Навеяло постом https://sturman-george.livejournal.com/1399369.html
Это написала 11 летняя девочка.
Word count: 1,330 Of Wolf and Weather
The ice-laden branches curtsied and bowed to the winds. Frost and hail provided a wild tattoo, whereas the winds themselves just howled like banshees. But Moraltor could not stop and marvel at this spectacle; he was valiantly struggling upwind to get to his dwelling.
His ears were being flattened to his head; his tail was streaming behind him. His hot breath froze on his muzzle as icy scum. He was being blown off his feet and pelted with hail. Furthermore, there was that infernal snow everywhere, getting up his nose and ears, blinding him and stifling his excellent sense of smell.
Moraltor had always made a fine wolf. Loyal to the pack; he was swift- footed and strong. His amber eyes never failed him, his sight was true, his hearing was soft, his sense of smell and direction- unmatched. This was truly helpful in such a gale, for one could get stranded and lost if they wandered a few feet from the security of their shelter.
Onward he trudged, through the deep snowdrifts and the driving wind. He wasn't far from his destination, only a few hundred feet, but the stormy winds against which he was battling made it impossible for any one to travel more than a few yards in a minute.
When he had first set out, there was only a slight flurry of gently waltzing snowflakes that formed a soft, white carpet under his paws. He had to tread carefully, for this carpet obscured the gnarled tree roots that formed the forest's parquet. Then, this flurry turned ugly, from a slow waltz, to a brutal Brazilian samba. And yet, even under the given circumstances, the blizzard got steadily worse. The trees were now bending halfway to the ground. The wind was now beating everything it could mercilessly, like a cruel master beats his slave. All were victims that dared face the wind's rage. All were trapped; all were beaten.
Even the mighty oaks, the strongest and least yielding of trees were ominously snapping under the wind's relentless whip. It was brought down first at regular pace, but then it increased in intensity and rapidity, until crrrrrrrrrack! A birch snapped into two, unable to hold up against its tormentor any longer. The other trees clawed at the sky with their branches out of compassion, but there was nothing they could do to help. And yet, Moraltor pressed onward, now gaining foot by foot to his destination.
Precisely in between two of these feet, an ancient maple parted with one of its limbs. It seemed reluctant to part with it; it held on to the outgrowth it had spent years carefully cultivating, from twig to telephone pole. It could not go in the tree's opinion; it had some fifty years more of producing food, shelter, and shade. Of course, no one listens to a tree; the last sinews tore and down it tumbled. Finally, with a sickening crunch of bone and a whimper of pain, it landed on Moraltor's head. The wound at his temple was bleeding freely, and when the bough had descended on his head, he had felt the broken planes agonizingly grind together.
He was almost blinded by pain and dizzy from the impact. His efforts only increased, for he knew that ice and wind would prevent the injury from healing; they would just scour off the scab. Quite simply, loosing too much blood would weaken him even further. As he twitched his whiskers with irritation, he mentally reminded himself to be more careful in the future, for another such incident could easily finish him off.
Head lowered, ears drawn back, he silently went headlong into the wind. Moraltor was starting to hallucinate. Various figures materialized in front of him that dissolved at the slightest touch.
To get to his home, he had to pass a single barrier- a frozen river. Because it was fast flowing, the river never completely froze, so even in the dead of winter the ice was thin. In some places, the ice was absent altogether. Moreover, the waterway was deep.
If Moraltor could pass the obstacle, his way would be clear. Earlier, he could easily pass the stretch of water, but now both his wound and the weather weakened him. Doubt started to seep in and cloud his judgment.
He paused to test the ice. To his dismay, it gently moved and faintly snapped. He was not surprised by this phenomenon. He harvested his entire willpower and stepped forward against all odds. He no longer cared about his own safety, he just wanted to get to his destination—or die trying. He licked a cracked pad and blinked once. He turned his heavily scarred muzzle toward the opposite bank. Tongue lolling, feet pounding, and a devilish gleam in his eyes, Moraltor charged across the ice. In some places it gave; in some places it remained sturdy. In the places it gave, his shins got soaked and he was sprinkled by cold spray. Moraltor hardly cared or noticed. Another leap, and he was on firm ground. He scrambled up the steep bank and began to trek on even ground once more.
This was the final stretch of his journey. Fear and sorrow entwined their icy fingers around his heart and tugged non-too-gently. "What if I don't make it?" Moraltor rasped to himself, "No, I shall be strong, I shall live!" And for the first time since childhood, his brow unclouded his face and he laughed. It was a mirthless laugh, a grim laugh, an I'm-ready-to-face-anything laugh, and a maniacal laugh that turned into a howl of triumph. It echoed though the forest, loud enough to challenge the winds, loud enough to not be drowned in them. Many a creature shivered at the sound. For some unknown reason, many dens and nests suddenly became much colder, and it had nothing to do with the weather.
The previous struggle against the winds had sapped the majority of his strength, and the collision had sucked up the rest. The wound on his head was not helping matters; it was rather making them worse. It had made Moraltor feel revulsion, not to mention nausea as he watched his warm blood trickle down his pointed muzzle and stain his milky- white neck fur. He had seen blood before, but the sight of his own made him feel a spasm of longing constrict his heart. And oh, how he longed to lie down and drift into slumber, to be lulled by comforting dreams, and forget everything else. How he longed to be a playful pup again, to always be at his mother's warm, loving, protecting side, and to never grow up. To never know pain, misery, and suffering; to be a stranger to grief and death. Oh how he longed, but he knew this could not be. To bed down here was sure death. Moraltor gathered his remaining strands of strength and put them to use in his paws. It cost him a tremendous effort to put one paw in front of the other.
How he succeeded, Moraltor did not know, but he finally dropped down on the floor of his cave. He once more stood up, and heavily lumbered in; at which point his paws buckled underneath him. Moraltor made another attempt to stand up but failed. He felt a wave of sleep wash over him, and he drifted off into a heavy slumber undisturbed by dreams- as all periods of deep sleep are.
In the morning, the maelstrom abated. Moraltor's huddled form lay at the far side of his den. A curious rabbit sniffed at the entrance of the cave. A tendril of scent wafted inside and gently prodded Moraltor's snout, but Moraltor's stiff, cold nose would never drink it in. A playful gust of wind toyed with Moraltor's fur. Its thoughts on this pastime were: " What fun!” Seeing that Moraltor was not reacting, the wind trotted away to go annoy someone else. Somewhere in the distance, a bird twittered a melody Moraltor's ears would not hear. The world dawned magnificently; a sight Moraltor's permanently closed eyes would never see.