Snow

For the man, every day is exactly the same. 

He rises at dawn, bones aching from the chill of the night. He spends a few moments sitting at the edge of the bed, feet planted on the old rug on the floor. He sits and waits, breathing in the cold of the cabin. When he is ready, he reaches for his cane, now stripped of paint, and slowly lifts himself up. Some days he hears the soft pop of joints, other days just the creak of old bones.

The first order of business is to light the fire. He makes his way into the main living area, where the dog is still asleep. The man is too stiff to reach down and pat him, so he leaves him in his slumber. He pokes at the assortment of wood and paper in the grate, lights a match, throws it in, and a fire quickly sputters to life. 

The noise rouses the dog from his sleep. He does a long stretch in his bed, jaws opening wide to reveal long sharp teeth. He licks his lips and trots over to the door, signaling he wants to be let out. The man slides open three separate bolts and the door creaks open. It did not snow in the night; the path he cleared yesterday is still open. The dog rushes out to do his business. 

While he waits for the dog to come back, the man pulls open the curtains. The windows on both sides of the door are unusually big, taking up nearly half the wall. 

She had wanted it that way. She loved nothing more than spending an afternoon gazing out at the lake, watching it change with the seasons. The pink armchair, now a faded salmon, is still angled exactly the way she liked it. 

Dust motes floated into the air like sprites as he tied each curtain into a thick bundle, securing it in place. The sun was only just rising, and a golden light flooded the room. 

The sudden scraping of ice and wood announced the dog’s return. The man opened the door and he came barrelling in. His coat was slightly damp from the snow, and he made straight for the rug in front of the fire to shake off the extra moisture and warm his paws. 

The man filled his bowls with food and water, which the dog happily lapped up, then began to prepare his own breakfast. He unwrapped the sourdough bread he had baked three days before, cutting it carefully with a serrated knife. Two slices, no more, no less. Then he placed them on the iron grate on top of the fire to let them warm. He also filled a pot of water and placed it by the bread so that it would boil. 

Next he carved up an apple leftover from the autumn into eight even pieces, careful to remove the core. Finally, he sliced off a wedge of cheese from the large wheel purchased last month in town, and placed it on the plate beside the apple. When the bread was toasted and the water was boiled, he removed them from the fire. He placed the bread on his plate and brewed coffee with the boiling water. When everything was ready, he carried everything to the wooden table by the other window, and sat down to eat his meal. 

The sun had fully risen now, and the sky was blue and clear. It was one of those rare winter mornings where everything was silent and still. The world shimmered in white and silver.

Outside the window, the man saw the smooth surface of the lake, now frozen half a foot thick. The sunlight bounced off the ice, which gleamed like a polished blade. 

Sometimes, when he felt up to it, he would spend an entire afternoon sitting on the lake, fishing through the ice. Over the years, he caught all kinds of things: yellow perch, northern pike, and various types of trout. Once, he had been on the ice for nearly three hours with no bite. He was about to call it a day when all of a sudden he felt a massive tug on the line. The man was so surprised he nearly dropped his rod. But then instinct kicked in and he wrestled the beast, finally pulling up a massive lake trout.  

That night, they cooked up a real feast. She cleaned and gutted the fish, then rubbed the whole thing in a layer of coarse salt. Then she packed the cavity full of butter, dried thyme, and garlic. They roasted it on the edge of the fire along with a few potatoes, until the cabin was filled with the sweet scent of melted butter and smoke. 

When it was ready, the man decided it was a night worthy of celebration. He looked through the wooden crates stacked in the corner, filled with everything from summer clothing to root vegetables, until he found one filled with dusty bottles. He selected one at random, a cherry wine, and eased the cork out. They didn’t have anything as fancy as wine glasses, so he filled two old mugs with the dark red liquid, which went clunk instead of clink when they went cheers. 

The fish was cooked perfectly. The flesh was flakey to the touch, coated in a glossy sheen of butter. It tasted rich and smoky, tinged with a sweetness from the cold water it had once swum in. 

The fire continued to crackle as they enjoyed their meal, filling the cabin with warmth and light. The dog was fed scraps of meat and lapped it up ravenously. After they had finished eating, they continued to sit by the fire, sipping the sour-sweet cherry wine. They talked of nothing and everything with the ease of two people who knew fully the contents of each other’s soul. Later, when the fire died down to glowing embers, they walked sleepily to bed hand-in-hand, bellies full and lips stained with red. 

The man did not feel like fishing today. He did not know what he felt like doing. There were things to be done, of course – chopping the firewood, checking his snares, melting snow for fresh water, mending his worn out socks – but he did not feel like doing them. The man felt tired, though he had slept pleasantly through the night. It wasn’t a sleepy kind of tiredness, but the kind that held a certain weight. It was as though he were swimming through a dense fog. It had the peculiar effect of both dulling and heightening his senses at the same time.

