Hong Kong Young Writers Anthologies Fiction 4567 | Page 18

Snowflakes Chinese International School, Lo, Curtis - 15 T he wintry wind passes through winding roads and quiet towns, whistling a requiem to the most unfortunate ones it may concern. Galloping alongside this wind, is a lone rider. Upon an auburn steed he rides through towns and villages, stopping for nothing and no one, save for hay for the horse, and directions for the rider. After which, he rides again. His garb, once those of the intellectual aristocrat, now the rags of a lonesome vagabond. His coat faded and patched, his straw hat in tatters. His face was flimsily shielded from the cold with a black cloth, so that all others could see was a pair of black eyes on a pale canvas, depthless abysses ridden with sorrow and loss, plagued by distress and exhausted with running, filled with an insatiable desire to fulfil an impossible mission. And so the man rode, and rode, and rode. The frigid gales flailing his Manchurian braid this way and that, numbing his fingers, gripped tightly around the reins of his horse. His gallop becomes a canter, and a canter becomes a trot, as the horse comes to a halt outside the local tavern. It is the middle of Chunjie, the coldest season of the year, the trees have withered and the crops sown. People retreat to seek warmth in the fires of their homes, or at the bottom of beer glasses. The streets are empty save for the couple of men rushing home with fresh firewood, their silhouettes bulging from layers upon layers of coats upon coats. The man dismounts, leading his mount to the stable before pushing open the wooden door to the tavern, allowin g the frigid winds to invade its warmth, the cackles of the wind clashing with the yawping and hollering of the tavern’s inhabitants. Drunkards and mopers, wenches and maidens, gathered in the solace of a burning fire. The man walked straight to the bartender, ignoring the demeaning glances, glares, stares and scoffs from ruffians looking for a fight. “Hello sir! What can I do you for on this… chilly… winter day?”, asks the bartender, a cheery man, with scraggly facial covering rosy cheeks. “Just directions to the next town, bartender.”, replied the man, taking nervous glances at the door every three seconds. “Not even a sip, then? You won’t find better whiskey ten miles in any direction.”, pushed the bartender. The man’s eyes were fixed on the door. The bartender sighed, “Aye, alright. You’ll want take the main road, paved and patrolled. Guaranteed, no bandits. That will take you straight to Shanghai.” “Or you can take the forest path…”, said a drunkard to the man’s left, beard and collar drowned in ale. “Cut… cut through the woods…” The bartender explained, “Aye, there’s that. But it’s much too dangerous, rumours of bandits and ghosts plague those trees. And besides, the winding path is no where fit for a horse.” “… But it is quicker…”