Godfrey: Book Three

by Adrien Leduc

  He'd walked at least two miles now. Maybe more. He had to be close to his house.

  Smoosh, smoosh, smoosh. Smoosh, smoosh.

  He fell then. Fell like a rock, his legs sinking into the snow. Stuck up to his waist, his feet immobile.

  This is it.

  He'd be buried in ten minutes or less.

  But no. It wasn't going to end like this.

  Stretching his arms out in front of him, he reached for firmer ground. If he could just get a grip on something, he could pull himself out.

  But it was no use. The snow was loose powder - cold, white quicksand - and his hands slid back each time, adding more snow to his burial mound.

  Throughout all this, the wind continued to howl. Relentlessly. Angrily. As though he'd forsaken God.

  He flailed his arms and legs. He thrashed in every direction and jerked every which way and managed to make enough space for himself to perform a half turn. Then, maneuvering backwards, he managed to free his legs and gain a foothold on more solid ground.

  Come on...

  Taking several careful steps backwards, Godfrey managed to return to where he'd stood before he'd taken the disastrous left turn.

  He was fairly sure he was back on the road now as the sinkhole he'd slipped into could only have been the ditch. He resolved to stay on the road now.

  At least, that way, if I don't make it, it won't take until Spring to find my body...

  Smoosh, smoosh, smoosh.

  Bloody snowshoes! What the hell had he been thinking!? If he hadn't bought them...

  Please, God. Don't make me pay for this dumb mistake. I'll be smarter next time. I won't ever venture out so soon after a storm...

  But his prayer went unanswered. Though, the wind did seem to abate a little - and the blinding snow seemed suddenly less intense.

  Just my imagination playing tricks on me...it must be getting close to the end now...starting to go mad...does a man go crazy before he dies of the cold?

  Smoosh, smoosh, smoosh.

  He trudged on, looking in every direction for some form of shelter. A light. A barn. Something. Anything.

  But visibility was still poor - he could only see ten feet. Fifteen at most. Surely not well enough to catch a glimpse of smoke or light.

  Worse, he was frozen now. Thoroughly frozen.

  Come on, Godfrey.

  He urged himself forward. He had to make it. He just had to.

  Please, God.

  Images of his mother and younger siblings flashed before him.

  Happy, laughing, gathered around the table. His mother, knitting by the fire.

  He saw Francine. They were walking together on rue Sainte Catherine. Hand in hand.

  Next he saw them drinking coffee at Chez Brigitte.

  He even saw Mr. Peverley - that pompous, arrogant Englishman.

  He quickly shook the image of his former boss mind. No way was that going to be the last person he saw!

  Isaac and Antonia. Leo.

  God damn, what a way to go. I should have stayed in Quebec.

  Smoosh, smoosh, smoosh. Smoosh, smoosh.

  He was strong. A fighter. The descendant of hearty Norman settlers.

  He had to make it.

  Smoosh...smoosh...smoosh. Smoosh...smoosh.

  The snow seemed to be dying down now. He could see further - thirty feet instead of ten - but it was still windy.

  Howling, freezing wind that cut right through him.

  His legs were numb. He could barely feel his feet.

  Smoosh...smoosh...smoosh.

  He wiggled his fingers. At least those were still working.

  How much longer did he have? How much longer could he keep moving?

  He knew if he stopped moving, he was done for. But then, if he was just wandering aimlessly in some farmer's field - possibly even in circles - then he was wasting energy.

  Surely I'm not going in circles...

  Was it better to stop and dig a hole or make a house of snow and wait it out? Like the Eskimos do?

  He'd still freeze. But he'd be conserving energy...and that was important. If he could wait out the storm...but what if the storm lasted another day? He'd have simply built his own tomb.

  Wouldn't that give them a laugh. The dumb city boy...

  "Not only did he go out in a blizzard, he dug his own grave too!"

  Smoosh, smoosh, smoosh. Smoosh, smoosh, smoosh, smoosh.

  If he didn't stop though...

  He only had so much energy left. How much longer could he last?

  He stopped and looked at the snow, swirling all around him. It was dark. He was freezing. His feet were encased in thick, wet snow. His teeth chattered.

