Angels in the Snow

by Melody Carlson

  She came to the old dead tree, just before the burn area, and actually gasped at its transformed beauty. Each twisted bare branch and gnarled twig, now dusted in a thin veneer of white powder and illuminated by the afternoon sun, glistened like polished silver and were a soft contrast against the brilliant blue backdrop of sky. The phrase “breathtakingly beautiful” had always sounded phony to her, but that is exactly how she would describe this scene. Before the accident she would have raced back to the cabin for her camera and then used a whole roll of film trying to catch every single angle and shadow and light just right. Then she’d have waited impatiently for the photos to be developed, imagining the final image in oils on a wide canvas. But now she simply stood and stared, almost afraid to breathe. Such beauty was terrifying to her now. She took a deep breath and continued to walk, leaving the fallen tree behind her, its image still burning itself into her brain, making it nearly impossible to see the trail ahead. Finally, after several minutes of walking, she regained her focus and began to look around again.

  The clearing, void of tall tree shadows, grew so bright that she longed for her dark glasses, and for the first time she understood how it was that a person could actually become snow-blind. Even though her eyes were adjusting to the stunning brightness, she was still forced to keep them focused downward, mostly to the trail before her. And that’s when she began to notice another type of tracks—in fact, two sets. Human tracks.

  Claire frowned. Up until now she had imagined that this entire section of woods belonged to her, and to her alone. She thought of this as her woods. And she didn’t want to share her woods with anyone who was walking on two legs. The tracks headed in the same direction she normally walked, the way she was walking right now. She knew she could choose to turn around and head straight back to her cabin. But as a result her walk would be cut short. Her only other option was to continue along her regular path and risk the chance of running into these two interlopers. Because surely they, like her, would eventually turn back and return to wherever it was they had come from—these people who were trespassing in her woods.

  Oh, she knew this was all ridiculous. After all, the trail was part of the National Forest, put there for anyone and everyone to use and to enjoy. And she also knew that other cabins, spotted here and there, likely had inhabitants who relished the pleasures of a hike in the woods just as much as she, but up until now—with the help of the snow—she’d never seen any signs and had simply preferred to imagine that her little borrowed cabin was the only one within miles. It was that sort of isolation that had compelled her to come here; she had longed for that deep sort of loneliness—both within and without. Of course, Jeannie had mentioned there were others around, but she’d also said the majority of cabins sat vacant during most of the winter months. Too hard to get in and out of, too difficult to cross over the mountain pass once the snows came.

  Claire kept walking, ignoring the human tracks and hoping she wouldn’t come face-to-face with their owners and spoil her sense of isolation altogether. Hopefully this was a one-time thing, tourists who had stopped their car along the road to take a walk and enjoy the snow before continuing on their merry way. To her relief she walked all the way to the footbridge (her turn-back point) without seeing a living creature other than three brown does and a good-sized buck with a nice set of antlers. She turned back in triumph, pleased that she had not run into the owners of the human tracks as she walked back to the cabin. All in all, her leisurely paced walk usually took just less than two hours. Of course, if she walked faster she could probably cut that time in half, but then, why would she want to do that?

  Back at the cabin she managed to distract herself from seeing her easel again, although she could feel its stiff presence, still standing guard at the window and perhaps even mocking her now. She was able to avoid it completely until it was nearly dark outside. And that didn’t take long, for the darkness of imposing winter came more quickly with each passing day. Ignoring the electric lights, she lit a kerosene lamp and watched as its golden glow filled the room with a soft-edged, murky sort of light. She liked how the lamp created deep shadows, illuminating the wood surfaces with richness and warmth. And that’s when her easel and art supplies faded into the shadows, into oblivion, finally allowing her to pretend they didn’t exist at all.

  She then began her evening routine. Not all that much different than the morning one. But after the last dinner dish was washed and dried and set into the old pine cupboard next to the sink, that familiar tightness began to build in her chest again. With each day (and it was always worse at night) it felt as if the burning, aching sensation was growing larger and larger, taking up even more space inside her. Instead of diminishing over time, it only seemed to increase. She had hoped that a drastic change like living alone in the woods might somehow change something—break something. But, if anything, it only seemed to amplify and magnify her pain and loneliness. And she knew she wasn’t big enough to contain it all. In fact, she felt certain that in time she would simply burst open from it. And so, once again, she tried to pray.

  Pressing her lips tightly together she closed her eyes and willed a prayer to form itself within her. Please, God! Only two little words, but it was a start and all she could muster. And as small and insignificant as it seemed, she felt surely it must be progress. As a result she relaxed a little, trying to remember the time in her life when she had known how to pray—a time when it had been as simple as breathing. Sometimes she had spoken the words out loud, but usually she just whispered them in the privacy of her own heart. Either way, she’d always been certain that God had listened. Up until the accident, that is. That’s when the painful silence had begun. Please, God! her heart cried out again. Please, please, help me.

