by Bret Tallent
There were things about Johnny's past as well. Things even he hadn't remembered. He saw his parents again; saw them as he never had. He relived his grandfather's life with him from the earliest recollection to present. He lived other lives as well. He'd never seen the man before, but Johnny knew that he was seeing his great-grandfather, Opaq. He was seeing his life too, or that amount of it that Faywah possessed. It was an incredible experience. No longer were they corporeal, they were spirit, one step away from Sinawaf, the Creator.
They were simple life forces that were melding to form one life force. Johnny recognized it all as the Kaostiwa life force. He was gaining the knowledge of his ancestors. His facial expressions were changing drastically the whole time yet he was unaware of it. He would be happy one moment and sad the next. Moments of hate and panic and fear….and for one instance, sheer terror. But it was so much that Johnny couldn't sort it all out now, he was simply taking it all in.
Johnny could sense that they were nearing the end of the story. He felt it in his heart as well as his mind, their mind. He then realized what was happening and sick panic streaked across his face. He opened his mouth and let out a silent scream, then managed a muffled, "no". He grabbed tight onto his grandfather's hands and held them with so much force that they might have snapped. Johnny didn't care he wasn't going to let him go.
The chanting was fading then and suddenly stopped, cut off by the fierce cry of the wind. Johnny slowly came out of his trance and looked up at his grandfather, whose hands he still held. Tears welled up in his eyes and overflowed them to drip onto the deerskin. They darkened the pale leather with each strike. Outside, the dogs howled above the roar of the wind, not to be denied. Their voices pitiful and morose, they sang their Requiem. Faywah had died.
"Your spirit will not ride this wind," Johnny stated defiantly, cradling the old man. "You will ride the clean wind, the tower to Sinawaf himself. I promise it." Johnny stared out past the window, gently rocking back and forth. And all the while, the wind was laughing. It sneered at Johnny with its noise. It mocked him by buffeting the house and whispering around the eaves. It was a living thing, and Johnny hated it.
CHAPTER 7
They finished their breakfast and stacked the dishes in the sink. Bud noticed that Sarah had barely picked at her food. She was very worried about her brother. He remembered back as they were growing up, they were inseparable. So much alike that many people thought they were twins. They even resembled each other a great deal. When they were younger, more so than now, but they still looked alike he decided. Even though Nick was a little over a year older, they were the same size back then too. Of course now, Nick was a good eight inches taller.
Both were fair haired with hazel eyes and light complexions. Both had a crop of freckles on the nose and cheeks which was barely perceptible now. But, Bud still looked at them through clouded eyes of days past. Even though they were grown, adults, he still saw them as his little niece and nephew. They would always be Jack's kids. Out of all of his nieces and nephews, Sarah and Nick were Bud's favorites.
Sarah turned from the sink and saw her uncle regarding her. She smiled and gave him a hug. A big bear hug that told him thanks for everything he'd done for her and Nick. Thanks for being there when their father had died. Thanks for being there when she was going through her divorce a year ago. Just thanks for being there and . . . I love you.
"I'm going to get the snowmobiles ready Sarah, why don't you pack us some things to take with us, food and stuff. Then, dress as warmly as you can. It looks like a blizzard out there."
He gave her shoulders a squeeze and turned for the door. He slipped easily into his snow suit and zipped it up. Then he put on his snow boots and gloves, followed by his goggles and finally his hat. It was his infamous "Elmer Fudd" hat and Sarah chuckled in spite of herself. He turned, gave her a wink, and was out the door.
The world was blinding outside. The snow was being driven into him by the force of the wind and it stung his cheeks and chin. Bud lowered his head against the onslaught and pushed his way through the snow that had drifted onto the porch and steps. It was well over two feet deep in places and at least eight inches everywhere else. He made his way down to the shelter beneath the deck where he stored his firewood and three snowmobiles.