  Smoosh, smoosh, smoosh. Smoosh.

  Keep going, Godfrey.

  What if just kept walking...walking until the storm had passed?

  I won't make it. I won't last another hour...

  Despite the cold and his dry, parched skin, Godfrey felt hot tears fill his eyes.

  What a way to go...

  Smoosh...smoosh...smoosh.

  His pace had slowed, each foot now feeling as though it weighed a hundred pounds.

  His face was so cold it was burning hot. His breathing was laboured. His mouth was dry.

  Smoosh...smoosh.

  Even his thoughts were slowing now. He was tired. Tired enough to lie down and never get up.

  He had ten steps left in him.

  He'd count.

  At least I didn't go without a fight...

  Nine. Eight.

  Smoosh, smoosh.

  Seven. Six.

  He stopped and glanced upwards.

  The moon was out now, a bright white sphere in the night sky.

  The moon! He could see the moon!

  The snow...it had stopped!

  Godfrey's heart began to pound as a jolt of adrenaline coursed through his veins.

  Shelter...shelter...

  His eyes whipped across the space in front of him. He recognized nothing.

  Where am I?

  He faced a field. It was dark and barren, though illuminated by the moon, the snowy surface reflecting the soft light.

  Come on...come on...

  He whirled around, filled with new hope. And there. There. Not more than a mile away, stood a small house. A light burned brightly in the window and a steady stream of grey-white smoke spewed from the chimney.

  He was saved.

  "I don't know how to thank you," said Godfrey as he sipped his tea, the scalding mug returning some warmth to his hands.

  Swaddled in two heavy blankets, and with his feet soaking in a bucket of hot water, Godfrey smiled gratefully at the five members of the Bjarnson family. They stared back at him - Alfred, his wife, Ulrika, and their three children, Frida, Kristianna, and Haakon.

  "It is nothing," replied Alfred, there being a noticeable accent to his English.

  His weathered face was hard, creased, and looked as though it was cut from stone. His forehead, flat and broad, displayed a marked contrast to the premature wrinkles around his eyes - eyes that blazed with that bright, Scandinavian blue.

  "I was once in a similar situation," he continued.

  Godfrey nodded, his gaze meeting that of the hulking Norwegian seated across from him. It was hard to believe such a man would ever make the same mistake he had.

  "I was about your age," he began, sighing as an unhappy memory seemed to come flooding back to him. "I was transporting furs from our camp at the trapline back to Tromso - that is where we come from."

  Godfrey nodded a second time to prove he was listening - though it would have been impossible to ignore the mesmerizing and hypnotic force of the man.

  "I was caught in a storm. A wicked one. It came from the North Sea. It was even worse than this storm," he added, gesturing toward the window (from which Godfrey had seen the light two hours earlier) and beyond. "Luckily, I had my sled - and the dogs - and I pulled into the trees and I stayed under the sled with the dogs all around me ke
eping me warm and safe from the wolves and the bears. I ate snow to cure my thirst and chewed dried meat to fix my hunger. I had a flint and steel and I made a small fire to warm my fingers and toes so they wouldn't freeze. In other words," he said, looking squarely at Godfrey, "I was prepared."

  "I wasn't prepared," said Godfrey humbly.

  "No. You were foolish."

  Godfrey disliked the Norwegian's brusque agreement - but he was a guest in their house and so he smiled and nodded, though his pride was hurt.

  Ulrika interrupted the uncomfortable silence, rattling off a sentence in Norwegian. Alfred listened patiently.

  "My wife would like to know if you want more soup," he translated, motioning towards the empty bowl on the table beside him.

  "No thanks," said Godfrey quickly, "that was delicious."

  He rubbed his belly and smiled as he looked at Ulrika.

  "It was delicious. Thank you."

  She smiled - as though she rarely received compliments - and leaned back in her chair.

  Godfrey switched his attention to the three children. Kristianna seemed to be the oldest. About thirteen he guessed. Frida was much younger - eight or nine. And the boy, Haakon, couldn't be much older than five, his eyes wide and round and fixed on Godfrey with intense curiousity.

  "You have a very nice home," said Godfrey after a minute, attempting to fill the silence.

