Jenni Fagan - The Sunlight Pilgrims

He can’t breathe.

He cannot take a panic attack here!

What if the cloud won’t lift?

It feels like something passes right behind him — it raises the hairs on his neck. He hears what could be footsteps or something falling out of a tree and he grips his phone. He can imagine the headline: Tall man sucked into deadly cloud on mountain, starved to death, pulled out own hair .

The cloud slows.

His heart hammers, but — a glimpse of a hand, his arm, his nose, coat buttons, then his jeans, his belt, his feet and there is still the same sound behind him, something walking on the rock. Dylan wills himself to turn round. Close enough that he could reach out and touch her — is a doe.

She is just one step away.

Her long neck is soft and brown, her eyes dark and long-lashed. She is unconcerned, grazing on a bit of grass, then turning to saunter up the slope. Her white tail flicks over a boulder and he exhales. When he looks back there are wide-open miles, miles and miles as far as the eye can see — light; movement; fields; farms; motorways; industrial sites with warehouse shops made by metal sheets; what looks like a quarry or a city dump; dots in the distance that are cows and sheep; clusters of rooftops where villages hunker down; and his caravan is a wee speck and he has this sensation of speed like he is standing at the top of the world so he can feel it rotate, in a way he would never experience below sea level.

He wants them to see this.

Vivienne.

Gunn.

It’s a stupid want and, aside from that, his mind is always half-tilted toward a woman who polishes the moon. He wants to kiss her. That’s a stupid thought as well but it is more real than the detritus of black matter that grief is hauling up in copper buckets. At some point there must, rightly, be a full stop. He scans the view, his heart beginning to slow down. He’ll buy binoculars so he can come back and pick out every detail in the landscape. He walks carefully back down and the light drops as he follows the path, seeing his own footprints in the mud and retracing them. Then there is the farm, a spire of smoke curls out of the chimney. Birds flutter up from the woods and soar out across the fields.

STELLA UNCLIPS the metal door, it thuds off the doorstopper as she kicks frost off her boots. Up on the mountain white clouds glide over the peaks, so the top of the mountain is hidden. Constance drops her coat onto the armchair then stops, rotates, pulls the throw off a big box sitting just behind their sofa. She lifts the box up and places it on the table, opens the card. If Stella does not breathe until her mum speaks, then everything will be okay. Constance undoes the ribbon on the box. She takes the lid off and places it down and lifts out a perfect wolf-head still attached to its loose pelt. It is immaculate. Her mother hesitates and then slips the thing over her head. The eye sockets fit right over her own and the nose juts out. She is a white wolf. Her ears stick up. The wolf looks at herself in the mirror and there is a faint hint of a smile underneath her long nose. Stella squints at the note on the box again. To My Darling Constance — I Am Sorry, forgive me x.

— Where did Alistair get a wolf from?

— I’m guessing one died at the sanctuary.

— That’s your Bonfire Night costume sorted then, Stella says.

The two of them stand side-by-side, looking in the mirror. Whatever anger was in her mum is already gone. It is always like that. Constance does clean fury and then it goes and she never stays mad for long, doesn’t mince around the house in a toxic-mist of perpetual resentment like Lewis’s mum always seemed to do. The two of them look at each other and smile.

— Mum, can I invite a friend for dinner before the bonfire?

— Which friend?

— A new one, Stella exhales.

— Informative.

— The Sisters are having a winter-prep meeting at the village hall, are we going?

— Yup, you better go and get ready, Stella, or we’re going to be late!

The temperature gauge on the wall says minus nine — it is getting colder almost every hour right now, winter is going to come and they will be snowed in like Eskimos until spring.

The ambulance creaks its way down a dark road. Windscreen wipers don’t help much against a steady snowfall. They drive slowly. The world is a cleaner, colder, quieter place than it was a week ago. People walk along cobbled roads heading for the village hall. Constance turns the ambulance into the car park. Snow is piled on the verges already. Stella jumps down from the ambulance and it barely makes a sound. Her boots are quiet on the dustier snow on top. Lewis is going in ahead with his brother. The boys who were at Ellie’s Hole won’t be here, they’ll be over at Fort Hope town hall; the whole of the Clachan Fells region will be in damp rooms holding meetings like this one. Constance holds out her hand and they walk in together.

— There’s a lot of extra nuns here? Stella whispers.

— The Sisters of Beathnoch — they are here as volunteers for the 2020 Winter Appeal, they want to help vulnerable people in remote communities, Constance says.

The local minister is up the back talking to the nuns. Stella’s entire old class (eight people) are chatting together. She sits on the floor in front of her mum. Lewis is in the front row. He glances back and pretends not to see. What is it he can’t see? Or what is it he can’t deal with seeing? She isn’t asking him even to speak to her. His mum barely even says hello to her now. Stella has her black hair in braids, it is getting longer. She reapplies some lip gloss and is glad she wore two pairs of socks. She can feel Constance sitting behind her and it makes her feel safe. Everyone settles and the chatter begins to peter out as the nuns file onto the stage with the local doctor and a few teachers; the minister steps up last. A weary man in a lumberjack shirt pulls his hat off and looks around. The minister stands up and raises his hand to get silence.

— Thank you all for coming along this evening to discuss forward planning regarding sub-zero conditions in the Clachan Fells region. As you all know, for once we are not alone in having an extreme winter, but this one is going to be more severe than most and so we’re already putting plans together to ensure we can all get through it safely. Over by the Exit doors there are lists of jobs that we need volunteers for. The council will salt the roads but not all of them — we need to raise money to grit the smaller roads, where possible. We need extra volunteers to check on the elderly and infirm and we are looking for a roster of people who will go out and clear pathways and driveways for those who cannot do so for themselves. The third pad is for anybody who needs help of any kind this winter. Don’t try to do this on your own, especially if you are elderly, or if you live alone or have any ailments. We aim to keep the church open all winter and this village hall is going to offer respite, and even somewhere to stay or get a hot meal or warm clothes or a bath, for anyone who needs it. If you need to see me afterwards, then please just say hello! I would like to introduce you all to the Sisters of Beathnoch, who are offering their time in regions all across the Highlands of Scotland this winter. There will also be basic medical aid on offer. As you know, there is only one wonderful doctor here in the village, so we want to make sure there’s a back-up, should we need it!

The minister sits back down at the end of the row of nuns.

— We all need to focus on getting this community through the winter, the head nun says.

— If any of us make it through this winter! They’re predicting ten feet of snowfall next month. They’ve said it will go down to minus forty or even colder; there is a bloody iceberg heading to our shores from Norway, a young dad says.