Snow Mountain

- 3 -

When the goatherd returned the woman was in the copper bath, arms wrapped around her folded knees, head buried between her arms. A position of utter defeat.

He noticed a trail of wet footprints leading off down the tunnel, toward the entrance. And another trail that led back. The shears still hung loosely from one of her hands. Carefully, he shuffled his feet to announce his presence.

The woman's head snapped up. She watched him warily, but did not raise the shears once more. She did not drop them either.

"You are free to go whenever you wish," he said, gesturing toward the cave entrance, "though I advise waiting until spring." He used the best version of the tribal dialect he could muster. It had been a long time since he had spoken in it. It had been a long time since he had spoken anything to anyone other than his goats.

The woman did not reply, but raised her eyebrows. A sign of disbelief.

"I have no ill intentions for you," the goatherd said, uncomfortable at the distrust in her eyes. "I found you with my goats. The herd must have slept around you, or you would have died in the storm."

He winced after he spoke, feeling guilty for reminding the woman of her own near demise and previous suffering. But she seemed unaffected.

"Do you understand me?"

The woman did nothing for a moment, then nodded.

"But you do not wish to speak?" the goatherd questioned.

Again a pause and then a nod.

Or cannot speak, he wondered, eyes trailing over her throat. Unlike the rest of her it seemed whole, a few shallow scars on the side, no doubt from a rope or other bonds.

The woman shifted in the water, droplets running from her arms as she crossed them in front of her. The goatherd quickly raised his eyes to her hair. "Your hair is..." he stopped himself from saying 'disgusting'. "Very dirty." He looked at her left wrist, noticeably swollen compared to the right. "If you cannot wash it yourself, would you let me?"

The woman's eyes widened in alarm, and she shook her head. The man sighed, and gestured toward a bar of lye soap beside the tub.

The woman took it and began, noticeably pained at trying to use her left hand. She gave up and tried with only her right hand, only to give up all together soon after.

Finally, defeat and something like desperation on her face, she nodded to him.

The herdsman went to the entrance of the cave and took up the stool he usually used for milking the goats. Then he grabbed a mug of goat's milk from where it sat heating beside the brazier and returned.

"Here," he said, holding out the mug.

The woman took the mug in her left hand, sipping it hesitantly, then greedily. The shears still trailed from her right hand, and the man watched them warily from the corner of his eye as he settled onto the stool behind her.

He lathered the soap between his big hands, then carefully took the ends of the woman's hair between them. Rubbing them far more gently than when he washed out the shorn goat wool, he moved from tip all the way to roots, trying to clean and work out the knots, and talking as he went.

"It was the first snow of the season last night," he says. "Don't know whether you're lucky or unlucky to be caught out there in it. Guess you're lucky, because the goats found you, and slept around you. I wouldn't have even noticed you, but for old Thymonos."

He realized he was rambling, but kept on, not sure if it was to steady his own nerves or hers.

"Been a while since we had this much snow this early," he went on, trying not to tug too hard at her hair. The filth was at last washing free, and he realized instead of the molted gold color he had thought, her hair was a pale blonde, akin to silver. "Predicting a long hard winter based on the early snow. And the goats grew their coats extra thick this year."

As did you, he stopped himself from saying as his hands futilely tangled in her hair.

His washing hands slowed and eventually stopped. He had managed to clean the woman's hair, the disgusting stains and smells washed clean. But the tangles had only worsened under his ministrations. He realized there would be no way to remove them, short of cutting them out.

The woman realized it too. Without speaking, and without turning, she raised the shears handle first and offered them to him.

"It will take a long time for it to regrow to such a length," he cautioned. "And you need not cut it. The goats are shaggier than anything, and they get along just fine."

She shook her hand, motioning him once more to take the shears.

"If you insist," he agreed, carefully taking the shears.

Taking a lock of her hair in one hand, he sheared it from her head with the other. Clumps fell to the ground, laying atop one another like new-fallen snow. Such a beautiful shade of silver-white he felt as though he was truly cutting threads of ice. The color was unique, one he had never seen on a human head before. He could not help but wonder if it had always been such a shade, or had changed during the tribulations she must have faced.

He knew trauma could change a person's appearance or mind, sometimes beyond recognition.

A few times the cold metal of the shears came in contact with the woman's scalp. Just a touch, for the goatherd had decades of experience. But even that small touch of metal was enough to make her shoulders tense in fear.

"What color tunic would you prefer?" he asked, hoping to distract her. "I wish I could offer you a choice, but I'm afraid there is only black or brown, for those are the only color goats I have."

The woman said nothing, and he looked down at her shoulders, hunched. The shape she must have assumed in her cage. The wide blisters on her shoulders seemed like wings, burned into her skin.

A creature will change its shape to suit its cage.

"All done," he said, as the last matted tangle of silver hair fell to the floor. He stood, slapping at his clothes to knock a few loose strands of silver from his front to the cave floor

She looked up, wide-eyed with surprise at his movement. He noticed then that her eyes were not simply green, as he had thought before, but a vibrant, cerulean blue. Like the sky on a snowy day, and framed with soft silver lashes. Like the sea of the south beneath the sun.

He felt a pang of longing.

He quickly turned away and gestured to the sets of tunics he had laid out beside a strip of cotton toweling. "Choose whichever you like. I will be in the kitchen, making some supper. Come find me when you are done."

And then he turned and quickly left.

ONC Word Count: 3445