Cold Grave

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Everything was bathed in blue. That’s what he remembered most: a cold, rich Persian blue that washed over land and sky and lake, and made it all shiver. It made it almost magical, like a neverland that was never quite dark and never quite light — and would never be quite the same again.

It shimmered, this strange new world, where you could walk on water and all sorts of astonishing possibilities lay ahead. Some of what might happen scared him but he was excited more than afraid. There was no uncertainty about what he was going to do; he’d already made his mind up about that, and could feel the exhilaration and anticipation building in him.

The ice kingdom had winked at them on their arrival: a teasing glimpse framed between the old church on one side and the arthritic arms of a barren chestnut tree on the other. As they inched closer, almost fearful of its wonder, it unfolded before their eyes and they were assaulted by its sights and sounds. From the shore it looked like a Lowry painting, thick with matchstick people, graphite grey and black against the icy canvas, with only vague flashes of colour breaking up the monotone sketch. The collective breath of those gathered on the frozen lake fogged the air above them and offered an enchanted border to the blue.

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