  Ulrika looked at her husband who translated.

  "Thank you," she said, tipping her head in appreciation.

  The silence returned and Godfrey shifted uncomfortably in the wooden rocking chair in which he was seated.

  Ulrika stood up after a time and took his empty soup bowl to the kitchen while Alfred issued his two daughters a set of instructions in rapid-fire Norwegian.

  They answered with a word and plodded off to the rear section of the house where they dug into a chest and withdrew two thick, woolen blankets.

  "You will sleep here tonight," said Alfred, turning to Godfrey, "and after breakfast tomorrow, I will take you to your home."

  "Thank you. I really appreciate your generosity and the kindness you've shown me."

  The Bjarnson patriarch shrugged, his massive shoulders - prominently displayed through his tight-fitting knit sweater - rising several inches.

  "You are our neighbour. We must help our neighbours. That is what we Norwegians are known for."

  Godfrey nodded. "I feel the same way and I hope that someday I'll get a chance to return the favour. Not that I wish for any misfortune to befall your family," he added quickly under the man's hardening stare. "But if there's anything you need, ever, don't hesitate to ask."

  Alfred grunted and rose from his chair.

  "Just make sure you don't go out in a storm again."

  The reminder of how close he'd come to dying sent shiver's down Godfrey's spine.

  "I won't."

  Chapter Nineteen

  "You idiot! You could have died!"

  "What were you thinking, Godfrey!?"

  "Has no one told you not to go out during a storm!?"

  Isaac. Leo. Antonia.

  All three had been grilling him for the last half hour.

  "Think of maman!" Isaac seethed. "She would have killed us!"

  He swatted Godfrey across the arm and Leo grunted approvingly.

  "She never would have forgiven you," agreed Antonia, shaking her head, disappointment etched all over her face.

  "She would have died of a broken heart," Isaac added, sticking a finger into Godfrey's chest as he sat and bore the brunt of his verbal punishment. "You always were her favourite."

  "In my defense," said the young man irritably, "the storm was stopped when I went out."

  "It doesn't matter, Godfrey!" said Antonia harshly. "You need to wait at least a day before being sure a storm has completely passed!"

  Leo began pacing the floor of Godfrey's one room house. "You wouldn't believe the shock I got when I came over and you weren't here."

  Godfrey hung his head. "I know. I'm sorry. I learned my lesson. I nearly died."

  "If it wasn't for those Bjarnson's..." said Isaac, pursing his lips as he stood over his younger brother.

  "Our Godfrey would be buried under four feet of snow right now," Antonia finished, her voice a near whisper now.

  Godfrey couldn't have felt worse than he did right now.

  "I'm sorry. To all of you. It will never happen again. You have my word."

  The others stared back at him, their expressions somewhat softer.

  "We know," said Antonia.

  She gave his shoulder a maternal pat.

  "You never should have bought those bloody snowshoes!" Leo snarled, before turning and storming from the house.

  "He's just upset he's actually got feelings," Isaac mused as the door slammed shut. He watched Leo through the window as he stopped and lit his pipe.

  "It wouldn't kill him to be human once in awhile," Antonia added, moving to stand beside her husband so that she too could watch Leo through the window.

  "Come on, Godfrey," said Isaac, taking his wife by her slender shoulders and moving her a foot forwards, "let's go to ours and cook up a nice dinner and we'll forget this whole thing ever happened."

  Godfrey looked at his eldest brother and managed a small smile. "Sounds good."

  Chapter Twenty

  Spring. Warm. Sunny. Green grass. Birds chirping. Gentle showers overnight.

  Wainwright coming back to life.

  Muddy roads. Lingering lines of snow in fields and ditches.

  People happy to be outdoors, greeting friends and acquaintances they hadn't seen since November.

  Newborns. Christenings. Weddings (and, sadly, funerals too). Church attendance up again. Seniors out en masse. Dot's Coffee Shop full of noisy regulars discussing politics and the price of wheat.

  Dancing at the Elite Theatre for the younger folk.

  A packed farmer's market on Saturdays.

  A buzz in the air...

  Five members of the Catholic Women's League, Wainwright Chapter, are seated around Diana's dining room table. There's tea and cookies and finger cakes and little doilies. Lots of white and pink and purple. The women are dressed in their Sunday best.