  The next day, after a slightly better night’s rest than usual, Claire finished her morning routine earlier than normal and decided to break her own rules by starting her walk before two o’clock. Another couple inches of snow had fallen during the night, almost but not completely erasing her steps from yesterday’s walk. The fresh snow made it slightly more difficult to walk, but the effort was well worthwhile. The forest was stunningly beautiful, somewhat heartening, and nearly invigorating. Nearly. But once again, shortly after she reached the dead tree that pointed toward the clearing, she noticed the two sets of human tracks. Fresh tracks that had been made that day.

  She stood for a long moment before deciding to simply ignore them and continue. But after only a few steps, she paused and examined the tracks more closely. She placed her foot next to the one imprint and noticed that it was quite a bit larger than her own boot—probably that of a man. Then she placed her foot beside the other imprint to find that these prints were smaller than hers. Obviously, a child’s. So a man and a child had walked along this path today—and perhaps yesterday too. She sighed and continued on her way. She must simply forget that someone else had recently walked here—convince herself she was really alone in her woods. She would not consider the man and child hiking along somewhere ahead of her. But she couldn’t help herself. Unwillingly, she began to envision the two walkers on the path before her. And it was an unwelcome image—that of father and son, laughing and talking as they walked along together. Alive and well, and enjoying life! It was like a sharp slap in the face, and it felt totally unfair—unjust even.

  Reaching the clearing, she noticed how the two sets of tracks had left the main trail, diverting to the right. She followed the tracks with her eyes, curious as to where they might be going. And that’s when she saw them. Like bas-relief images in white plaster, pressed into the snow were two distinct snow angels, their wings now glistening in the afternoon sun. She stood still, staring in wonder at the simple beauty of the snow art. It was the warm trickle of tears falling down her cold cheeks that reminded her it was time to move on, to force her eyes from this sight and forge ahead. She tried not to notice where the two sets of tracks came back onto the main trail again and continued before her.

&nb
sp; But, as she walked along, her eyes focusing on the stumps and small trees, her original image of the strangers hiking on the trail up ahead of her altered—be it ever so slightly. Suddenly she envisioned the pair—father and son—striding along with a similar loose, long-legged gait. She imagined their curly, dark-brown heads the color of burnt sienna bobbing along, their straight backs and squared shoulders moving steadily forward. The painful familiarity made her swallow hard in disbelief. Then she blinked back fresh tears as her heart began to pound furiously. And suddenly she began to walk faster—much faster—until she was running breathlessly toward the bridge.

  When Claire finally reached the footbridge, the tracks just kept going. She could see them curving off to the right, heading into the trees up ahead. Going where? She clung to the snow-covered wooden railing and gasped to catch her breath.

  “Claire, you’re crazy,” she said out loud. She stared at the footprints continuing beyond the footbridge and seriously considered following them. But to where? And that’s when she noticed that a thick band of clouds had rolled in, beginning to blot out the sunlight. These clouds were quickly filling the sky and were probably full of snow. But how could she not keep following the mysterious footprints? What if? She walked a short distance before she noticed that snowflakes were already tumbling from the sky. Not timid flakes, but large, heavy ones.

  Shielding her eyes from the spinning flakes, she looked ahead but saw no sign of any living thing. She could barely discern the trail now washed in a swirling blur of white. These recently made tracks would soon be obscured by the rapidly falling snow—and yet . . . glancing over her shoulder, she looked at the trail behind her, only to see that it too was fading fast. Her heart pounded in her temples, echoing loudly in her ears. Whether it was exertion or fear, she wasn’t sure. Perhaps both. She took a few more steps forward, knowing full well that she was making a foolhardy decision—or perhaps she was just slightly crazed—then she froze in her steps. Just whom was she following, really? She looked up to the moving mass of white above her and tried, once again, to pray. Raising both gloved fists into the air, she raged at God for her losses. Then, several minutes later, humbled by her own audacity, she meekly pleaded for his help. But this time her prayer was more than just a few words. Partially unintelligible perhaps, but it was an honest cry from the heart.

  Finally she turned around and trudged back across the bridge and down what she hoped was the trail. The falling flakes abated slightly, and she was barely able to retrace the three sets of footprints, but by the time she reached the place in the clearing where the snow angels had been, she was disappointed to see that they had been nearly obliterated by the new snow. Taking advantage of this brief lull in the storm, and before she lost her trail completely, she jogged all the way back to the cabin.

  Warm from her exertion, Claire paused on the cabin’s covered porch to catch her breath as she peered out on the falling snow. It was coming down fast again, and the wind had picked up and was now swirling the flakes into moving walls that obscured all vision beyond twenty feet. As she shook off her snow-coated jacket and hat and gloves, she realized with chilling clarity how close she’d actually come to being out there in what appeared to be turning into something of a blizzard. “Thank you, God.” She spoke the words aloud, almost startled at the sound of her own voice against the backdrop of the snow-muffled wind.

  She stoked the fire and glanced up at the clock. It wasn’t even two yet. She still had several hours to fill before the day would mercifully come to an end. Walking over to the window, Claire stared out onto the drape of whiteness that enclosed her. She could feel the canvas right next to her, still situated on its easel. It felt as if it were pulling her, tugging her toward it like a magnet. Could she?