He uncanvassed two of them, Polaris wide tracks, and checked their fuel levels. After topping off the one he used most, he primed their carbs and pushed the starter buttons on each. After several moments they coughed to life and idled high from their chokes. A twangy two stroke buzz filled the air and drowned out most, but not all, of the wind's angry screeches. White vapor mixed with smoke from the exhaust inundated the small shelter and Bud found it difficult to see.
He stepped out from under the deck and sank two feet into the fresh snow where it had not been packed down by their traffic. To the side of the deck where the snowmobiles pointed the direction they needed to go there was a huge drift that blocked their exit. Bud retrieved the snow shovel from beside the wood pile and moved to the outside of the drift. He began shoveling away the icy obstacle and his heart was pounding hard.
His lungs ached from breathing in the Arctic air and his pulse was beating a chorus tune against his temples. He continued to shovel, leveling a path that they could take the machines through. When he had finished he felt as if his chest would explode from the cold and his exertion in it. He suddenly became dizzy and felt pain in his left arm. He dropped the shovel and fell back against the deck, using it for support. He stood there until the pain eased and his head cleared.
***
Tom Willis felt as if he were in a tomb. It was dark and cold and wet. He struggled for a moment to place himself, and then sickening realization came over him. He gulped in acrid air in a moment of panic and coughed harshly, banging his head on the underside of his workbench. His entire head ignited in pain and he saw stars. He tried to take a cleansing breath but the very air he breathed was scorched and charred, and he coughed again.
He forced himself to moderate his breathing and concentrate upon his situation. Shafts of light were filtering in to him from somewhere, finding its way through the debris that covered him. Tom was laying on his side under the workbench in about two inches of water. He was cold but there was still warmth coming from the charred timbers that covered him. Everything seemed to be working okay, and other than a splitting headache, he felt pretty good.
Tom pushed on the burnt timbers and his fingers sank into the soft charcoal of its skin, but they moved. He pushed harder and felt the pile give somewhere. Then he gave a mighty heave and several large chunks of singed wood fell away leaving a small opening at his chest. The movement stirred up soot that had not been held down by moisture, and it made Tom cough again.
He repositioned himself and stared out the opening. Daylight. He could see daylight. There was no roof over him, the cabin was gone. He dwelled on it for only a moment then concentrated on digging himself out. Tom looked at the hole again. It was big enough, he thought. So he grabbed several of the surrounding timbers and yanked on them. They were fairly solid.
Satisfied, he started to twist and writhe and pull himself out. Several times he felt the pile give or shift and he froze in anticipation, but nothing else happened. So he unscrewed himself from the rubble and emerged into what remained of his garage. A bitter wind blew down from above to greet him and he started trembling.
Slowly, Tom surveyed the damage, turning around carefully on the uneven footing. His arms wrapped around him for warmth he trembled again, as much from the cold as from what he saw. Piles, there were just piles. Blackened and charred, twisted and deformed by heat. His life had been reduced to piles. Some were still smoldering, most not. The snow had already buried much of it and in a few hours would claim it all, its pristine white hiding the ugliness. It was a stark contrast of black and white.
But to Tom's surprise, the back half of the garage was mostly in tact. The concrete sub-structure and support beams had protected i
t. Which helped to explain why he was still alive, he thought. The Range Rover had blown up though, from the heat, he surmised, and the explosion appeared to have blown out the pull down doors. This helped to explain why he was able to breathe through it all.
The cold slapped at him then and he trembled uncontrollably. Tom thought hard for a moment then his face lit up with enlightenment. He turned toward the workbench and began tossing off the burned remnants of his home. Finally, he cleared an opening to a shelf below the work surface. He reached in and searched blindly with his hand. After a moment a smile eased onto his face and he pulled out a bundle.
Tom unrolled the black and white pin striped bundle to reveal a pair of well used coveralls. They were grubby but they were dry and in tact, and had never looked better to Tom. He pulled them on hurriedly then stuffed his hand back into the hole to pull out an old pair of greasy, paint splotched top-siders. He looked at them appreciatively then sat them aside and dug into the opening for more.
