By Stephen Lodge
There is pale moonlight this wintry eve, and snow lies deep all around. The moon guides fearless adventurers down a winding road.
Bells ring anew but daylight is done, the light smothered, chased away by icy winds and bleak mists. The night taunts them with its utter coldness.
In the village they’d drunk with locals, by glowing fires, heard the region’s folklore, laughed at warnings of snow drifts taller than a man.
As they traverse the road, the gnawing silence is ripped apart by a cacophony of sound from woodland knolls.
Wolves bay at the moon. At last, they will feed.
Hard to believe this was the way of the world until very recently. Story has a timeless quality