The Winter People (13 page)

Faywah smiled an
all-knowing smile at Johnny, both warm and affectionate.  Several of his teeth
were missing but the gape only added to the sincerity of it.  He reached out
and took Johnny's hand in his own.  They had once been strong hands, but were
now feeble and skin seemed as thin and soft as tissue paper.  Faywah pulled
Johnny'd hand to his own chest then placed it on Johnny's, then placed it palm
down on the Chronicle.

Faywah spoke in
the old tongue which seduced Johnny with its rhythm.  He was there, yet he
wasn't there.  He could hear the old man's voice as though he was at a
distance, yet he understood everything being said.  The chimes and oration
flooded Johnny's mind like a whirlwind, catching him up in the words.  Forcing
his body to dance on the recitation, to become one with them, Johnny was
paralyzed in the speech.

He sat there with
his eyes opened and glassy, their dull gaze distant and unfocused.  Faywah
continued on and that was all that Johnny could hear.  He was in the trance of
the old man's talk.  Johnny knew what the old man knew.  He saw what the old
man saw, what he had seen.  Johnny had all of his own memories as well, but now
he knew stories he had never heard before.  They were all pressed onto his
brain like a recording, a DVD that he could pull out and play at will.

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.

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 it.  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.

***