Buried in the Snow (4 page)

They returned to the chalet after all their pleasant anticipations, sorrowful and depressed: for the rest of the day they were thoughtful and silent; the peaceful serenity they had for some time enjoyed they could not recover. Constantly their thoughts reverted to the valley, and they longed for the wings of a bird—then would
they
flee away and be at rest.

CHAPTER VI.

WOLVES.

U
PON the following morning the poor prisoners had so far recovered from their depression as to be able to plan with some spirit and pleasure for their future comfort. Jacques’s grandfather proposed that they should free the window from the snow which blocked it up, and the boy went to work with vigor, although it was still harder than making the path through the snow: there he was only obliged to throw it to one side and the other, from the window he must throw it upward, so as to afford ready entrance for the light. He would not suffer his grandfather to assist him, fearing he might, by doing so, endanger his precious health.

Instead of digging a tunnel, he now had to bore a pit or shaft in the snow. The work progressed but slowly. By the evening of the first day he had, although working hard and steadily, accomplished so little that he could scarcely hope to finish entirely before three or four days at the least. Upon the next day he went to work with renewed energy, and shoveled away with a zeal in which all prudence was forgotten. As he cast the snow out of the hole, he heaped it upon the upper edge, until it gradually formed a sort of wall: his grandfather warned him not to make it too high, fearing it might fall upon him; but the lad in his excitement entirely forgot the warning, and the catastrophe happened that had been predicted. The wall fell, and the poor boy’s work was not only destroyed, but he was buried under the mass. Managing to free his head quickly, he escaped a horrible death; but all his strength failed to extricate himself further. After he had made many fruitless attempts, he called upon his grandfather for help. Providentially the falling of the wall had made a breach, through which the old man, though with difficulty, forced his way, and shoveled the snow to one side. When Jacques had recovered the use of his arms, it was not long until he was freed from the cold embrace.

“You see, my son, that even in the best of causes we must never lose sight of prudence,” said his grandfather, with gentle reproof.

“I have acted foolishly,” said Jacques, “very foolishly, but it will be a good lesson for me; and tomorrow I will commence my work wiser than yesterday.”

But when the lad attempted to resume the quickly interrupted task, he found that, for that day, the shovel must be laid aside. All day long the snow fell heavily, and the wind blew cold and fierce. Remaining within the chalet, he plaited his straw, milked the goat, and prepared their simple meals, hoping it would cease to snow during the night.

Vain hope! Upon reaching his head out of the trap, he found the wind raging furiously; the snowflakes striking his face with such violence as almost to blind him. Drawing back quickly, he pulled the trap close and descended. “What fearful weather!” said he. “It is worse than any we have yet experienced since our imprisonment.”

Jacques had not yet learned what a hurricane upon the mountain was like. Notwithstanding the covering of snow with which the chalet was enveloped, the roaring and howling of the tempest penetrated within it, and filled the sinking heart of the boy with terror. Upon their attempting to open the door, the room was filled with clouds of snow, and the wind raged with such violence that they could only with the greatest difficulty, and by their united strength, again close it. It was impossible to open the trap, for the wind rushed down howling like some terrific monster through the chimney, chasing clouds of snow before it. All must remain carefully closed, and in consequence our poor captives were forced to extinguish the fire upon the hearth, as the smoke had no outlet to escape.

They sat for hours in total darkness, and listened with heavy hearts to the wild raging of the tempest. Jacques trembled with each repeated shock, and his grandfather could scarcely quiet his fears. In order to draw his attention from the weather, he assigned him various employments, and at last succeeded in comforting him by speaking of the compassion and everlasting love of their God.

“ ‘Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid,’ my boy. The power that appears today so fearful, is unchangeably the same—merciful and gracious, while it threatens to desolate heaven and earth in its wrath: all this storm serves as a merciful messenger, which eternal wisdom has sent to call out of this seeming chaos a new creation. It heaps masses of snow upon our mountains, so that they, in the spring, as fertilizing streams and brooks, may pour down, and waken our meadows and our fields. Without this yearly preparation, the fertility which depends upon these masses of snow would be at an end, the fresh green grass would not sprout, no flowers would delight us with their fragrance and beauty and our blessed valleys and fields would be transformed into sterile wastes. The same Power that ‘giveth snow like wool, that scattereth the hoar-frost like ashes, that casteth forth his ice like morsels, sendeth out his word and melteth them.’ Let us, my dear boy, ‘praise the name of the Lord, for he is good to all; and his tender mercies are over all his works.’ Fear not, Jacques.

