Gleann A' bhàis Ghil



The sunlight bounced off the frigid landscape, far beyond where eyes could see. "The White Death" surrounded the campsite like the wings of a fallen angel, stretched around their scantily built log cabin.

The open furnace served as the cabin's own heart, pumping heat through the aged wood like blood through veins, recirculating it, giving life to the two who had taken refuge inside.

A large yet bony hand raised itself against the cabin's singular window. A beige mitten stained with all kinds of dubious natures slid out from the palm of the man's clenched fist, almost rhythmically dancing it's way along the pink-blueish veins protruding through his almost ghostly skin.

With a movement that somehow managed to remain swift in his arthritic grip, the man made a firm zig and zag across the surface of the glass pane, slicing an oblong area of clarity through the mist that had, until now, enveloped it.

The old man leaned forward until his face was nearly touching the window. Peering out into the frozen and uninviting blanket, he looked for something, anything, to point him in the right direction.

A high voice fraught with timidity drew his attention, "Do you really think it's safe?" Asked a young boy, sat beside the furnace.

The old man slowly turned towards the boy, trying his damnedest to reflect confidence and leadership. "No…", he said, his voice delicately threading the needle between a growl and a whimper, "...But it's not safe here."

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