The Vulture – Part IA cold wind and a blazing winter sun hit him when he opened the door. Outside, the fields stretched almost endless, buried under ice and snow. A nordic desert. He pulled down the old welding goggles to protect himself from snow blindness and tucked the hat closely around his ears. The old wooden stairs creaked under his feet in a very comforting way, almost as if saying farewell. He closed the door behind him, slowly and respectfully, and stepped out into the great white emptiness. A small, almost invisible path led out to the main country road beyond the woods, but he wanted to avoid that for now. Instead he started walking out over the fields, with the snow crust crunching under his feet.After a while he looked back at the house, which grew smaller and smaller behind him, half-buried under the snow. It was a small, humble house in the middle of nowhere, but it had been important for someone once upon a time. And up until now it had been important to him. Maybe some day another wanderer would find their way there, sit down by the dusty kitchen table and rest while looking through the window with lacy curtains. Many times he had wondered who had lived there long ago. He had found notes and short letters, but nothing more. A small, suprisingly well-preserved stock of dry food had kept him alive for a few months, but now when it was almost finished it was time to leave again. So he gave the house one last look, a thank you for the time that had been, and trudged onwards through the snow. There was an eerie beauty in all this. Kilometers of fields stretched out in front of him. The sun made the white plains shimmer in an almost magical glow and the winds played with powderlike snow around his feet. Stillness. Calm. Where would you really draw the line between them and abandonment? He had never seen the old world, but all the stories made the world as it was now sound like it was pretty...empty. Desolate. Almost dead. Maybe it really seemed like that if you had grown up in the old world. Suddenly his headphones came to life. They caught a weak, almost impercievable radio signal. He pulled them off, adjusted their antenna and roughly polished the sun cells. Though he was a loner there was something encouraging in the sporadic radio programmes that were sent out in the area. Slowly but surely the signal grew stronger as he walked, until he could hear talking. ”...but in the end you can't avoid the problem of living space. Everyone should remember to vote in two days – all voices are needed. The future of Närpes might hang in the balance and for this decision all voices need to be heard. But now, there will be music. An old track from the former millennium from Guns 'n Roses – Sweet Home Alabama...” And so he wandered over the snowy fields with the music of the old world in his ears, the sun in his eyes and snow twirling around his legs. Back to the mood material | |||||||||||||