He was not a strong man. The others knew that, and had not been surprised when he left. Perhaps there had been relief on their faces. He said his farewells, opened the flap of the tent, and stepped outside into the whirling snow. The weak sunlight cast his shadow against the tent for a moment, and then he was gone.
After he had walked for a time, in no particular direction, it occurred to him that he might be walking straight back to the tent. He could surprise the others by popping back in for a cup of tea and a chat.
The muscles of his face, struck by the perversity of the idea, tried to raise a smile. The ice on his moustache and beard cracked and refroze instantly as his mouth assumed its new position.
He staggered on another dozen paces before the bright lights hovering at the edges of his vision came together before his eyes. Someone called out to him, a dear voice from the past; he ran towards the voice, stumbled, fell, and lay still.
He awoke some time later to find himself covered in snow. It dimmed but could not obscure the bright light pressing against his eyeballs. It was time to get up. He freed his arms, brushed the snow from his face--his hands still worked after a fashion, though he dared not look too closely at his fingers--and set about freeing his body. The light had faded now. He stood, and during a momentary lull in the wind his ears picked up a faint humming. It was in the opposite direction from that brilliant light.
He wanted very much to run after the brightness, but some residual instinct for survival told him that he would do better to find the source of the humming. His eyes already narrowed to slits by fresh ice, he moved off towards the noise.
)
