Tag: thesaurus

Day #24

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Breathe: To inhale and exhale in the process of respiration to respire

Stinter: One who or that which stints

Struthiones: Genus of ostrich

—–

‘What are you doing now?’ hissed Jez.

‘Having…’ there was the satisfying click of locks singing in unison, ‘…patience,’ concluded his partner.

Jez hadn’t asked his name, he didn’t even know where the boss had found the guy. But if he was good enough for the boss, then he was good enough for Jez. Still though, there was something off about him, although quite what exactly, Jez was having a hard time putting a finger on.

His partner eased open the metallic slab of the vault door, thicker than a man yet swinging open in silence as though it didn’t even exist. Never the stinter, Jez eagerly craned his head forward, looking beyond his partner, and his eyes bulged. Gold bars stacked in ordered piles, tightly packed like bricks and gleaming like some kind of futuristic metropolis. Both men had to remind themselves to breathe.

‘H-How on earth are we going to move all this lot…?’ stuttered Jez.

His partner strode forward and grinned. It was unnerving. Jez had never known anyone to act so, so, so relaxed in the middle of heist before. Let alone one that involved somehow evacuating several hundred bricks of gold from the basement of a bank without being seen.

‘Doesn’t matter. Say, did your benefactor explain to you my particular set of skills?’

Jez shook his head.

‘Ah. Well, this next part might become confusing then. See…you’re going to have to stay here, I’m afraid.’

Jez stared at the man. ‘What? What the hell are you talking about?’

His partner’s eyes were the glacial blue of an Icelandic spring. A faint smirk sat upon his lips.

‘See, Jez, you need to stay here, because I’m about to do this-‘

The man suddenly raised his hands, fingers arched, and started murmuring under his breath. Jez’s arms and legs fell numb. He tried to yell, to scream but was unable to do so. He was frozen in place, the head of a struthiones stuck in the sand.

Slowly, the bars of gold began to rise up and float towards the stricken Jez, eyes bulging, now from fear instead of greed. The bars slowly entered his body and began to fill him up, brick by brick.

When Jez was full of gold, his partner lowered his hands.

‘What…have…you..done?’ stammered Jez, his voice strained and distant, his body stacked in rigid towers across the floor of the vault.

‘I’ve swapped you with the gold,’ replied his partner. ‘A simple spell, but a pain to get right. See I’m just going to walk out the way we came in, with the gold walking alongside me! As for you my friend, you have to stay here in the vault.’

‘Like…this…?!’

‘Yes, like that I’m afraid.’

Jez’s pleading finally ceased when the vault door clicked back into place. As he left the room with the gold following just behind, the man couldn’t help but mutter to himself ‘I did tell you that I have a very particular set of skills…’

Day #23

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Teal: Any one of several species of small fresh water ducks of the genus Anas and the subgenera Querquedula and Nettion

Solid: Having the constituent parts so compact or so firmly adhering as to resist the impression or penetration of other bodies

Primer: One who or that which primes

—–

The early evening crickets serenade each other as I take my seat. Front row and full of splinters. This is our bench, mine and yours. It’s even got your name written on the plaque, solid and real, just as if you were here with me now. It used to be a rich toffee copper, but today it’s the colour of an overcast sky. It looks like it could be a reflection of the pond, a murky blue, cold and mysterious. You remember the pond, don’t you? The one with the ducks? You used to enjoy it so much here.

I remember the look in your eyes the last time we met, hollow and sparse, like artic tundra, so empty and alone. I’m sure my name was on the tip of your tongue; rumbling on your lips, ready to erupt and spill forth like hot lava. But I guess it cooled; a small, calcified island in the stream of your consciousness. I bet my name sounded like static to you, early evening crickets chirruping as though you were tuned into the wrong station. The doctor’s tablets couldn’t always change it back.

The wind is picking up and it’s grabbing at me, even through my coat. I’m wearing the one with the sheepskin inside, tatty and yellowed; it’s the one you got me for Christmas in ’89. Still going strong, just like me. It is cold though, cold enough for the ducks to be huddling amongst the reeds at the edge of the pond.

