Oh mighty mountains !

No regrets. None whatsoever.

How could she, when the might of the Alps was displayed at her feet? No trip to the south west with Matthew – too much work. She’d stormed away – figuratively – only to pack her trunks and join her brother in the Alps. Like a hitchhiker, or a little elf climbing in his suitcase.

But damn, it was worth it. The wind on her cheeks, cold crisp air, so clear, so pure. White expenses of fresh snow and a sky so blue it looked more vibrant than the deepest sea. And this morning, huddled together at the orientation table on top of the highest mountain, both she and her brother fell into a meditative state as they watched the Belledone massif in all its glory.

Sharp edges of unmovable rock, sturdy, dusted with white snow that shone in the sunlight. Unforgivable places, unattainable, yet so beautiful. Dangerous peaks of ice and stone reaching for the sky, shooting up like a set of giant teeth.

It was so breathtaking that she had trouble realising that this was only the result of a few geological patterns; a plutonic rock, water and rain, the rise of the Alps in a collision and the appropriate temperature – a 0.5 degrees drop every hundred metres.

Her rational brain just didn’t recognise it as the work of telluric forces, and her mind flew to Father Tristan. She could picture him easily, as sturdy as those mountains by her side, his frock billowing in the wind. What would he see?

The work of God, for sure. Such beauty laid at their feet… And for once, she would probably agree with him. Funny, how the future engineer was slowly swaying to a more spiritual way of thinking. It allowed her to see beauty – the mountain, her love for her brother. And darkness; those people, crowding the chaise longues, flaunting their outfits and trying to attract attention because “Hey! they were rich enough to go skiing in France”.

Her world, slowly, was shifting from a black and white to colour. And it amazed her, for she would have sworn it to be reversed. Weren’t religious people so blinded by their faith that they ignored reality? Had she, unwittingly, uncovered that science was, in itself, a religion that enclosed its believers just as well?

Her cynism would have dismissed intentions and behaviours as rational, hidden a whole piece of reality. Father Tristan was tutoring her, slowly, to open her eyes. And in doing so, she could reach for the light.

If her heart had been heavy when arriving, it was now filled with awe. There was something magic, something surrealist about those mountains. They had a mind of their own, they took whomever didn’t respect them. The Alps, just like Himalaya, didn’t accept those who refused to pay their tribute.

— “It’s fantastic, Fran. I had never seen them so clearly.”

The young woman smiled at her brother; before his surgery, he didn’t see as far as she could. Myopia was a bitch.

I, also, have a new metaphorical eyesight, brother, she thought.

Still a work in progress, though; she had much to learn.

— “So, do we hit that black slope?”

Quentin’s mouth quirked, and she guessed that his gaze twinkled below the sunglasses. This was a challenge she intended to take, and if her thighs were not as strong as his, her technique was slightly better. Yet, out of them both, Quentin was definitely crazier.

— “You bet.”

Frances made to turn around, but a sudden urge to immortalise the moment stopped her.

— “Let me take a picture first.”

And once her camera was fully secured, brother and sister rushed like a set of children to try that new slope. Frances laughed, fresh snow gracing her skies as she sped down. Free, and happy. Of course, Quentin always gave her a head start so that he could overtake her afterwards. His favourite trick, just to see if she would yell. She never did; too used to losing any kind of game to him. Frances had never cared about winning.

Four slopes later, they were both panting in exertion. They’d beaten their record, descending a few kilometres in less than two minutes tops.

— “Lunch?” she offered, eyeing the expense of fresh snow lying at her feet. Calling her with glee.

— “Yes. After this wall, take left and we’ll get to the restaurant you like.”

— “OK”

And so, Frances planted her poles into the ground and sped down, relishing in the frozen air that whipped her face. Quentin had not passed her yet, and she executed a few tight bends in hopes of keeping him behind. Her speed increased, her skis gliding effortlessly in the fresh layer of snow. This half foot of powder would ensure an easy stop at the bottom. Frances squatted lower, her legs nearly parallel now, adrenalin pumping in her veins.

Her right foot connected with a little monticule; she was too late to pull it back. The ski slid under her left one, and her mind knew, at once, that she was screwed.

Uh Oh.

