Elise
I was watching Elise walk away, down the steep path up the mountain, deep in conversation with Johnson, all the while listening to her husband tell a story about a football player. There were eight of us on the mountain. The sky had never let up and the overbearing mist made the rocks slippery. Hugging the path on either side were the tall trees that were already sliding off each jagged edge.
The husband's voice carried thinly in the air, much in contrast to his fine and sturdy figure. "...the famous footballer, and suddenly he clenched his teeth, as if in a rictus, grimacing, right? And said 'what I can't stand is those artists. They get paid a million dollars and for what? Nothing? Me, I know how I earn my money. I know I can count it in sweat.'"
The other four were gazing admiringly up at him, even as they stood around him. I daren't look in his eyes. There are charms hidden in green things, a flattened mushroom seemed to whisper. Elise flicked something of Johnson's shoulder just as the wind blew her husband's voice off the mountain.
We approached the edge of the second landing. The footing here was especially treacherous. I found it hard to place my feet properly between the coral coloured rocks and the sliding mud. The cottage keepers, deep in the warmth of the fireside when we had found them, had stared blankly when we asked for a path up the mountain. The path we were to take, they warned us, was not to be taken during the fog. Only the cows were sure-footed and dumb enough to tempt the gods, and even they were known to tumble off the mountain every now and then.
Reaching a narrow impasse, a small v-shaped vista opened before me. I saw the tall trees, flanking on either side, giving out to a steep barren climb. At the top was a dark metal triangle.
We had passed, on our way up, what ressembled a cemetary of yellow plants. Some of the group had quickly told me that these plants were used in the cultivation of a special type of alcohol especially delicate in rootlike flavour. I looked at all that remained, flailing withered squat leaves topped with three of four stalks, spaced apart as if headstones, their tops missing. The Mandrake plant screams when unearthed, and the scream is reputedly fatal. A witch then chops its head off.
Elise was almost at the metal triangle when she stopped and turned. It was as if she had chosen, instinctively as a cat chooses it's most advantageous position to pose, that exact moment to give us a picture. Johnson lay draped in the mist, a shadow from a tree. Her sharp form cut the triangle equally in two parts. Yellow. Yellow in hair and jacket, up on a cliff you could still mark her.
In that second, her husband paused to give us the punchline. "Well, I told him I was an artist and smiled."
Later on, while we were all at the summit, each braced against the metal triangle, I looked down to check my feet. He, the artist, was on tip toes, dancing by the edge of the precipice, while hers, well, I did not see hers at all from where I was. The picture showed us all in good spirits.
The husband's voice carried thinly in the air, much in contrast to his fine and sturdy figure. "...the famous footballer, and suddenly he clenched his teeth, as if in a rictus, grimacing, right? And said 'what I can't stand is those artists. They get paid a million dollars and for what? Nothing? Me, I know how I earn my money. I know I can count it in sweat.'"
The other four were gazing admiringly up at him, even as they stood around him. I daren't look in his eyes. There are charms hidden in green things, a flattened mushroom seemed to whisper. Elise flicked something of Johnson's shoulder just as the wind blew her husband's voice off the mountain.
We approached the edge of the second landing. The footing here was especially treacherous. I found it hard to place my feet properly between the coral coloured rocks and the sliding mud. The cottage keepers, deep in the warmth of the fireside when we had found them, had stared blankly when we asked for a path up the mountain. The path we were to take, they warned us, was not to be taken during the fog. Only the cows were sure-footed and dumb enough to tempt the gods, and even they were known to tumble off the mountain every now and then.
Reaching a narrow impasse, a small v-shaped vista opened before me. I saw the tall trees, flanking on either side, giving out to a steep barren climb. At the top was a dark metal triangle.
We had passed, on our way up, what ressembled a cemetary of yellow plants. Some of the group had quickly told me that these plants were used in the cultivation of a special type of alcohol especially delicate in rootlike flavour. I looked at all that remained, flailing withered squat leaves topped with three of four stalks, spaced apart as if headstones, their tops missing. The Mandrake plant screams when unearthed, and the scream is reputedly fatal. A witch then chops its head off.
Elise was almost at the metal triangle when she stopped and turned. It was as if she had chosen, instinctively as a cat chooses it's most advantageous position to pose, that exact moment to give us a picture. Johnson lay draped in the mist, a shadow from a tree. Her sharp form cut the triangle equally in two parts. Yellow. Yellow in hair and jacket, up on a cliff you could still mark her.
In that second, her husband paused to give us the punchline. "Well, I told him I was an artist and smiled."
Later on, while we were all at the summit, each braced against the metal triangle, I looked down to check my feet. He, the artist, was on tip toes, dancing by the edge of the precipice, while hers, well, I did not see hers at all from where I was. The picture showed us all in good spirits.