They look like Teals, at least I think they do. I saw them labeled in a book once; you got that for me too, picked it up at some jumble sale or second hand store. You told me it would be a good hobby. The Teals remind me of you, so I make a mental note of what they look like. Watertight petals of brackish brown feather, small black eyes, opals flashing with curiosity, a leathery bill like a scuba flipper.

They remember me even though you didn’t. I wish you had. I am the one who feeds. We were the ones who fed. I’ve brought the breadcrumbs with me. You always liked the ducks. Well, you did on your good days, on your bad days – not so much. You liked how they could fly away from their problems whenever they wanted.

I miss you, but I thick I have to set you free now. I loosen the blue plastic tag around the bread bag and start throwing crumbs. You will always be with me. Even though the bread is grey and speckly, the ducks swarm around me; quacking at their primer, who directs them like a concert virtuoso. Be safe. Crumbs here, crumbs there, beaks squabbling amid croaky yaps of excitement. I smile when I realise you’ll spend the winter down south, you always did want to spend Christmas in the sun.

I place your urn at the foot of the bench, empty, and watch the ducks fly off into the sunset.

Day #22

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Clearstarcher: One who clearstarches – To stiffen with starch, and then make clear by clapping with the hands

Agog: In eager desire eager astir

Improlificate: To impregnate

—–

He doesn’t know that I saw them, him with her. But I was there.

I was in the corner, leaning on a wall, wearing a leather jacket and with my hair slicked neatly back. Earlier in the night I’d told my reflection, ‘you look just like Buddy Holly, dude, nice work.’

He arrived after I did, at least thirty minutes after to be precise, which is an unforgiveable rudeness in my books. He came alone, as you know, wearing a sharply tailored evening suit, the inky blue of fading twilight. I remember his shirt was a blinding white, cuffs and collars stiff and rigid, gleaming like teeth. Fucking clearstarcher, I thought, with your stiff enamel collar, rigid and broad like the wings of a fucking albatross.

Bear in mind that she was already there at this point, chatting and laughing with friends, Molly from floor four, Sally from floor three, Polly from floor two. They each held a small glass tumbler, full of brown liquid, probably whisky or amaretto. I like amaretto, do you like amaretto? No? Well, she did. She enjoyed the hot flush of aniseed searing her tongue, the warmth on her throat, the gently curling heat in her stomach, a dragon in its pit.

She caught his eye immediately, but, in that dress who would fail to succumb to her charms? The long, slender legs, creamy against the strawberry red of her dress, a bodice tight as bark on a tree pushing fleshy fruits to the forefront of any man’s thoughts. I know they were in mine, plump bosoms bouncing as I stood in the corner, watching.

Did you know her hair fell like autumn leaves? A sheet of auburn silk draped lightly over her shoulders, tresses eddying like an effervescent chestnut river. It was ravishing, simply sumptuous. He saw it. I saw it too.

I saw his eyes agog, bulbous stars in the night, the fog lights of souls passing in the night, drawn to her by the white heat of her shimmering radiance.

Please, bear in mind that I too was partaking in the general imbibements of the night, if not the actual merriments. I was satisfied watching from the corner, she the dormouse to my tawny owl. He wasn’t though. Oh no, no, no!

He flocked to her; strutting, cavorting, talking, carousing, drinking, dancing, touching, holding, groping, kissing, escaping, improlificating. Possibly.

You do know what that word means, don’t you? Improlificate? It means to impregnate. But I don’t say that word. I dislike the hard ‘egg’ sound. It sticks in my throat as though it could hatch at any moment.

Anyhow, I saw them leaving together, hand on ass, tongue in mouth, crotch in crotch. The last thing I saw was the soft, red petal of her lipstick imprinted on his stiff shirt collar. Deep down I hoped it was blood. But it wasn’t. It was just affection.

His wife looks at me, eye-to-eye for the first time since I started talking.

‘Why are you telling me all this?’ she asks, her voice hoarse.

