Cold Sea Stories

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SHE LOVED THIS road. The moss that covered the dunes was as soft as a carpet. Pine trees shot skywards on either side, and tall grass whispered in between them. Whenever the sun was hot for more than a few days, there was a strong scent of juniper in this spot, as heavy as pitch. Large and small bushes of it, some with fantastically twisted manes, grew everywhere here, like elves suspended in motion. Entirely different from over there, by the river, where the path kept sinking into a peat bog or muddy clay, and swarms of mosquitoes rose from the alder and osier leaves. And although it was much further to the sea across the dunes, year after year she took this route. Sometimes she came upon a roe deer. Then she would stop for a while, until the animal turned its moist eyes on her, and quickly vanished into the forest. Whereas the wild rabbits and squirrels entirely ignored her, as if they had never known any harm from man. She never ran into Willman here either. Not like by the river, where he used to graze his cattle. There he would bar her way on the narrow path and always recite the same silly little poem:

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