Siberia

Siberia1

The day had not been one that anyone would have wished remembering, a wind’s catastrophic state wrenching nails from places where all manner of things were to be kept attached. Why, the last thing I remember was trekking though a barren landscape alive with opportunity, opportunity of catching hypothermia as the temperatures dropped flimsily below what I would call safe, wanting to uncover a treasure so grand and unbelievably rare, extinct really, it was that of the Woolly Mammoth. It not being anymore existent than that of a pharaoh’s mummified cat, lay trapped and fossilised in a cavernous structure of ice somewhere unknown.2

It was Late December when Hans Voralberg, a dear friend of mine had planned on visiting these lands, where life for any would be shortened and wrecked so quickly, his body old, fragile and broken by so many tears and let-downs, but still having the mind of a young child, one sitting thoughtfully in front of a fire, questioning why this fire burned so brightly, and resisting rest until he had found the answer. He’d asked me before we left why I had chosen to waste six months of a life I loathed already, to be by his side. I stumbled when answering, staring almost decisively at his troubled countenance, which appeared obtrusive at the time. I replied that being within reach of a friend I thought of as my father would be a comfort within itself, especially after the sudden death of my mother a few months ago. 3

Our journey took us to the ends of the world, where any sign of life seemed desolate. Snow smothered deep the vast spreads of land, left unexplored, for now. Left alone, only with Hans trudging warily at my side like a faithful dog panting at his master’s heel.4

Han’s held a parched, tattered piece of paper, one etched with the map that would lead us closer to where the mammoths laid buried, his hands shivered crazily, as if he were suddenly deemed by the devil’s plight, whose spirit hungered the weak and vulnerable. Han’s knowing that by every step he took, one would cower and descend further.5

Each day marked new discovery as it seemed Han’s was treading on thin ice, my coat drenched his shoulders with warmth, letting not hail, seep easily into his exposed flesh.6

It was then that we stumbled upon what seemed to be a flat expense of ice suspended freely in mid-air, frozen within lay the untouched frozen bodies of the Mammoths. Their blood still warm, eyes alert and tusks strapped mightily to their jaw bones, these beasts had not known what had hit them, until the ice had penetrated through and touched bone. It was then that Han’s fell drudgingly, on impact hitting a sea of snow. His eyes now drowned from their lobes, and his mouth muttering that of a silent prayer  . A man whose dull past had suddenly illuminated before his very eyes, now lay dead. Darkness had devoured his jubilation.7