Day #21

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Nah: No, not

Hydrosome: a colony of Hydrozoa, related to jellyfish and corals

Pentachenium: A dry fruit composed of five carpels (female reproductive organs), which are covered by an epigynous calyx (ovary tube, sepal) and separate at maturity

—–

Shoals of tiny fish flickered above the two divers, molten scales glinting as they grouped into tightly spinning balls before scattering skittishly whenever a larger fish passed nearby. In the glowing effulgence of the early afternoon, these aquatic dogfights resembled the cat-and-mouse antics of fighter plane pilots, dancing amongst the clouds of phytoplankton.

Broad, crepuscular rays of light bathed the divers, who were busy foraging amongst the coral reef, a sprawling mass of fantastical structures and colours, rich as trees made of precious gems. Both hunting for hydrosomes, they were working apart, one delicately plucking polyps from the upper boughs, whilst the other scoured the detritus on the sea floor.

Small waterproof sacks hung from their weighted belts, each full of tiny, tentacled creatures – whose strange whose appearance was almost alien-like. Their thin, sepal like feelers groped wildly in the dark sack, shrinking as they encountered one another, then curiously probing again.

A wobbegong shark suddenly erupted from the sea bed, disturbed by the lower diver’s digging. It flicked itself free of sand then fled through the scattered dirt into the deep blue that framed the reef. Although he knew the bottom-feeder was harmless, the diver felt his heart pounding, adrenaline surging, heavy waves crashing on the shore. He tried to swallow some nervous saliva but with a mouth arid from his air supply, it sat uncomfortably on his tongue instead, thick and viscous.

As the sand slowly started to sink the diver noticed something glinting on the seabed, must have been stirred up by the wobbegong. He glided in for a closer look, a small clown fish hovering over his shoulder. There was a shallow crater where the shark had been nestled, a few inches deep and a couple of feet long. The glinting lay at the bottom of this depression, catching the sunlight that filtered through the turquoise water.

Curious, the diver started slowly scraping the sand aside. A few small shells and polished bits of rock slipped through his hands, but pulling back the silt he could feel his heart starting to race again. Metal, gleaming and unblemished, unveiled itself slowly…and it didn’t seem to stop. Faster now, the diver scrubbed some more sand away, then some more – still more metal. This isn’t possible…nah this absolutely cannot be happening…

The diver knew from the size of the reef that it was hundreds of years old; you didn’t get underwater gardens of Eden appearing overnight, it took time for calcified pentachenium to form and grow, let alone one of this size. But if that was the case, then how the hell did you explain what he had just found…? It would mean that…no, it just wasn’t possible.

Looking up, the diver could see his partner floating among the lofty spires of coral, engrossed in her work. He had to tell her…this was just crazy!

With fingers tingling and heart pounding, he kicked off from the seabed, the metal glinting through sand.

Day #19

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Growler: One who growls

Theocracy: Government of a state by the immediate direction or administration of God hence the exercise of political authority by priests as representing the Deity

Necessitation: The act of making necessary or the state of being made necessary compulsion

—–

Hangdur slowed the geeter to a halt. The giant bird’s thick, muscular legs quickly disappeared amongst the heat haze that rippled on the ground, an invisible lake. Shouldn’t think about water, mused Hangdur wryly, stroking his steed’s neck, the hard feathers metallic to the touch. The geeter grunted; its call was guttural and raspy, definitely parched.

Holding onto the reigns, Hangdur jumped down and tentatively approached the stone archway that loomed ahead of him. Beyond the archway sat the mountain – the only thing for miles around – jutting out the ground like a giant, lone stalagmite amongst the scrub. If what the old man had said was true, then Hangdur had to pass through the stone archway if he ever wanted to find the Kophi Sphere.

The geeter seemed suddenly hesitant, digging its wide, webbed feet into the ground. The bird was similar to an old world ostrich, two legged and entirely flightless, built solely for running. The fallout had caused the geeters to grow larger, stronger and more aggressive. They were the new battle stallions, more vicious than horses and less prone to erratic behaviour too. Besides, when was the last time anyone had even seen a horse?

