THE LAST GHOST OF CHRISTMAS

by Jesse Colt

  …

  The next days crept past. Each hour brought another happy rumor of a rescheduled Christmas flight, but by the time Jim was sharing his evening drink with Nester, the stories had proved as empty as the windswept landscape stretching from the windows of his small cell. The Herc would be repaired, but skeleton crews, bad weather and lost parts had grounded the versatile machine until after Christmas. He and Nester would miss their holiday flight! The images of the Caribbean sun were swept away in the harsh arctic wind.

  Jim cursed his misfortune. It was not the postponed vacation that he regretted. It was the realization that he might have to deal with the Christmas season and all its familiar ghosts. There would be no diversions to take his mind off his failures, except the glasses of premium Alberta rye. He scowled at the bottles lining his desk, the ones he laughingly exchanged with friends on the site every holiday season. They were all that stood between him and the mocking memories of long forgotten Christmases.

  Tania’s letter had not come! He wondered if the dreaded day had arrived… the time when she no longer cared enough to compose her marvelous annual communication to him. How could he hold out against the mountain of harsh memories that seemed to weigh heavier with each season. Her glowing message was his last hope.

  He puffed through the weights in the exercise room, rattling the cold metal with a vengeance and cursing the hard fate that threatened to confine him to this ice-bound steel island. He showered and returned to his room. His shivering hands were pouring his first drink when Nester came pounding on his door. The frosted beard could not hide the flush of excitement that had crept over his lean features.

  “Hey! I found us a flight out of here. Are you still packed?” He stood smiling in the doorway waiting for Jim’s reaction.

  “Zary, you’re joking! You must be! There ain’t no way out of this Hellhole. Everyone has been trying for days. What are you talking about?”

  Jim could not believe the intense Ukrainian had found an escape route. Still, he allowed himself a small measure of optimism, for Nester seemed to have connections throughout the north and sometimes it seemed everyone owed him a favor.

  “Where are your tickets?” Nester demanded. “I can get us into Yellowknife by the 22nd and Risk will pay our airfare to Calgary. I can fax Betty and she will arrange everything. Are you coming?”

  Jim was trembling with excitement. Nester had found an escape from the brutal ghosts lurking in the shadows of the Christmas lights. He wanted to shake Nester’s hand. If anyone could arrange a flight out, it would be Nester.

  “Nester! Nester! Tell me you’re not lying to me. I can pack in two minutes. Is the transport from Bakers Island coming through?”

  “No, it ain’t coming. Even better than that! We got our own private plane!” He spotted Jim’s glass of rye.

  “Hey, I need a drink to celebrate. Where are your glasses?”

  Jim frowned at the eager figure eyeing the bottle of rye. He began to wonder if Nester was imagining the private plane. There were no charters in this frozen wasteland. He reached for an extra glass on the top shelf of his closet, but he was still watching Nester’s face for an answer.

  “What are you talking about, Zary? No one charters out of this hell hole!”

  “Sure, one airline. Bear Air. Old Geezer MacCleod still flies out of here.”

  Jim had never heard of MacLeod or his obscure airline, but then he seldom ventured past the confines of the electrical control room or the accommodations.

  “Who the hell is Bear Air?” he gasped watching as Nester poured a generous shot of neat rye, tossed back a mouthful and grimaced as the fiery liquid coursed into his cold innards.

  “I know Geezer from Winnipeg. He still has a small hanger at the end of our main runway. Been there since before this station was built. He has been around forever and made some flights for the big boys when our own pilots were afraid to get their candy asses off the deck. I’ve helped overhaul his plane a few times. He’s the old Scotsman that flew me and Bruce Biehn out fishing last summer. Geezer has one fare booked to Yellowknife, but he’ll chuck him out here and make room for you. He has to drop some generator parts off at a little village called Old Bow. If we help him unload there, he’ll take us both to Yellowknife for $500 cash. Hey! It will be a great flight! Better than riding behind the freight in those crowded old Hercs.”