  "Well, quite frankly," said Diana, uncharacteristically irritable, "I don't see why Mrs. Telford insists on holding the quilt sale on the nineteenth! I mean, that's our annual C. W. L. picnic! The third Sunday in June. Everyone knows that!"

  Antonia nodded. "Yes, but Gloria Telford isn't a member of the League - she's an Anglican."

  A course of hushed murmurs rippled through the women gathered around the table.

  "Yes, I know," Diana answered, shaking her head in annoyance, "but she knows darn well we hold our picnic at the lake the third Sunday in June. We've always been flexible with their activities."

  Antonia let out a small sigh as the other women nodded in agreement.

  "I know...but then, Mrs. Telford's never been accommodating for anyone really."

  "Too right!" exclaimed Pauline Gamache, slapping a hand against the table.

  Her teacup rattled violently, causing some tea to spill over into the saucer.

  "We should go ahead with our picnic and we'll just hold our own quilt sale," added Marie Lavallée as Pauline began to sop up her spilt tea.

  "That's fine by me," said Antonia, eyeing, with some annoyance, the mess Pauline had made. "Our ladies make the best quilts anyway. Diana? What do you say?"

  The woman straightened in her chair and nodded. "Let's do it."

  "Oooohhhh, this will be so much fun!" Pauline squealed. "Mrs. Telford is going to eat her hat!"

  And she slapped the table again, rattling her teacup and spilling tea, once more.

  Chapter Twenty One

  Sunday Mass. Father McGrane stands at the pulpit.

  "But we hark back to the Old Testament, we hark back to Abram - before he's renamed Abraham by God - and we see how important every individual life is, every act of that li
fe is. We see that we as creatures made in the image and likeness of God have free will and therefore make decisions. And the decisions we make can change the entire course of history - for better or for worse..."

  "Is that Joe Campbell? And his wife? And their baby?"

  Godfrey followed Antonia's eyes and saw a dapper-looking Joe wearing a brown tweed jacket, his hair slicked back with a liberal amount of Brylcreem, seated in the front pew. Beside him sat his wife, Mary, holding their young son.

  "It is."

  Antonia nodded her head as though she was impressed.

  "What a change."

  Godfrey had to agree.

  "Yeah...I never would have thought we'd see Joe here."

  "Well, he's here," she said, turning to Isaac to share the news with him.

  Joe Campbell at church? A step in the right direction? Or was he just here for the free wine?

  Chapter Twenty Two

  June nineteenth. Bushy Head Lake. A grassy hill with a gentle slope leading down to the water's edge. The lake is crystal clear, a deep blue glistening under a high noon sun. The women, wearing their sunhats and one-pieces, watch their little ones play with their buckets and shovels in the sand. The men, sporting clean collared shirts and slacks with the legs rolled up, lounge in the shade of a grove of poplars, smoking and discussing current events. Picnic blankets are spread all across the hill, adorned by plates and cutlery and half-eaten sandwiches. On one of these blankets, seated a good distance from the water, are a number of Leducs, Lapalmes, and Touchettes.

  "Well, the quilting sale be darned," Diana Lapalme remarked cheerily, glancing at Antonia and several of the other ladies. "A fine day like this - Mrs. Telford and them can stay stuck inside their hot and stuffy church basement."

  Two of the other women nodded in agreement.

  "Not to mention," said Angélique Paré, "all of us French Catholic women are here today."

  She chuckled.

  Diana glanced at her sister. "And that means the best quilts won't be at the sale?"

  "Yep!" Angélique answered with another hearty chuckle.

  Antonia smiled. She'd always liked Angélique's chuckle. It reminded her of babies laughing.

  "Maybe the League should just hold its own quilt sale from now on," she said, reaching for a cracker and adding a slice of Marie Touchette's homemade cheese. "I don't see why we should go in with the Anglicans year after year now that we have more than enough of our own ladies."

  Diana nodded, smoothing out the ruffle in her dress, "yes, I think the League and the Anglican Women's Association combined when both of their membership numbers were very small. But we each have enough of our own ladies now, that's for sure."