The morning light coming through the window was too harsh, too bright. The birdsong outside sounded muffled and distorted, like they were not outside the windows, but coming through a telephone line. The wool on his jacket felt stiff and itchy, though it was well worn and never bothered him before. It was the worst where the collar grazed his neck, and he scratched at the soft flesh until it turned red and bumpy. 

He sank into his armchair, identical to the pink one but in a faded blue. Perhaps he would take a morning nap before beginning the day’s work. He closed his eyes, but sleep would not come. His mind churned with half-formed thoughts. He tried to quiet them and focus on the pristine whiteness of the world outside, but it was like having a million little fish nipping at his heels. 

At last, the man decided the best thing to do would be to take a walk outside and check his traps. He pulled on his coat and hat, wrapped a scarf around his neck and shoved his feet into an old pair of boots. Then he grabbed his rifle, checked to make sure it was loaded, and whistled sharply to the dog. Together they set off toward the lake. 

Outside, the air was sharp with cold. But the midmorning sun that hung overhead was strong and bright, and the man could feel its warmth seep through his skin. Snow that had settled in the bare branches of nearby trees caught in the breeze and fluttered gently over the lake. The white landscape gave one a sense of eternity. It touched everything, from the cloud wisps in the sky, the snow blanketing the earth, and the blue-white ice on the lake. For a moment, the man felt as though he had been washed clean, that his soul was pure as freshly fallen snow. The fog in his head evaporated in an instant, and he became focused on the task ahead of him.

The first trap was about a quarter-mile from the cabin, by a grove of trees near the lakeshore. It was a simple wire snare, looped between two large Douglas firs a foot from the ground. The man approached the area apprehensively, unsure of what he might find. The dog trotted obediently at his heels, alert for any signs of danger. 

He slowed his pace as he drew nearer. Rifle in hand, his eyes slid slowly from side to side, scanning for signs of movement. His ears, even at his advanced age, carefully sifted through the sounds of the forest: the lone chirp of a chickadee, the whistle of wind through the bones of old trees, a branch snapping from the cold. He inhaled deeply through his nose, checking for the tangy scent of blood. Not sensing any immediate threat, the man advanced through the trees. 

He knew before he even saw it. 

A mangled carcass lay within the snare. Red blood circled it like rose petals. From the looks of what was left of it – thin bones, white patchy fur – it had been a snow hare. But something had gotten to it first and devoured the body. 

The man felt his blood run cold. Fear gripped his grieving heart. Each beat thundered in his ears like a rattling drum. Boom, boom, boom. 

He stood motionless; ears strained for sounds, eyes searching for movement. The dog sniffed at the remains of the hare and barked once, sharply. The man turned, his face a ghostly white. The dog was sitting a foot from the body, paws digging into the snow. He let out a slow whine. 

Tracks. One set in, one set out. They led deeper into the forest, away from the lake. 

The man knelt down to examine them. He brushed his fingertips along the edge of each print. They were medium-sized pawprints, tipped with sharp claws. He recognized it as a fox. The fear drained out of him. Foxes were mostly harmless, just pests that stole your game. The man considered deeply what he should do. The animal posed no threat, but it was mid-winter and prey was scarce. A necessity, he decided. 

He whistled to the dog and gave the signal to follow the tracks. The dog perked up, eager to work. It bowed its head, black nose skimming the white snow, and began to follow the trail. The man followed, rifle in hand. 

They went deeper into the forest, and the lake disappeared from view. Here the trees were thick and tall, the ground littered with pine needles. They carried the scent of citrus and wet moss. The trees cast dark shadows over the ground, and the man heard little else but the crunch of snow under boots. 

He did not know how far the tracks went. He did not feel like going too deep into the woods. His leg already ached, and the tips of his ears burned with cold. Each breath was a cloud of mist, and he thought longingly of the crackling fire at home. 

It was hard to tell how much time had passed. Ten minutes, twenty, thirty. They were still within the bounds of his land, indicated by the markers he put up many years ago, but the land was vast. The dog continued to follow the trail. 

Then, without warning, the stench of blood. Warm and metallic, drifting on the wind like snowflakes. The man halted, and commanded the dog to stop. 

There on the white snow lay the body of the fox, violently slain. It lay on its side, belly open, entrails spilling out. Steam rose in thin curls from the opening, warm blood seeping into the snow like lava to the sea. Its throat was torn open by jaws twice its own size. 

The dog began to bark. The forest was deathly still, and the sound echoed loudly through the trees. The man hushed him angrily. He did not know what had slain the fox, but he did not wish to find out. 