  Jim wondered who the unfortunate passenger might be that the airline could abandon in this isolated post. Who would be willing to pass up an escape from the northern isolation at Christmas? The question was a fleeting one; for he was caught up in the excitement. He could already see himself on the warm beaches and the cold ghosts of Christmases long past were muttering in frustration over his good fortune. Even Tania’s missing letter seemed unimportant. He raised his heavy glass to the possibilities.

  “Nester, did you clear all this with Risk?”

  Nester shrugged. “No problem. He says, go ahead. He has a ton of extra bodies stranded here. We’re off tomorrow. I’ve arranged for Ron to run us out on a snow cat. He tossed back the last of his rye. We leave at nine. I’ll see you at breakfast!”

  CHAPTER TWO

  The harsh clatter of the alarm shattered the silence in the blackened room. Jim snapped awake and slapped the alarm into silence. It was 6:30 a.m. There was just time for a hearty breakfast and one last chance to wish everyone a Merry Christmas. He had carefully packed the night before but had hardly slept from the anticipation of the flight. One last trip to the mail room on the chance that Tania’s errant letter had risen out of the flood of Christmas mail, then he was out of here, headed for the Caribbean.

  The trip to the postal station was wasted. The letter had not arrived. Despite this unhappy result, he felt like kid again. His heart was racing like a child who had just been granted a trip to Disneyland. The thought of the pounding surf was already pushing the chill from the frigid room. When Nester and Ron came hammering on his door, he greeted them with an enthusiasm he had not felt in years.

  They hurried to the cafeteria where the scent of hot coffee mingled with the sharp odour of the fresh pine with its anemic Christmas decorations.

  “So, you and Zary are flying Bear Air, are you?” Risk chuckled. “My, my, my! Well old Geezer has hauled some stranger passengers.” He laughed to himself, remembering some story he was not prepared to share with Jim.

  “Aw, you should be okay! There aren’t that many bars along his flight path.” He seemed to be offering Jim some encouragement he did not really feel. “Bear Air, eh?” He laughed again, “all the way south to Yellowknife.”

  Jim hurried through breakfast and wished his friends the best of the season. He felt a twinge of pity for those who could not share his good fortune, but the euphoria of the moment was still upon him and he would not allow their misfortune to dampen his spirits.

  …

  The first light of the false dawn had begun to tinge the distant tundra when they arrived at the rundown Bear Air hanger. The tiny airdrome was little more than a disintegrating metal shed with the nose of a battered aircraft nudged into the questionable warmth of the snow-covered building. Jim eyed the weathered old craft and listened to Ron’s slow monotone. Ron knew airplanes and there weren’t many that he couldn’t describe in detail.

  “Gee, Nester. You guys get to fly in a genuine Noorduyn Norseman. Not many people get that opportunity anymore,” he chuckled at the prospect.

  Nester frowned at Ron. “Hey! I helped him overhaul that engine. This baby will take us anywhere.”

  “Yea, they were a great little plane in their day,” Ron laughed again. “Course this one looks like an old Mark V. Probably built around 1945 or 46. A little bit of aluminum for a frame, but mostly spruce and fabric. This was one of the first planes that had the flaps and ailerons interconnected. It could take off in the length of football field.”

  Jim didn’t like
the way Ron kept using the past tense.

  “I didn’t know you were certified to work on aviation equipment, Nester,” Ron raised his eyebrows, testing Nester’s reaction.

  Nester chose to ignore Ron’s challenge and booted open the frozen steel door of the hanger.

  Jim remained outside for a few moments and gaped at the frost-covered relic that was to carry him south. He remembered Risk’s laughter. The dilapidated old aircraft was outlined in the pale glow from the hanger. The plane seemed to crouch in the dim light, embarrassed by its rundown appearance. He could see the faded yellow paint under the layers of frost. The color was reminiscent of the World War II aircraft he had seen abandoned at the edges of many airfields in southern Alberta. This craft seemed worn and gaunt. The taut fabric stretched over the fuselage like the giant ribcage of some oversized locust. There were ill-disguised patches where the fuselage had been repaired. These newer scars reflected the faint lights from the hanger like some ancient wounds that had not quite healed over.

