Eclipse landscape on a forearm

I am writing this on the back of the rain gauge ledger because the good paper ran out at the hut, and the post cart leaves the valley at six, so this will have to be quick. Mr Pargeter wanted the ridge theodolite set by noon. I set it, and then the light went strange, and I forgot the instrument entirely.

The sky turned the colour of pewter over the scree while the men below were still shouting about the mules. By the time the sun was a thin white thread, rays had come out of nothing, long grey lines shooting from the disc like a woodcut Mother pinned above the dresser. The clouds on the east edge curled up as if someone had drawn them with a fine nib. The dogs went quiet. Even the pines on the lower slope seemed to lean in.

Then the moon sat square across the sun, and it was black, perfectly black, with a ring of white burning round it. I counted the trees along the ridge because counting is what I do when I am frightened. Eleven pines, then a twelfth I had missed, standing taller than the rest in the dark, like a man who has walked out past the wall to see what is coming. I have been trying all afternoon to convince myself it was the cold.

When the light came back, the first thing I did was look for the twelfth tree. It was there. So was the path. I will tell you the rest at Christmas, if the pass stays open.

Your sister, Nell