  Claire went over to the card table and looked at yesterday’s pallet still stained with the stark unforgiving shade of cobalt blue. After setting it aside, she picked up a fresh white pallet, then looked blankly at the rainbow circle of paint tubes arranged so neatly on the card table. But it was as if the colors frightened or maybe just intimidated her, and finally, as if in surrender, she picked up a tube of titanium white. She held the tube in her hand, gently squeezing it, feeling it give beneath her fingers. Then she opened the cap and bravely pushed a small mound of paint onto the pallet. She stared at the stark white paint—barely distinguishable from the white pallet—then glanced up.

  Peering out the window again, Claire studied the swirling, whirling whiteness before her. But it wasn’t really pure white, she observed. She squinted her eyes as if to separate the tiniest traces of color hidden within its whiteness. No, it had a faint bit of green in it. Or maybe it was blue. And just a smidgen of black, to gray it ever so slightly in places. Taking up her pallet knife, she began to spread the white paint, adding just the faintest touches of green, blue, black . . . as needed. And like a woman possessed, she began to smear paint across the canvas, working faster and faster until the entire surface was covered. Washed in a sea of white.

  Feeling weak and almost breathless from the effort, she finally stepped back and studied her artistic accomplishment. She stared at the whitened canvas for a long time and finally began to laugh, but it wasn’t a mirthful laugh. Instead it was filled with self-doubt and deprecation. “Claire, you have totally lost it now.” She threw down her pallet knife and wiped her hands on a damp rag, then collapsed on her bed in hopeless tears.

  Several hours later, she awoke to a darkened cabin and the sound of the howling wind. But as she rose to check on the nearly dead fire, she thought she heard another sound as well. A quiet moaning sound—or perhaps it was simply the wind crying out of pure loneliness. Or maybe . . . maybe she was simply losing her mind altogether. She stood silently before the door, straining her ears to listen. And once again, she felt certain she was hearing another sound, something other than the wind.

  She opened the door to a blast of cold and snow, and there huddled on her porch, just a few feet from the door, was some sort of animal. She started to back up and close the door as she remembered how Lucy McCullough, the owner of the small store, had recently told her about a rabid raccoon that had turned vicious on a family that had been “foolish enough to feed the durned thing.” But this looked bigger than a raccoon. The animal slowly lifted its head, and despite its coating of snow, Claire could tell it was of a canine nature. But even so, she wasn’t sure if it was wolf or dog—although she felt fairly certain there were no wolves in these parts. The animal moaned again, appearing to be in pain.

  “Are you hurt?” she asked softly.

  The animal struggled to its feet; she was certain it was a dog—some sort of shepherd mix. Still, she wasn’t sure what to do. What if it was vicious or rabid? It walked slowly toward her, and when it got closer to the light coming from inside the cabin, she could tell by its eyes that it wasn’t going to hurt her. She wasn’t even sure how she knew this, but somehow she just did.

  “Do you want to come in?” She held the door open wide, but the nearly frozen dog just stood there in front of the door, as if it were afraid to actually step inside.

  “I won’t hurt you,” she promised, kneeling by the shivering dog. She carefully reached out her hand, keeping her fingers tucked into her palm the way Scott had once shown her long, long ago. The dog looked at her with soulful brown eyes, and she gently stroked his head. “Come on in, fella,” she urged. “Come warm yourself by my fire.”

  She coaxed him into the cabin and shut the door against the storm. “You wait here while I get a towel to dry you with.” She quickly wiped the snow off her bare feet and went to retrieve a couple of towels. Then, speaking in a calm voice, she led the dog over to the fire where she gently toweled him dry with one towel and, making a bed of the other, helped him to lie down. He looked up with appreciative eyes.

  “What in the world are you doing out on your own on a night like this?” she asked as she looked through her cupboards for what might possibly be an appropriate meal for a half
frozen dog. Finally deciding on a can of stew that she figured they both could share since she hadn’t eaten dinner, she searched out a couple of earthenware bowls to use for the dog’s water and food. She warmed the stew just slightly before generously filling his bowl.

  The dog’s tail began to thump against the floor as she situated the filled bowls before him. Then he stood somewhat unsteadily and began to lap, first from the water and then from the stew, which he quickly eliminated, licking the bowl clean as if to say thank you. Picking up the empty bowl, she noticed how he gingerly held his front left leg just slightly off the floor, as if it was hurting him. When he lay down again, she knelt to check it. She couldn’t find any open cuts or wounds but noticed that he seemed to flinch when she touched what appeared to be a swollen joint.

  “Did you hurt your leg, boy?”

  His tail thumped against the floor, and he looked up with trusting eyes.

  “Well, you’ll just have to take it easy for now. Enjoy a warm night by the fire, and tomorrow I’ll phone the store and see if anyone is missing you.” She’d already noticed the dog wore no collar, but it was possible he’d slipped out of it. And surely old Lucy at the store would know if a dog had gone missing lately.

  Claire set her bowl of stew on the table and sat down to eat, unable to take her eyes off this unexpected visitor. She’d never had a dog of her own. Her mother had always claimed they were too messy, and Scott, although he loved animals, suffered from allergies. And it wasn’t that she’d ever really wanted a dog before, other than that short spell during childhood, somewhere between nine and ten.