  Jim examined the taut cable and turn-buckled wires that seemed to be strung everywhere in a valiant effort to hold the stressed airframe together. The frayed aircraft was mounted on shattered skis. The runners did not match. One faded red ski was a recent addition from a salvage yard, the other seemed shorter, a dented silver remnant and part of the original equipment that matched the equally battered airframe. He frowned up at the cabin where one door and two of the small windows had been replaced by weathered plywood sheeting.

  He turned to Ron. Their silent companion had not offered him any encouragement regarding the craft’s airworthiness. Jim pulled away from the discouraging sight and ducked through the small portal behind Nester’s wiry frame.

  “Hey! Geezer,” Nester shouted. “You got the coffee on yet?”

  A stooped figure slowly straightened out of the shadows in the farthest corner of the vacant building, rising up like a frozen mummy stepping from the grave. The vague form tossed the parts he had been cleaning back into an open bucket of gasoline. The acrid fumes from the gaping container stung the frosty air. Greasy hands sought warm mittens while he searched for the sound of Nester’s voice in the dim light of a solitary bulb illuminating the cold airdrome. The rigid neck rotated towards the sound of Nester’s voice until he spotted his guests struggling to close the protesting door. He moved stiffly across the dusty deck, peering through the gloom like a near-sighted owl trying to identify some faint movement just beyond the range of its vision.

  Jim watched him approach. The stumbling figure appeared too old to be flying in the rigors of the arctic. The stooped frame was of average height, but his stature had been worn away by the years. He walked with a slight crouch. His ancient back had grown tired of stretching the cramped muscles in the cold artic air and had decided not to expend any more energy on such a vain gesture. His face was red and blotchy, the flesh wind burned, slipping down the bone structure like a wax mold that had been left too close to a flame. A week’s growth of stained white whiskers contrasted with the ruddy complexion and bulbous scarlet nose. He sniffled loudly and often through dripping nostrils that attracted a regular swipe from his oversized rawhide mittens, a regular motion, like some prehistoric windshield wiper. His eyes were red and watery. He seemed to be having trouble focusing on his guests. He pulled one greasy hand from a stained mitten and extended it to Jim. The grip was warm, almost feverish, but possessed an iron strength that locked on Jim’s cold fingers and left him wondering where the ancient frame found such a source of energy.

  Nester introduced Geezer while Jim examined the old bush pilot’s attire. The oversized parka was grimy and stained with oil. The baggy military trousers were large enough to accommodate several pairs of long underwear, the heavy flannel layers forming an effective shield against the snap of the arctic gusts. In deference to the season, Geezer’s drab apparel was complimented by a ridiculous looking Santa Claus hat, complete with a snow-white band and tassel. The greasy hands had not yet soiled his Christmas attire and it clung to the thinning hairline in a grim mockery of the season.

  Jim stared at the stooped figure and Risk’s laughter hung ominously in the chilled air.

  “Well, Lads, let’s hook your snow cat on back and pull her out of the hanger. My Jeep’s froze up this morning,” Geezer wheezed. His trembling hands fumbled in his pockets for a battered pack of cigarettes. There was a slight Scottish brogue in the gritty voice.

  The dour Scotsman directed the maneuver and when the frail craft was facing onto the pack ice, he climbed inside and attempted to fire up the cold engine. The worn pistons sputtered a few times and coughed out ominous puffs of black smoke into the pristine air. The cranky engine refused to run. Jim had gained a better look at the dilapidated airplane squatting on the frozen terrain and decided that he would be just as happy if the old Norseman did not start. He was prepared to wait for the well-maintained and reliable Hercules, even if it meant another ten days on the isolated base.

