From "Dancing with Spirits" by Carol Arnall

It was cold – a dank clinging cold that seemed to be inside the very marrow of my bones. My feet slipped on the wet muddy ground and I pulled my deerskin cloak closer, but even that brought no comfort. I was so unbelievably cold and wet. Normally, the soft supple skin would enfold me within its warmth and comfort; pictures would form in my mind of the generations of deer that had gone before my time on this earth. Today, the herds were but a distant memory as the weather closed in on me, Grandmamma and my 11-year-old sister, Trieainia. ‘Oh for the warmth of a fire,’ I thought, slipping and sliding on the muddy, sandy ground. I drew nearer to my Grandmamma for warmth and reassurance. The mist continued to swirl around; creating strange shapes, transforming the winter trees into mystical, ghostly forms, making me think of weird creatures waiting to pounce on us. The tree branches, outstretched like big cat claws, loomed towards us and they seemed to be calling and drawing us nearer and nearer through the ghostly mist that hung and hovered, drifting through the tree branches.