“ ‘Blind unbelief is sure to err,

And scan His works in vain:

God is His own interpreter,

And He will make it plain.’”

Jacques’s agitation was somewhat allayed through these calm, comforting words, when suddenly a powerful concussion shook the little chalet to its very foundations, and the door creaked and groaned as though it would break in pieces. The grandfather involuntary arose.

“What is that?” cried Jacques, in affright. “Will our chalet be blown away?”

“I hope not, my child,” replied the old man, regaining his own composure. “Light the lamp, Jacques, and we will see what has happened.”

The boy obeyed, and the grandfather, opening the door, found that an enormous mass of snow had fallen, and they were imprisoned, as they had been before the tunnel had been dug.

“Grieve not, my lad, that your work has been destroyed, but think rather what would have happened to us if our chalet had not been all snowed up: we are surrounded as by a protecting wall; without it we could not have hoped our chalet to resist the shocks of the hurricane; so this immense mass of snow in which we are enveloped, has again proved to us a blessing, which calls for gratitude to God, who has, by its shelter, protected us from great danger, if not from sudden death.”

The storm lasted until night, and they laid themselves down upon their hard bed, and sought to rest after the exhausting fears and agitations of the day—quietly and trustingly confiding in the Keeper of Israel, who neither slumber nor sleeps.

The next morning, the violence of the storm having somewhat abated, they tried to open the trap, but it resisted all their efforts; both window and door indicated that they were again completely buried in the snow. They were obliged to pass the entire day without fire, except occasionally lighting fir cones to create, for a few moments, a little light and warmth. Jacques and his grandfather passed a sorrowful and wearisome day.

Upon the 11th of December, the lad wakened shaking with cold, and chilled to his very heart. Possessing no means of warming themselves, for they dared not attempt to light a fire, fearing they should be suffocated by the smoke, they passed a sad and uncomfortable day. Blanchette too appeared to suffer, bleating plaintively, and ceasing not, although Jacques caressed her tenderly. It required all their confidence and strength not to lose in their present situation all courage and hope, and sink into helpless despondency and grief; but this strength of soul and power of endurance the grandfather possessed in a remarkable degree: no word of complaint, not a sigh escaped his lips; and Jacques would not be less cheerful, less courageous than the feeble, delicate old man who set him so noble an example.

A day or two passed without any variation in the monotony of their lives, when an occurrence took place which caused them considerable alarm.

As Jacques was one morning milking the goat, while the grandfather was lighting a small fire of fir cones upon the hearth, Blanchette suddenly pricked up her ears, as though she heard an unusual noise, trembling at the same time in all her limbs.

“What is the matter, Blanchette?” asked Jacques, caressing her; “what terrifies you? Hold still, my pretty one; no harm shall come to you.”

Instead of becoming reassured by the boy’s manner, the goat exhibited new signs of terror, and, nestling close to Jacques, bleated her fears.

At that moment the lad heard low and distant howlings, which gradually grew more and more distinct, until the noise sounded overhead, and they could hear the pattering of feet upon the crisp snow.

“Grandfather,” cried the boy, in agitated tones, “they are wolves.”

“Hush, my child, and try to keep Blanchette quiet,” said the old man, extending at the same time a handful of salt toward the poor creature, who still trembled violently.

“How fortunate we are snowed up again!” whispered the grandfather; “without this, the fierce beasts would soon have discovered us. But we must be upon our guard, Jacques, and be prepared for an attack: speak low, my boy, and try to keep Blanchette from bleating.”

They passed some moments of painful suspense: when suddenly the howlings redoubled.

“They burrow sometimes through the snow,” whispered the lad, while he pressed his grandfather’s arm in terror; “we shall be torn in pieces.”

