He was lucky when a rabbit crossed his path. And even these
were few in number, lean in build. Scrub brush served to cook
those few he killed.
The winds wailed, the snow peppered down, then settled in huge
white flakes. At times the storm stilled and he traveled on in a
world where day was night, night day. Across the skies strange
colored images danced, twisting and turning. Here seemed a world
deserted by Zeus, left to the ministrations of lesser Gods.
The world was enveloped in a blanket of white. At times he sank
into its depths. At other times, frozen, it supported him as
well as solid ground. And still the snow fell, wind-driven.
With cessation of the wind he could hear, though from a far
distance, the crunch of footsteps on the frozen snow. Hidden in
the fog or by the falling flakes, the unseen companion was ever
with him, ever following.
Even when the snow ceased the air held a strange opaque
whiteness, as though the world were immersed in milk. At such
times even his hand before his face was not visible. He dared
not travel on, knowing he would circle helplessly in the
blinding whiteness.
Slowly the white out lifted. The barren snow covered wasteland
stretched endlessly.
He pressed on. There was little choice.
At times the storm died, the skies cleared. Crystalline bright
the stars shone down. Still the hunter, now directly overhead
and to his south, marched across the wintry sky. The pole star
gleamed softly, a constant beacon.
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