“Not on your nelly,” he exclaimed, “I am not going up there.”
She sighed. It had been like this all day. Every turn, every trail, every ascent and every descent and his brow furrowed, his mouth turned down and that voice. Squinting across the valley the distant spire was like a tiny matchstick. Thank God he still has not seen it.
Like two great weights his feet dragged behind him, square and leaden, melted into the giant boots. A light breeze playfully tugged at the dry skin on his lips. The valley was so familiar now. All day and in all directions they had travelled by foot away from that church.
“Come on Michael,” strained positivity grating across her tongue, “One more push, soon be over and away”. She felt his staring eyes boring deep into her. This was not the first time this had been uttered.
Onwards, the snake of the trail tapers and reaches it’s head, in front nothing but wilderness. The slashing of their scythes gently beckon them over the crest, where the same spire awaits them.
He roars, she sinks.