Memories of time
There’s a sort of unpleasant chill in the air when you begin walking through the snow. You never really see where you’re about to step so the hesitation involved in finding the right footing is quintessential to the experience of these lands. As one’s mind drifts in and out of the frozen wastes, its physical presence continues to expand for miles and miles, seeming like it would never end as if any direction you walked or ran in would never let you escape.
To wake up from this experience was a rare thing. Not many had mastered the art of leaving this place. To find yourself among the snows was considered a feat only meant for the elders who came before you. We never found out how they did so but they managed to leave this tundra at some point. Some say it’s probably why we still keep them around. It’s not like there isn’t usable meat on their bones, but knowledge of the past can be the only gateway we can hope for. We wait around for them to breathe the few breadths we can supply them with, in the hopes that someday they are able to impart us knowledge of the land we so desperately need.
Two members of our tribe take the western trail once a fortnight. Their return brings all the fuel we will have till the next trip occurs. The complete journey is known to take between two to four days, depending on who ends up going. Traditionally, it has always been decided by timed rounds of combat but these last few years, we have seen more equitable outcomes based on chance. It has taken a long time to convince the various groups in our little community to adhere to this system, but it is what has presented the least grievances when the travelers don’t return from certain trips.
I remember the last bit of tantalizing history an elder was able to give us. It was 5 months ago. She was in a haze as best I can tell but her mind seemed clear enough to believe what it was describing. She spoke of thin slivers of vibrant matter emerging from the ground. They would dance with the wind like nothing she could describe. “And they weren’t sharp and pointed like the snow. I remember stepping on the ground in their presence and they would bend and morph underneath my feet. It’s like they had a life of their own. They would play with you, move with you, and if you caught them in the right mood even tickled the underside of your feet!”
She went on to describe how these little beings would change colour, shape, and size with time. Sometimes they would become massive when you’re not looking but also disappear if you played around too much and they didn’t like it. “You had to look after them”, she said. “It was sort of a chore but it was quite worthwhile once you got used to having them around. If anything, it seems even more worthwhile now that I can’t see them again”.
It wasn’t long before she shivered herself back to this world and to the rest of us. We hoped she remembered what she told us so we could ask more questions, but they usually never do. We don’t know if these dreams they have were ever real, but honestly, I hope they were. They feel real enough when you hear them and after a point I really can’t tell the difference.
A short story inspired by images of imagined landscapes based on my work. This is part of a series of explorations in free writing and world-building that I would like to grow further.
Written May 24th, 2022