Nothing to do, no saving grace. Frances went flying headfirst. Curiously, it was the steep gradient that saved her ass, for her body somehow somersaulted over. Both of her skies unlocked, so did her poles. Her left glove, as well, as she landed in fresh power and started skidding, twenty feet below, along the slope.

A little stunned, she realised she was sliding on her belly, feet down. A quick reflex allowed her to catch her last glove before it was teared from her hand, then she tried to dig her feet in the snow. To no avail, she was still hurtling down at full speed. Vexed, now, Frances turned around and sat. But the slope was so steep that she had to struggle, digging her heavy ski shoes to eventually impair her descent. And then, at last, she stopped.

Incredulous, she stole a glance behind her, seeing her skies and poles scattered all around. Wow! This was the most spectacular fall she’d ever taken, included that time she had failed to break and jumped in a field of fresh now. Amusement bubbled in her chest, and before long, she was bent in two, laughing like a maniac.

She just couldn’t stop. Shock or real mirth? Frances would never know, she had taken the tumble of her life and nothing ached. Not even a bruise. How was this possible, given the distance she had covered between the accidental crossing and her position? How had her knees resisted, at this speed? Her elbows and wrist? Somehow, it was as if she’d never touched the ground.

A miracle. Was her guardian angel watching over her today? Every day of her life? Was Father Tristan praying for her? What would he say if he came back crippled or injured? He’d probably be livid … more so than Matthew, that was for sure.

A sudden scratch told her someone was stopping by her side. She lifted her eyes, giggling, and found a very worried Quentin.

— “Fuck, Franny. I thought you were dead!”

She couldn’t keep her face straight, and started laughing at his stupidity. Dead! He certainly was the master of exaggeration, wasn’t he?

— “I don’t believe it!” he ranted. “I was and ready to call the patrol.”

Frances shook her head, flakes falling from her hair as she grinned.

— “Hey, I’ve done a somersault, can you believe it?

Quentin’s features relaxed; he cracked a smile. It felt good, to share some time with her older brother without fighting. They’d certainly had their differences in the past, but all was well now. They had both grown out of sibling rivalry to close ranks in the face of adversity: engineering school.

He handed her the scarf she had lost uphill, and she took a good look at the slope behind her; Quentin had to pick up an item every dozen meters or so. Like a set of pebbles left to find one’s way, her brother just had to follow the path.

It took Frances a long time to strap her glove, and both of her skies. Partly because she was still giggling, partly because so much snow was packed on her clothes, her hair and the fixations that she had to tap them to be able to lock the mechanism. And all this time, she laughed, and laughed until her stomach hurt. And Quentin followed, shaking his head at her antics, claiming that she was the “most preposterous and crazy sister of the world”.

Yes. She probably was. But again, she was his only sister.

Those three days in the great outdoors imprinted her with joy. Every night, Frances fell asleep in the living room’s studio, exhausted, before the clock even hit 10 pm. Her skin turned golden, her lips red from the tiny cracks inflicted by the dry mountain cold and her leg muscles screamed bloody murder. It was so worth it.

Every evening she sat by the window. Her eyes feasted upon the scenery, awed by such magnificence, and her heart swelled with the sense of freedom that settled deep within. Nature, laid at her feet in its best coat, shining under the changing light of the winter sun. Sharp and blinding at noon, orange in the afternoon, reddish at night, painting the opposite side in hues that even silk scarfs didn’t sport.

When she descended in the valley, mightily content, her heart was at peace. Even Matthew’s SMS didn’t manage to dampen her mood … much.

'Matthew: I’m running late, can you take the subway?'

A storm passed in her eyes; it had been quite some time since Matthew had been available to pick her up at the station. Long gone were the days when he took her to the platform to give her a kiss before she climbed in. The young woman sighed; they had the full week end ahead before she returned to school. Why not make the most of it?

And so, plugging her mp3 player, she stepped into the fog.

Four hundred kilometres away, Father Tristan had just finished his Taï-chi routine, muscles taut and body supple. He wasn’t even winded when he knelt for his daily prayers, grounded and focused. His well wishes covered family, friends, parishioners and even those unknown souls that he had no name for. Those who passed by, those who didn’t believe, those who suffered. And a particular young lady that should be returning soon under his watchful eye.

Keep Frances safe, even if she is not too careful. The world needs her light.