‘Come on, boy,’ said Hangdur softly, tugging the reigns to gently coax the geeter forward. The bird put up a brief struggle then resignedly acquiesced, each step long but tentative. As the bird and its rider approached the archway a throaty snarl snapped through the early evening quiet. It sounded close. Hangdur slipped a gun from the holster on his back – a piecemeal weapon, metallic pipes twisted and soldered together like an Escher sketch.

From behind a rock a growler slunk forward, ribs showing and a dead-eyed hunger etched into its face. It snarled again and brazenly stalked forward, caution cast aside by the necessitation of hunger. Its patchy, sandy fur bled into its surroundings rendering it almost invisible in the twilight, a living, breathing optical illusion.

Hangdur quickly fired a warning bolt that struck and clattered off a nearby rock. The growler stopped moving, contemplating and weighing up its options, eyes wide and watery. A few seconds later, its decision apparently made, the growler bolted into the encroaching darkness. Gone – for now, at least. Gonna have to keep an eye open out for that son of a bitch, noted Hangdur.

Free to pass, Hangdur and the geeter passed beneath the stone archway. It was an impressive structure – hewn from the mountain and standing almost 20 metres tall, every inch covered in ornate carvings. Who had done them and why was a mystery, and seeing them up close reminded Hangdur of tales he had been told as a child. He shivered involuntarily, slight doubts ominously massaging his conviction. To calm himself, Hangdur flicked on the flashlight that hung from a strap draped over his jacket then switched on his co-locator, fingers squashed into a pocket. At least if the growler got the better of him now, they’d still be able to find his body.

‘That’s the problem with theocracy, boy,’ said Hangdur absentmindedly, ‘they always want you to track down the damn relics and they don’t care what you gotta go through to get ’em…’

Hangdur’s voice trailed off in awe, echoing queerly on the rocks, as the pair emerged from the archway and into a steep sided canyon that shimmered like glass.

Day #18

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Despotism: The power spirit or principles of a despot absolute control over others tyrannical sway tyranny

Flatulently: In a flatulent manner with flatulence

Movie: A motion picture

—–

The cold light of early morning scatters through the blinds, zebra stripes that cast strange, abrupt shadows. Light and dark. The room is small, claustrophobic, and devoid of anything bar a table, a few seats and a tape recorder, which sits in the centre of the table ‘in case of disputes’ – well, that’s according to her lawyer at least.

She’s late – as usual. A typically arrogant move that means you’ll have to sit and enjoy the silent ménage a trois between yourself, your lawyer and her lawyer for a little bit longer yet. You wonder if whistling might lighten the mood, or humming. Instead you start preparing a long-winded and gregarious opening gambit, one that you’ll deliver so flatulently, that the vein in her neck will begin to pulse. You smile at the thought of it burrowing and bursting forth like a movie monster trying to escape. It would certainly solve a few problems.

She’s locked you up tightly in here, the stripes of light like prison cell bars, and you just sit silently obedient, showcasing the manners of an expensively trained dog. She always wanted a dog, but you said no. You argued the toss – who’d clean up the mess? Who’d stay at home to keep it company? This isn’t a fucking Scooby Doo movie, you shouted, it’s our fucking lives. No, you didn’t fancy a dog.

You look at your watch, time moving so slowly that even the imperceptible movement of the second hand feels like the aftershock of some seismic event. Tick, tick, tack… wait, did it just move backwards? You can’t be sure. It’s too early in the morning for this. You stifle a yawn. Her lawyer suddenly perks up, scrutinising this apparent sign of weakness. He looks as if he’s about to say something, a rebuttal on the tip of his tongue, but decides better of it and instead hurriedly scribbles something down.

