The gulls ride inland on the river of fog, long grey tendrils curling up the river valleys, surging like water over the hills and into deep hollows. The white birds mewl and complain, and sweep in circles, long sharp wings cutting the thick grey that smells of woodsmoke and sea and damp earth. They jockey for position on the wires with the raucous crows.

The tenderest plants melted overnight, leaves turned to dark green slime from the thick frost. Intolerance begets intolerance; it is a wickedness and a jealousy, a narrowness through treacherous cliffs and the ice and fog are thick. The black shadows of birds both white and black flit across the chasm's maw, and the tendrils of blighted vines impede the passage. There is a stream of fresh water, deep down in the cut through the cliffs, percolating out from some glacial spring, that brings with it the healing of deep wounds, that offers the one spot of common ground. It is difficult to find, and harder to reach. But it is sweet, and deep.