Tall, steep stone walls towering over the narrow passage. The sky – low enough to suffocate even the strongest of hopes for a few hours of sunshine. The caravan advances slowly and wearily – a sluggish repetition of the day before. Sudden gusts of wind force the group to hug closer together but only to allow it to spread even farther apart as soon as they die away.
The party is led by a small figure bundled up in a thick hooded cloak, the kind that pilgrims would wear. You cannot make out the creature’s sex or age: it is too well camouflaged. Even the hands are hidden under the black leather of finely tailored gloves - a dark shadow on a white, exhausted horse.
The second leading figure is an old man dressed in grey – the same sort of travel cloak that his darker companion is wearing but he chose to let the hood hang loose on his back. He is not paying attention to the road – his forehead shows signs of the torturing struggle that is unfolding beneath its wrinkled surface.
The two do not seem to notice each other.
The rest of the group looks like a completely different lot: weary ghosts, lost never to be found again, aiming at an aimless dawn, emptied of their very last drop of energy. Today is yesterday and tomorrow is bound to be the third twin in Time’s numerous litter.
The last rider gives the impression that he travels completely separate from the others. A tall man (he looks huge even when he is riding) clad in the already traditional travel cloak, he too preferring to let the hood hang loose on his back; a helmet – old, silvery – has taken its place. Unlike the others, who seem oblivious to the world around them, the tall man cannot find rest: he is twisting and turning in his saddle, sniffing the air and throwing occasional glances at the sky above. There is something floating about, a sweet, deadly smell that drives the senses mad. Something is bound to happen and, were he not worried out of his wits and busy sniffing the creeping waves of fog, he would probably be furious with his fellow travelers’ inaction.
When the now frozen wind ushers in the first messengers of snow – tiny baby snow-flakes chasing one another along the stone walls, and playing a deadly game of hide-and-seek around the travel cloaks – the tall man makes a swift decision and starts galloping towards the front of the procession. The old man is surprised to see him there; the small bundle on the white horse does not seem to heed his arrival. The helmeted man draws near the creature and, eyes lowered, he begins to whisper (his instincts tell him that a loud voice would be dangerous now): "a snow storm is coming. shelter should be found quickly and, if possible, outside this stone trap". The creature’s cloak moves and the carefully hidden features begin to slowly appear from behind the woolen fabric: black locks, a death-pale roundish face, dark blue eyes struggling to keep at bay the mad waves of the mind threatening to overflood them, and arching eyebrows which seem to say that something is missing… The girl makes an effort and, for a moment, the roar of her thoughts is silenced: "yes, we should move quickly. let the others know and lead the way." The dark veil falls back on her eyes: "no, wait. I’m sorry." Better not fight for now; it’s useless. She cannot but allow the veil to come between her and reality, and the only sound she will be able to hear for a long time to come will be that of the thousand voices whispering querulously around her like bats flapping their dry wings in an infinite cave.
After this last attempt, the man heads for the back of the caravan. One drop of the girl’s mad mind has found its way into his disciplined pond: we are not going to see the sun again.
For some time now shadowy creatures have been gliding along the edge of the surrounding cliffs, their eyes mirroring every step taken by the travelers. No traces behind them, none to be found ahead. Just snow, a silken shrine relentlessly woven by the sky…