The lawyer sitting next to you, a thin, balding man with an eagle’s beak of a nose, is engrossed in the documents before him. Sucking up all your dirty little secrets like a sponge. Sure, he’s defending you, looking out for your interests, but what’s stopping him from holding things over your head if it all goes tits up? She always did, why should he be any different? Maybe it was the weight of those expectations that eroded your self will, made you get drunk and want to explore new and exotic avenues. Yeah, you could blame her, you suppose, but you know that her lawyer has exactly the same notes and will shut down that play instantly.

She’s still not here – a classic case of female despotism syndrome. Always has to be centre of attention. Always has to be fashionably late. Always has to spend your money on whatever Vogue suggests. One pair of shoes the same as a deposit on a house. You hope the heels gave her blisters.

You check your watch again, a Pavlovian response to your own nerves, and notice how the black inlaid roman numerals look like the bars of a prison cell.

Day #17

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Peirastic: Fitted for trial; experimental; tentative

Catholicize: To make or to become catholic or Roman Catholic

Adrianople: a city in Northwest Turkey a Thracian town that was rebuilt and renamed by the Roman emperor Hadrian

—–

It was definitely the wet slurp followed by the smacking of lips. That was the only way to shut Beaver up; you had to show him you were busy drinking. Buck took another swig of his beer, amber liquid sloshing against the sides of the dirty glass. With each mouthful, the liquid sunk lower and the glass was raised higher, and at some point Buck had started likening the orangey distortion of Beaver’s face in the bottom of the glass to a strange insect stuck in amber. Both of ‘em bloodsuckers.

The two men were sat in the corner of a dive bar out on route 23, not their local haunt, but one that had been chosen for them. The beer tasted different and a dense hum of smoke hung in the rafters like bats. The locals were the dregs you’d expect to find in the bottom of a barrel, leftover flies on a spiderweb. The woman behind the bar, heavyset and stocky, was wearing a leather waistcoat she’d probably found ditched in the toilets; it had a faded motif on the back, a skull with a snake squirming through the eye.

Buck didn’t like the place, but Beaver, well he was happy anywhere he could sit and drink and talk. It didn’t matter who else was around, the man could talk to anyone; in fact it was because of Beaver’s big mouth they were here. Shouldn’t have listened to him, thought Buck glumly.

‘…So that’s why Hadrian didn’t just build walls,’ concluded Beaver. He produced a silver sheet of tablets from a jacket pocket, popped two of the caps and dropped them into his Whisky Sour, which fizzed angrily. Buck didn’t know exactly what the pills were, but Beaver had explained that they were some kind of peirastic benzodiazepine anticonvulsants – “experimental anti-anxiety pills” apparently.

Beaver chucked his head back and let the frothy orange liquid trickle down his throat. He flicked his tongue out, like a cat yawning, trying to get rid of the taste, then signalled to the bar for another round.

Buck’s attention was drawn to a crucifix hanging over the entrance. He hadn’t noticed it on the way in. How the fuck can you catholicize a place like this, he thought. He realised Beaver was staring at him, red-eyed.

‘Huh?’ asked Buck.

‘Adrianople, man! Fucking city named for Hadrian – he ain’t just been building walls. He’s been doing all sorts of shit, man.’

‘What the fuck are you on about Beaver?’ snapped Buck, beer foam glistening in his stubble. ‘I don’t give a shit what this Hadrian’s been doing or what he’s gonna do. You just keep that bag close, y’hear? That’s the reason we’re in this fucking mess.’

Beaver clammed up into a sullen silence and hugged the bag tightly to his chest. He looked like he was about to say something when the sudden eerie yawn of creaking joints made both men turn their heads toward the entrance. A man stood there, the briefcase in his hand stained red by an electric Budweiser sign.

‘I think this is our guy…’ said Buck, his voice tense.

Day #14

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Celluliferous: Bearing or producing little cells

Yerba mate: is a species of the holly family. It is well known as the source of the beverage called mate (Portuguese: chimarrão), which is traditionally consumed in central and southern South America

Amigo: A friend – a Spanish term

—–

The bagualero wheels his horse to one side; its eyes are bulging with adrenaline, jelly quivering above nostrils flaring at the stench of blood. He yanks the bridle hard to stop it from bolting, his companion nearby starts to laugh. He is younger, more cocksure and with skin yet to be wrinkled by the weather, his baseball cap is tugged tightly onto his head.

