The confrontation took place against a picture-postcard backdrop of vast, snow-covered mountain dwarfing rustic, alpine town.
The young woman was startlingly lovely in face and form, transforming her arctic leggings into the stuff of men's dreams, and the utilitarian upper garments of a lumberjack into a highly promising gift wrapping.
The man facing her, the proprietor of snowmobiles, was her diametrical opposite: squat, toad-faced, grizzled, uncombed, unwashed, and unkempt.
It was like a scene out of mythology: a nymph facing a troll.
"You ever run one of these before, girly?" the troll asked, his manner clearly dismissive of any knowledge and experience she may have accumulated in her relatively short lifespan.
Rarely at a loss, the young woman quickly took up the gauntlet.
"I bet you've got a whiz-bang time machine, Alley Oop," she countered.
The troll looked her in puzzlement. She could sense the antiquated machinery of his brain grinding slowly into motion, in a futile attempt to decipher her remark.
"Huh?" he managed eventually.
"Never mind," she said, somewhat miffed at her failure to pink him. She hated to waste a perfectly good insult on someone too obtuse to comprehend it.
"Yeah, sure," she said, answering his original question. "I've used a snowmobile before. Plenty of times."
Completely ignoring this assurance, the troll ran through his usual introduction for greenhorns, in a gratingly condescending fashion. It was part of his unconscious revenge against feminine youth and beauty for failing to swoon at his feet. Ironically, his manner only ensured that he would remain forever exiled in a lonely hell of his own making, never to experience the miracle of a woman's love.
Minutes later, the unnecessary tutorial over, the young woman stashed her small pack in the snowmobile's cargo box and seated herself on the saddle. The motor, already running, burbled throatily, awaiting her will.
The troll, instinctively feeling that he had not adequately dominated their interaction, was running his brain hot, trying to manufacture a telling parting shot.
"Go easy on the throttle," he grumbled at last.
And this was the best he could manage, she thought. Truly a sad case. As a rearguard, he would have served the enemy well.
The young woman laid her right hand against her heart and lifted one corner of her mouth slightly.
"I promise," she said solemnly.
The troll gave a distempered grunt. Having performed his function, he turned without farewell and began trudging away.
Before he had taken three steps, a merry call reached his ears from behind.
"Hey, asswipe!"
This level of subtlety the troll could comprehend. Through sheer incredulity, though, it took him several seconds to react. At last, outraged, he swung around to confront her.
The young woman was regarding him wryly.
"Don't call me 'girly'," she said sweetly.
Before the troll could think of an appropriate response, she awarded him one of the most dazzling smiles he had ever seen, gunned the motor to maximum, and roared off toward the mountain that loomed above the town.
***
"Where are you, Mister Matthew Quinn?"
Too long later, the young woman, unsure of her bearings, had halted atop a ridge, from which vantage point she now surveyed the snowy landscape, without helpful result.
Though the afternoon was now well advanced, the mountain was still bathed in sunshine, and she felt comfortably warm.
She mentally reviewed the directions she had been given in town, and shook her head ruefully. They had seemed perfectly clear at the time. Now, however ...
She also recalled the advice she had received, and ignored, to the effect that navigating the mountain could be tricky ... even dangerous.
Not for an instant did she consider turning back. In all ways a passionate woman, and never more so than about her current mission, she was utterly determined to see it through, come what may.
Pick a direction, she thought, any direction.
Trusting instinct, as she so often did, she buzzed off anti-clockwise along the mountain's expansive midriff.
Minutes later, a clump of trees forced her into a circumnavigation. Without slackening speed, she powered around them ... only to be confronted by a house-sized boulder lying in ambush beyond.
Too late to veer, too late to stop.
Instinctively, the young woman's legs straightened with all the strength she could muster, launching her upward in time to depart the careering vehicle before it crashed. She landed with a fair thump, but safely, tumbling and sliding to a halt.
For a moment she lay still, breathing heavily into the snow, then got up to survey the damage.
Fortunately, the boulder's base was shielded by a thick build-up of snow, and it was into this that the machine had ploughed.
The vehicle appeared undamaged, though the motor had stalled. She adjusted the controls and hauled on the starter cord several times, but, while her efforts caused her mount to grunt and sigh, no other sign of life was forthcoming.
On her final attempt, the pull cord snapped, leaving her spread-legged on her rear end.
She stared in disbelief. A smile of wonder broke over her face.
"I'm fucking screwed," she said cheerfully.
That she had reached this state of affairs did not entirely surprise her. She had known all along that she should have prepared better, should in fact have had someone who truly knew what they were doing ferry her to her destination.
As she had done innumerable times before, the young woman shook her head ruefully at her inability to rule her own impulses.
This attitude endured only a moment, after which she squared her shoulders determinedly. Impetuous she might be, but she was also nigh-indomitable in character. Shaking off self-recrimination, she got to her feet and looked around.
She was surprised to notice that she could still see the town, far away and far below.
Something in that scatter of buildings was glinting, reflecting the light of the declining sun. She squinted, and decided it was probably the church spire. From this distance, it was little more than a needle to the eye.
She looked mock-mournfully at the inoperable snowmobile. Some people, she knew, would be inclined turn to prayer in such a case. Well, why not? Diverting her thoughts might give her unconscious mind the opportunity to come up with an effective next step.
She rummaged through her memory, but the prayers she found there aroused only deep irritation at the well-meaning but simple-minded - or possibly cunning and self-serving - clerics and teachers responsible for their presence.
With a sense of irony that pleased and comforted her, she gave her creativity a stir, and improvised.
"Jesus loves me, this I know, coz some moron told me so."
"Now I lay me down to sleep ... I pray the Lamb don't fuck the sheep ..."
In order to thumb her nose at religion more even-handedly, she included a couple of the world's other major faiths.
"Allaaahuuu ... snackbar!"
"Om mani padme humble pie."
Hmm. She had to admit, they were all kinda lame. She should practice more.
Her pseudo-religious impulse exhausted, she subsided, trusting that she had covered all relevant bases.
Whether she had or not, she felt significantly better.
The hoped-for inspiration regarding her current situation, however, remained absent.
Undeterred, she extracted her pack from the snowmobile and set off through the snow on foot.
***