“Not so, my child,” he answered; “we are certainly in a dangerous situation, yet I do not think the wolves will find us out, unless the bleatings of the goat betray us. These animals in all probability will not remain long upon the height, where there is but little to be had, but will scour down toward the plains, and in the outskirts of the villages. It may be only accident that has led them overhead, or it may be they are tearing to pieces a deer or chamois, which they have killed, and are consuming it upon the spot: hence the howlings that so terrify us.”

“But if they should force their way through! what then?” asked the boy.

“I do not believe that will happen; but should it, we must defend ourselves as courageously as possible. We have for defense the axes, the pitchfork, and our knives: even if they should scent us out, it would be a difficult matter for them to break through the roof. It is fortunate that your tunnel has filled up, my boy; we should be thankful indeed that God has in this manner again protected us, turning the seeming evil into a blessing.”

The goat bleated loudly as Jacques was about to reply, and on the instant the fierce howlings redoubled in intensity. The boy’s cheek blanched, and the old man’s hitherto peaceful manner indicated some anxiety, as he listened intently.

He said, “There is no longer room for doubt. Blanchette’s bleatings have betrayed us, and we must redouble our vigilance: the wolves may seek to press through the roof! Hark, they are scratching away the snow! Quick, Jacques, light the lamp: courage, my child, our roof is firm, and we have weapons for our defense. We can retire from one intrenchment to the other; we have dairy and stall, into which we can retreat. But above all, let us have light, my son.”

The boy, roused by his grandfather’s words from the stupor of his fright, hastened to obey his directions.

“Now take the axe, my son, and bring me the pitchfork,” said he, hurriedly. Thus standing, they awaited momentarily the fearful attack, which apparently would not much longer be delayed. The old man cast one searing glance upon his grandson, and was well satisfied with the boy’s manful bearing. Jacques’s eyes sparkled, his teeth were pressed tightly together, showing no longer the slightest trace of fear.

The howlings of the blood-thirsty creatures continued, and the boy and his grandfather listened intently.

“They are not here—they are over the dairy,” said the old man, suddenly: “we must look, Jacques.”

Taking the lamp, they entered the milk room, Blanchette following, though she would not cross the threshold, showing signs of intense fear.

“I am right in my conjecture: Blanchette confirms it,” said the grandfather. “Do you not hear, Jacques? The noise the animals make is much more distinct here than in the kitchen. We can defend ourselves now much better than there. Put the lamp in the corner, so that it be not extinguished in the struggle. Now the table, here, my lad, so that you can reach the rafters without difficulty: now up, my boy, and keep a brave heart.”

Some moments of almost breathless suspense followed, when suddenly the planks upon the roof creaked: the wolves had evidently digged their way through the snow. Jacques tightened his hold upon his weapon.

At that moment the paw of a wolf was inserted through a small opening he had made: Jacques did not shrink, but with one stroke severed it at the knee.

“Well done, my lad,” cried the old man; “he is at least harmless; one less to struggle against. I do not believe there are more than four or five, Jacques.” These words had hardly escaped his lips, when, from the gradually widening opening, the head of a second wolf protruded, glaring upon his opponent with voracious and blood-thirsty eye. The boy did not hesitate, but with all of his strength, drove his axe into the skull of the animal, who drew back with a howl of rage and pain. Without doubt, had not Jacques and his grandfather the advantage of their position, they would have been torn in pieces by the rest of the enraged animals, who appeared to be aroused to uncontrollable fury by the blood of their comrades. And now, a third and fourth continued the attack, splintering the shingles with their sharp claws, and tearing them aside. A moment more, and both would have sprung into the chalet; but the brave old man drove the sharp iron prongs of the pitchfork into the breast of one, and the axe of Jacques struck off a second paw: and now followed blow upon blow, thrust upon thrust; the blood streamed down from the roof, and the raging beasts were only kept from falling through by the cross-beams of the chalet. The howls of rage were gradually exchanged for those of pain, and as the old man gave one last, effective stab, they returned as abruptly as they came.

“Do you think they will return, grandfather?” inquired the lad, while he wiped the sweat and blood from his face. “Will they come back?”