Hey amigo, shut your mouth, shouts the older bagualero, you gotta stay fucking focused. You know what that thing can do to you? You ever seen a fucking horn sticking out the other fucking side of someone’s fucking leg?

The young bagualero’s smirk disappears. No, I ain’t seen that, he says quietly. He strokes the snout of his horse, soothing it, whispering sweet nothings into its ears. The horse is younger too. The younger bagualero looks off into the trees, nothing moves amongst the trees except the insects, buzzing lazily under the early morning heat, thick as honey.

The older man snorts with derision and wheels his horse left then right, bridle still clenched tightly in his hands whilst the fat, muscular head of the horse writhes like a serpent before him. It slows and paws nervously at the ground. The bagualero is a weather beaten sculpture of a man, might as well be hewn from rock; only his leather jacket, tatty and old, has taken more punishment from the elements than he has.

He slips a small cantina from an inside pocket, unscrews the cap quickly with a single twist; it’s all in the wrist, baby. He swigs the chimarrão, hot and tart to the taste, it keeps his head clear. The yerba mate leaves rustle against the metallic interior, imprisoned, trapped in a corner and desperate to escape. The old bagualero takes a second gulp, swills his mouth with the third and spits it on the ground.

I can hear the dogs, he says, suddenly alert. Listen.

The young bagualero strains forward, his ears drinking in sounds, now he hears it too. He nods.

Within seconds the dogs are there, barking, yapping, howling, all drunk on the adrenaline of the chase, their mouths frothy with spit. They spill into the clearing, like the breaking of a dam; footprints cover the ground, shallow hoofs splitting and expanding so celluliferously.

In the middle of the pack is the beast, a juggernaut intent on causing havoc, its baleful gaze falls squarely on the old man, a glimmer of recognition, defiance. My old friend, says the old bagualero, my old fucking friend.

The bull snorts, feet kicking dogs away like dust, flanks engorged, thick as armour. Its body is flecked by the blood of superfluous bite marks, the dogs too eager, starved for too long.

Ready your lasso, calls the older bagualero, we only got one shot, so don’t fuck it up.

The boy’s rope is in his hand already, spinning. The bull senses something, snaps its head around, the rippling crack of straining muscle fibres. It sees the boy with the rope. The bull is trapped in a corner, desperate to escape.

It charges. The dogs howl in delight.

Day #12

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Hadder: Heather, heath

Cerberean: Of or pertaining to or resembling Cerberus

Bazaar: In the East an exchange marketplace or assemblage of shops where goods are exposed for sale

—–

‘You there, stop!’

The soldier cantered forward, his stallion blazing a brilliant white matched only by the sheen of his brass chest plate. Plumes of ceremonial feathers sprung from his tightly fitted helmet, blowing like hadder in the early morning breeze. Slipping from the horse’s back, he gave his sword handle a quick half-tug to make sure it wouldn’t stick if he needed it. A deep breath helped muster a vague air of authority; the soldier approached the front of the caravan.

Immediately, he saw the two men leaning into each other, exchanging quick, secret whispers. Both were of swarthy, middle-eastern appearance, their dark hair thick as gorse, both beards immaculately oiled. They seemed nervous, but after all these were treacherous times.

The war had not long ended and it was uncommon to see men of a darker hue so far from home. Rumors of kidnappings were already rife and to make things worse a high-ranking official’s wife – a spoil of war, beautiful and exotic – had gone missing the night before, meaning patrols had been doubled.

‘Where are you going my friends?’ called the soldier, his voice loud and crisp, a deeply sonorous birdsong.

He had been patrolling the border since daybreak, cerberean in his duty yet encountering no one amongst the trickling, sandy hours. Boredom and youth had dulled the soldier’s sense of duty. He’d stopped the Arabs because it was simply something to pass the time with.

