God's gift

Ski trip

1. Ski Trip

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. She refrained from blurting out that she, as well, had been granted a new metaphorical eyesight. 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, she knew her technique to be 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. But she didn't; she was too used to losing any kind of game to him, she didn't care anymore.