Tom sat on the pile of charred timber and studied his bounty. He had a roll of duct tape, several red grease rags, the top-siders, a crow bar, a screw driver, and a pair of pliers. Tom looked at the screw driver and pliers, shrugged, and stuffed them into one of the deep pockets of the coveralls. Then he took the crowbar and hung it from a tool loop at his side. Next he took the rags and wrapped them around his feet, holding them in place with some duct tape, and donned the top-siders.
He stood, dropped the roll of tape into a pocket, and looked up to where the stairs, to where the kitchen used to be. Careful of his footing, Tom gingerly climbed the pile of debris to the kitchen. Once there, a brief moment of futility washed over him, there was nothing left. He wandered through the rubble of his home, despondent and far away.
He walked on dreamily and ended up in a trash pile that was his bedroom. He recognized the blackened and broken form of a dresser. The one his wife had refinished just last summer. Beside it were a twisted metal bed frame and half burned headboard. Tom stared at it blankly. Then something caught his eye beyond the headboard.
There was an object half buried in the snow that was creeping in on the scene. Tom pulled the object from the snow and stared at it. It was partially charred and covered with soot, and blood. He turned it over in his hands and a lump caught in his throat. He swallowed it down and sighed, then felt a warm tear run down his cold cheek. It was one of his wife's pink fuzzy slippers.
Tom wanted to laugh. He wanted to laugh out loud. Laugh at fate. But instead, he cried. Disbelief, futility and despair, Tom cried for all these reasons. But mostly, he cried for the loss of his wife. His life was nothing without her. He was reduced to nothing because she was gone. He felt it in his heart and soul, he knew she was dead. He stood there morosely for a moment then turned back at the dresser. He had to get his mind on something else, even if it was the futile idea that he could survive. ……Or even wanted to.
There was one drawer still in tact. One small top drawer had merely been scorched, but it was whole. His pace brisk, fueled by the cold and his grief, Tom made his way to it and yanked on the handles. They came off in his hands and he threw them down, irritated. He pulled the crowbar from his belt loop and pried at the drawer. It squealed in protest but finally gave way and opened.
His T-shirts were inside. They were scorched and smelled of smoke, but he didn't care. Tom pulled on seven of them and tied the last one around his head like a turban. He reached back into the drawer and pulled out two pair of tube socks. One pair he pulled on over the rags taped around his feet, and the other he ripped out the toes and pulled them up over his bare arms.
Tom knew there was a cabin not too far from him, Lloyd Sanders' he believed. Tom didn't know the man too well. He hadn't said much more than "hello" to him a time or two in four years. But it was only a half a mile, and Tom's best chance. There was that old coot Ellis' place, but that had to have been a mile and a half or better, he thought. So, Tom decided on Lloyd's. The road ran past Tom's to get to his, and Tom thought the snow on it might not be too bad.
Even if it was, what other choice did he have? If he stayed here he would surely die. Either from the cold, or . . . Tom's thoughts trailed off. He didn't know what to think. He'd pushed it out of his mind until this very moment. What had happened last night? Suddenly, Tom Willis was very afraid. And somehow, the storm seemed to be the least of his problems. So he headed down his driveway to the road.
He glanced back to the blackened mound that had been his home, his life of late. Already the snow was encroaching on it, trying to erase it from the countryside, trying to erase him. Tom paused for a moment then turned and trudged on through the snow. He felt like it was the last time he would see this place, and it was.
***
Sarah had made some sandwiches from some leftover roast they'd had a few nights earlier. She found a half a bag of Cheeto's and some Little Debbie Nutty Bars too. Finally, as an after thought, she put the half bottle of Peppermint Schnapps in the back pack as well. If the boys had spent the night at the station, the Schnapps would be just the ticket with the thermos of hot chocolate she was bringing.
She went back to her bedroom and pulled her ski pants on over the Danskins, then tucked her undershirt into them. She let her sweater remain outside and pulled on a ski bib over this, finally tucking the sweater into it. It felt bulky, but it would be warm she decided. She grabbed the rest of her ski gear and headed to the outer room. She glanced casually at the thermometer on the wall near the phone that measured the outside temperature. Twenty below zero, it read. She gave an involuntary tremor then turned to the kitchen.