The whispering ceased and the two men peered inquisitively at the soldier, his pale skin and tight crop of blond hair a brutal reminder that they were far from home.

‘Salaam, friend,’ called one of the men, older and with thick, heavyset eyebrows. His companion was younger and had greasy, sweaty skin. The older man continued, his tone sharp, ‘why do you stop us?’

The soldier was taken aback by such directness. ‘What brings you this way, so early in the morning?’

The younger Arab looked quickly at his companion, nervous, eager to move on. A light sheen glistened on his face, as though he were a reflection; the tight curls of his beard, dark and foreboding ripples. The older Arab dismissed his apparent concerns with a hard look of annoyance.

‘My friend, we are simple traders seeking to reach the bazaar at Damascus by nightfall. We are spice merchants. Nothing more, nothing less.’

Damascus? The soldier knew the journey well, having made it many times as a child. There was no way in hell these traders would ever reach Damascus by nightfall on this route. If they were even going to Damascus…

‘You have a long…journey ahead of you – I would hate for your goods to spoil… May I take stock of your wares?’

‘Of course,’ replied the Arab, his voice now perfumed and cloying, intoxicatingly sickly and sprinkled with a hint of knowing malice. ‘Please sink your teeth into our forbidden fruits…’

The solider didn’t like the man’s tone. Something was off. He pulled back the caravan’s curtains to reveal a dark skinned woman, beautiful and exotic, teeth bared, eyes fearful and dagger drawn.

She hissed just four words, ‘I’m not going back…’

Day #3

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Iceman: A man who is skilled in traveling upon ice as among glaciers

Desponsage: Betrothal

Hyetograph: A chart or graphic representation of the average distribution of rain over the surface of the earth

—–

Flakes of ice scattered in the wind, like frozen confetti thrown over a newly married bride. The Iceman tested the strength of his pickaxe’s hold, three sharp tugs followed by a pause and then two more. He was always cautious when climbing on glaciers. He’d heard too many stories of people being dragged to their death by a desponsage between their bodyweight and gravity. But not him. He had work to do.

After a climb of several hours, the Iceman was finally approaching the top of a sharp, frozen incline somewhere deep in the wilderness of Montana. Clouds hung heavily above him, as if watching with curiosity. Their dark flanks rumbled territorially and it was clear that a storm was going to break sooner rather than later. The Iceman ripped his pickaxe free, dug the spikes of his shoes a foot higher and smashed the axe back into the ice. He heaved himself up. The movement was almost metronomic now.

A wry grimace flitted across his face, stained desert red from a hidden sun, bleached Siberian white by permafrost. He knew that the thick, thermal suit he wore was keeping him alive, but at the same time he knew that from a distance he must resemble little more than an insect clinging to the side of some giant structure. A woodlouse on bark. Rip, kick, heave, smash, grunt. Tick, tock. Rinse and repeat.

The wind was getting stronger, almost sadistically so and the laminated map that hung around his neck was flapping wildly, a startled bird. He managed to grip it between his teeth, their creamy white somehow purer than the deep blue-white of the glacier, then pulled himself up over the final ridge and onto the top of the icecap. He lay on his back staring up the sky, ragged breath spraying a sea salt mist. Overhead the swirling miasma of darkening cloud boomed a congratulatory note.

Knowing how dangerous a breaking storm could be for anyone in his position, the Iceman pushed himself up, ignoring the silent screams of his aching body. He just had to grab a few core samples for the annual hyetograph and he could leave. It seemed like an awful lot of work for what was essentially a glorified jam jar weather report. No sharpie marker pens to note the rainfall here. He thought of the abseil back down. He enjoyed that part the most – an effortless glide down the back of a ten thousand year old monster.

The Iceman suddenly felt very small again, acutely reminded of his situation: a tiny shellac mosquito, leaching frozen blood from a dinosaur. Hemmed in by the endless snowfield of clouds above. Hemmed in by the frozen ocean beneath his feet. The glacier rippled a strange turquoise colour when the first crackle of lightning erupted.