“Death waits in all our futures,” I said.
She paused, there in the highest of the high lands, where the summer winds have winter on their breath, where they howl and whip and slash the air like knives. She said, “There was a woman in a tree. There will be a man in a tree.”
I said, “Will this mean anything to me?”
“One day. Perhaps.” She said, “Beware of gold. Silver is your friend.” And then she was done with me.
To Calum MacInnes she said, “Your palm has been burned.” He said that was true. She said, “Give me your other hand, your left hand.” He did so. She gazed at it, intently. Then, “You return to where you began. You will be higher than most other men. And there is no grave waiting for you, where you are going.”
He said, “You tell me that I will not die?”
“It is a left-handed fortune. I know what I have told you, and no more.”
She knew more. I saw it in her face.
Questo passaggio lo posto perché mi piace un sacco la descrizione dei venti estivi che hanno l'inverno nel loro respiro, e ululano e sferzano e squarciano l'aria come coltelli.
E poi, la morte. Il pensare la morte. L'accettare il morire. Il rendersi conto di dover morire. Ovvero, relativizzare se stessi, tutto quello che si è, assolutamente.
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