South of Winter, Two Singulars

       The southern slopes of the Lonely Mountains fell away to a wide plain, though farther south other ranges rose again in their snowy wimples. By day they would be white, but now before the dawn they stood like crowns of pink tin atop a paling fence of smoky cloud. The sky blued swiftly and the few flakey high clouds turned from crowfeather to flamingo, to molt later into the gaudy plumes of pheasant and parrot before fading to the soft white of swansdown. The day promised sun and warmth but for now the low curly grass underfoot and the pine needles overhead were silvered with rime, and breath plumed before him. Snufkin shifted the grass stem in his teeth and drew in the crisp air. Mountain herbs, pine resin, the cold breath of the glacier they’d left behind. He exhaled another cloud. Almost like smoking, only better. A faint crunch of gravel a few paces to his side. His elder brother could move in utter silence but he did not choose to now, not wishing to startle him. He was a man of rare consideration, almost on a level with Moominmamma. See, he’d even come from downwind so the smoke from his pipe wouldn’t trouble his younger brother who had quitted smoking. At times such care made Snufkin feel awkward—and too similar to Joxter for his liking. But for the rest, the journeying together had not been as bad as he had feared. Right, they had travelled together the previous year, but that time, Moomintroll, the pacifier and mediator, had been with them, and the travel had been rather a frantic dash home from danger to danger than a leisure stroll like now. Or like the other year, when Snufkin had been not far from these areas with his father. He glanced sidelong. The Gunman too was taking in the view, exhaling double drafts of vapour and smoke. It looked a chill thing, those bare knees, though Snufkin knew the man, like himself and any proper mumrik, could hold his warmth even in snowdrifts or in a blizzard. They stood in silence as the light welled up out of the east, flooding the plain below with a cold clear liquor, turning the frost to diamond-dust. The world was being made anew before them, and for a little while there was nothing to be done but witness it. Snufkin had suspected they’d be too much alike. That their shared silence, their mutual understanding of the solitary roads, would render them indifferent company. Both seasoned travellers, both survivors who shunned towns, both valued quiet and peace, or music if the mood was right. But the guitar or harmonica would wait for evening, after a day’s travel. Morning was for this. “By noon this plain will be dun and ochre,” Snufkin said, more to himself than anyone, yet certain he would be heard. “But right now you’d need every colour in the world to paint it.” The Gunman drew slowly on his pipe, letting the silence settle for a moment. “Like a loaf of rye bread rising,” he said, his voice just above the whisper of the waking nature. “Baking to a golden crust. Though it’s only the sun’s angle changing.” Snufkin smiled. He saw that image then, not replacing his own but laid beside it. Sometimes words were needed. Not to explain, but to exchange visions of the world, to make one moment yield two different paintings and thereby double a wealth. It was not unlike travelling with Moomintroll. By the feel of it, not by the procedures. And nothing like travelling with Joxter. By the feel, again. The thought of Joxter stung weaker than a mosquito bite and passed faster than a whiff of vapour. Two more clouds of breath, one thick with pipe-smoke, one thin and pure, dissipated into the golden air. “Which way?” The Gunman asked. “Your choice. I usually keep to the southwest coast, near the sea. But we raised a fair ruckus there last year. Best keep away from there for a while.” “Yeah. I favour the southeastern plateaus myself. So… south it is.” “But there…” Snufkin turned to him, surprised. The Gunman was squinting southward, a faint smile at the corner of his mouth. “Mountains are decent there. And some flat country. And sea, too.” “Yep,” Snufkin smiled now, and turned his own face toward the white fangs of the southern peaks. The sun had fully cleared the horizon and was bleaching the snowcaps a fierce white, its warmth a palpable weight on his left cheek. “And warmer.” “Exactly.” A few more minutes, and they turned back to pick up their packs and descend into this unknown world, two solitary reckonings converging upon a single dewy trail.