He spared one last glance at the body, taking in the irrevocable signs of death – head tipped back, jaws slightly open, eyes glassy and hollow, drained of life. A pit formed in his stomach and the man suddenly felt sick. A shiver ran through his entire body, and the cold became unbearable. He felt his world begin to tilt ever so slightly. The forest floor pushed on one side of his body, while the clouds pulled at his feet. It was as though he had suddenly been made aware of the earth’s slant. The trees, the snow, and the sky all tilted with it, blissfully unaware of the true state of things. Everything continued to rotate slowly, just as it has always done, leaving the man suspended in nothingness. 

Nausea crashed over him like a tidal wave, and the man doubled over. He continued to heave a few more minutes, thick yellow bile in the clean white snow. He willed himself through the moment. 

Finally, he stood. 

The world had stopped spinning. He wiped his lips with the sleeve of his coat. He shoveled a handful of clean snow into his mouth, sloshed it around and spat it out. Without another glance at the dead fox, he whistled to the dog, shouldered his rifle, and began the long trek back to his cabin.

They had reached the edge of the lake when the man heard the sudden flutter of wings. A raven cawed loudly as it took to the sky. The man felt his stomach tighten. They were not alone. Cursing himself for turning his back on the forest, he gripped his rifle and turned slowly.

The first thing he saw was a pair of shiny yellow eyes. Then came the long grey snout, and below that, jaws pulled back in a snarl, revealing two rows of sharp white teeth. 

The wolf let out a slow growl. It had been following them silently from where the fox’s body lay. Stalking them slowly, waiting for the right moment to pounce. They had left behind the cover of the forest, the safety of the trees. All that was left was the sky above and the frozen lake beyond. 

A knife of fear pierced the man’s heart like ice. He held his ground. The wolf continued to snarl, thick loops of saliva dangling from the corners of its mouth. It started to advance, slowly. One paw in front of the other, forcing the man toward the edge of the ice. The dog trembled next to him, powerless against such a lethal predator.

The man knew what he had to do. A necessity. He raised his rifle and took aim. The wolf growled viciously, yellow eyes gleaming. It did not know what was coming. How fine the line between life and death.

And then he was living it all over again. 

Waking in the middle of the night and finding the bed empty. Panic that struck like lightning, jolting him awake. The door wide open, locks unbolted, a trail of muddy footprints leading into the night. 

He ran along her baby step trail, cursing himself for everything. Not doing enough, not thinking ahead, not taking precautions. His fault, all his fault. 

And then he saw her, standing at the edge of the lake. A figure in white. She was wearing only her nightgown, no coat, no shoes. The man cried out, then immediately clamped a hand on his mouth. He approached her slowly, quietly. When he was six feet away, he called her name softly.

“Anne? Annie?” 

She stood motionless, staring out at the lake. The water was black glass. 

The man crept closer. “Annie? You’ll catch cold.” He stood just behind her now, and dared to rest a hand on her shoulder. 

“Annie?” 

She didn’t react to his touch. Scared now, he shook her gently.

“Annie. We need to go back. We need to go home.” 

But it was like he wasn’t there. Something hardened in him, and fear morphed into anger. 

“Annie.” His voice sounded desperate, hollow. He gripped her tightly now, turning her body toward him. He stared straight into her eyes. Usually a pale blue, they looked grey under the starlight. They were blank, void of person. 

A wave of grief washed over him, and the man choked back a sob. 

“Please, Annie, please. Come back to me.”

He loosened his grip on her shoulder, and she turned back toward the lake. He knew then that this was what she wanted. Every night for the last three nights he had followed her to this very spot. He had done everything he could think of to stop her. Installing the bolts, hiding her boots, tying her wrist to his. He had hoped she would come back to him, just like all the other times. Even for just a few minutes. 

But now he knew that his Annie was lost forever. It was like an iron fist had closed around his heart. He swallowed the bile that crawled up his throat, and pressed his palms into his eyes to wipe them dry. 

He didn’t hesitate, or he would have lost his will. The shot rang out, crackling across the lake. The body crumpled to the ground with a soft thud. His vision blurred as hot tears stung his eyes. He dragged the lifeless figure toward the edge of the lake. He pulled and pushed until gravity took over, and the black water swallowed her whole. 

But now the lake was frozen, and the body did not sink. It sat on the surface of the ice, as though floating on a cloud. He lingered for a moment on the lake’s edge. He thought about what he had lost. All those tiny moments, a lifetime of memories, gone in a single second. 

A wail of grief escaped the man then. It was so immense, so unexpected, that he could only give in to it. It rolled through his body like an earthquake, shattering the last remnants of disbelief. 

She was truly gone. He knew that now. But he was not. And as long as he continued to breathe, the memory of her would live on.

He called to the dog, who came at once. The man leaned down to give him a long pat on the head. Then he straightened up and adjusted his scarf and hat so that no cold air could seep in. When he was ready, he began to walk, the dog trotting happily at his feet. Above them, snow began to fall.