Near the front door she finished dressing. Snow boots, ski coat, face mask, toboggan, goggles, and finally her gloves. She snatched the back pack from the table and headed out the door. She walked clumsily and it was awkward moving in the bulk she was wearing. But the bite of the wind and snow wasn't getting to her. Her breath hovered before her for only an instant, thick and white, then was quickly swept away in the fury of the storm. Her awkward progress continued through the drifts her uncle had passed through only a half hour ago.
His prints were very nearly covered already and the drifts were rising. She stepped gingerly down each step, not sure of her footing. The back pack in one hand, her other gripped the hand railing firmly. She had no desire to pick herself up out of the soft snow. Sarah made her way down to the shelter beneath the deck and heard the machines running. She could see their exhaust billowing out and being carried away in a flurry of snow and wind. She couldn't however, see her uncle.
As Sarah rounded the far end of the shelter, she saw Bud leaning against the deck with one arm, buried up to his knees in the new snow. His head hung low and his other arm just dangled. She walked up to him and he raised his head at her approach.
"Just taking a breather!" he shouted above the noise of the machines and the wind. "It's tough working out in this stuff!" He didn't really have to explain to her, she knew how it was to move around in, and at this altitude too.
"I just have to check the emergency gear on each machine," he continued, "then we're ready." He trudged past her and went to the back of the first machine, his machine, and opened up the panel on its seat back.
They were each equipped with a little trunk of sorts and Bud had always believed in keeping certain gear in them in case of an emergency. He had done so ever since he and his oldest son, David, had gotten themselves stuck that one time. They had been out playing around on the snow mobiles one day and decided to cross the river. Unfortunately, it was still too early in the winter and the river wasn't frozen over solid enough. One of the machines broke through the ice and got stuck.
While they were trying to pull it out, they managed to stick the other one. They were soaking wet from head to toe and ended up spending the night out there. When they didn't show up at the cabin that evening, Ruth had called the Rangers to go find them. Fortunately for them, they had managed to build a fire and stay warm. But, it was a lesson that Bud wo
uld never forget.
Bud rummaged through the compartment: Flares, matches, rope, a flashlight, which he also checked to see if its batteries were up, some freeze dried food stuffs, and the flare gun. There was also a small tool pouch and a spare spark plug for the Polaris. The other machine was similarly equipped. It was a smaller vehicle with a smaller engine, but nearly as fast as his. He turned to Sarah after he closed the compartment, satisfied.
"Do you still remember how to ride one of these things?" he yelled.
She looked at the machine and nodded, "Yeah, I can ride it. Maybe not as fast as you, but I can manage." The last time she had been on one was two years ago with her then husband, Anthony, but he had actually done most of the driving. Still, she was sure that she could handle the beast. As she remembered, it wasn't that much different from an old quad bike she’d ridden recently. Except it was safer when you crashed it, the snow was a lot more forgiving than the ground and they didn't tip quite as easily. The controls were the same, and you leaned them in the turns the same way too.
Bud took the pack from her and strapped it to the metal rack at the rear of his machine with a bungee cord. He pulled the Elmer Fudd hat and goggles off and Velcro’d on his face mask, and then replaced the hat and goggles. He pulled the ear flaps down and tied them under his chin. To see him made Sarah smile under her mask. She did a final check of her own apparel and, satisfied, mounted the snow mobile. Bud climbed aboard his machine as well, gave a final look and nod back at Sarah, then hit the throttle with his thumb.
The two stroke's whine screamed above the wind and belched out flumes of white that quickly dissipated. Their centrifugal clutches caught and they lurched forward. By seven o'clock they were on their way. Bud climbed the bank before him and emerged from the porch shelter into the blizzard, followed by Sarah. As they worked the parts of the machines, their movement became more fluid and responsive. They maneuvered between two huge lodge pole pines and headed for the open field to the east of Bud's cabin.
