The memory sits heavy in his stomach and its rotting form infects the bloodstream. But he cannot remove it, because it is the sweetest thing he has.
Years of research. Staring at searing, white screens dotted with black blots of text, occasionally offering up substantial clues between reams of misinformation and myth. Bleached, thin pages graze his fingers and lead him down obscure paths. So much speculation, so few facts. Why?
Inverted, the blankness of the screen becomes the sheets of snow-covered ice. Miles and miles. The intensity of the image would blind the eyes and drive the mind to madness. He begins to ascend the sole upset of that region; a black spine of mountains brooding below a pale sky and layers of snow. They look like ink that has spilt across a page.
Weeks to reach the summit. Longer to find the place he is looking for.
When he does, something is hazy. The way he has just come is unfamiliar. But he cares little, for the object of his quest lies before him. What was it called? It matters not.
A smooth slab of black stone stands in a crater in the middle of the mountains. It is a perfect isometric triangle. A blade in the snow. He walks towards it.
He ungloves a hand and presses it to the freezing surface. Finally.
The man looks up at the strange stone. Then down at the ground. There is snow here.
He removes the hand.
Why is he here?
Paddy Dobson
2nd August 2020