The Shepherd's Hut – Part 1: Storm on the Pass

"Come in," said the man. "Before the sky falls on you."

Elena did not need telling twice. She stumbled through the low door of the stone hut as the first huge hailstones hammered the pass behind her. The door banged shut. In the sudden dim quiet, she leaned on it, breathless, soaked to the skin, and burst out laughing.

"I'm so sorry. I'm usually much better at weather."

"No one is better at weather than the mountain." The man held out a blanket, rough grey wool, smelling of woodsmoke. He was sixty-four, tall and stooped, with white hair and a grey beard, in a patched jacket and a pair of enormous boots. "Jorge. This is my summer hut. For the sheep. Now only for me."

"Elena. I draw maps." She sank onto a wooden bench by the stove. "Drew. I'm retired."

"Then you will know where you are."

"Somewhere about here." She waved vaguely at the wall. "Possibly a little east of rain."

He laughed. It was a surprisingly young laugh. He heated a pot of sheep's milk, and she wrapped her hands around the mug. The hut had one room, a stove, a bed in the corner, a shelf of cheeses wrapped in cloth and a small window that showed nothing but grey cloud. Thunder rolled round the peaks.

The storm kept her three days. They played cards by lamplight, ate bread and cheese and drank a harsh, delicious red wine from a leather bottle. Jorge told her the names of the passes. She sketched them on paper, correcting his pronunciation of the places she'd charted from the air.

"You should have been a shepherd," said Jorge.

"You should have been a cartographer."

"I drew a map once. It was of a sheep."

She laughed until she cried. "Jorge," she said, wiping her eyes. "May I tell you something?"

"Always."

"I'd like to kiss you, if you wouldn't mind."

Continue the story: Part 2 – Embers.

Continue the story: Part 2 – Embers.