She saw the ribs stark against the staring coat but saw he would live to bring down meat again.
Carefully, she stroked the head, caressed the ears, and turned again to walk into the snow.

The cry of a gull, nearer now, opened her eyes. The summer sun drew a haar from the sea with the war of heat and chill and water....
The scent from the roses drifted to her like the finest perfume.
And beside her outstretched hand, in the grass, a perfect paw print began to fade......