  Nester watched the wheezing pilot’s futile efforts for a minute, then seized a screwdriver and pried up the cowling. Geezer poked his head out a cracked panel and squinted at Nester. When Nester had tinkered with the oil drenched engine, he raised his thumb in signal to Geezer. The craft barked a few times then fired to life, driving another stream of grimy black smoke into the crisp air.

  Geezer urged the ragged pistons into a staggering rumble until he judged the engine capable of idling on its own. He led them back inside and huddled near a squat stove, glowing in the center the old building. Despite the roar inside the firebox, the flames were incapable of heating the frost rimmed structure and contented themselves with keeping the large pot of coffee boiling on the glowing surface. They shared the pot of bitter coffee while Geezer waited for the balky engine to heat up.

  “Well, Lads, I’ll go shut her down and we can toss the rest of the cargo into the back,” Geezer growled.

  They stepped outside again and hustled through the chill of the black winter morning. Jim clambered up the slick aluminum steps and peered inside the darkened bush plane. Several wooden cases were lashed to the splintered plywood floor, carelessly secured with rope and strands of rusted wire. Someone had stenciled Old Bow across the battered plywood cases. Jim remembered that their route south would take them through an isolated village somewhere to the northwest of Yellowknife. He squinted into the cockpit. There was one passenger already on board, apparently asleep in the lone passenger seat that had been crammed in behind the pilot and co-pilot’s sections. There was the overpowering smell of liquor in the crisp air. Jim guessed that the huge figure was sleeping off a gigantic hangover in the frosty night.

  He examined the sparse accommodations inside the craft. There was only seating for three people. Nester had told him they were evicting a passenger at their isolated base. Jim wondered again who the unlucky traveler was, for he was sleeping in the precious seat that had been reserved for Jim. Jim was trying to rationalize his dilemma when Geezer began heaving their luggage into the back of his battered craft.

  He motioned to the sleeping passenger, “Well, Laddies, let’s toss that ornery son of a bitch out and we’ll be on our merry way!”

  Jim climbed through the battered cargo door and clawed his way forward. He cautiously approached the slumbering occupant. He tapped the gigantic, bundled form with his mittened hand, eager to wake him and lay claim to the last southbound seat. The stranger sat motionless, apparently determined to ignore Jim’s intrusion. Perhaps the possibility of having to spend Christmas on this isolated base was too much for the silent traveler. Jim jabbed the rigid shoulders, determined to get the man’s attention. The grimy fur trimmed hood glided back off the man’s head and Jim recoiled at the sight revealed in the yellow glow of the cabin lights.

  The monstrous face was leering directly at him. The evil grin revealed chipped yellow teeth. The heavy head of graying hair was clipped close and fashioned into a rough brush
cut. The gaping dark eyes were staring and vacant. His broad face and square chin were covered with gray stubble. It took Jim’s numb mind several tortured seconds to comprehend the horror before him. The man was a dead body, frozen into his seat!

  Jim leapt away from the hideous specter, tumbling back into the jumbled cargo, amid howls of laughter from Nester.

  “Jesus Christ! That man is a fucking corpse!” Jim fought to control his breathing.

  “Yep, he is a corpse now, ain’t he,” Geezer sniffed. “You’d be corpse too iffin someone stuck an eight-inch blade in your gizzard. The ornery son of a bitch! I’d a stabbed him myself, for sure if I was given half the chance. Guess he finally found an Indian that weren’t a-feared of him. Ugly son of a bitch now, ain’t he!”

  Geezer pushed forward and casually wrapped one arm around the man’s shoulder as if he were embracing an intimate friend. He thrust his other bare hand deep into the inside pockets of the dead man’s parka and pulled out a set of official looking documents. He waved them proudly at Jim.

  “Yep, I haul them south for the Mounties all the time. They pays me more than five times what I’d get for a normal yappy fare. Course most of them don’t favour me with any return business!” he chuckled.

  Jim sucked in a slow breath and tried to calm his racing heart. “Jesus Christ” he murmured. “You could have fucking told me!”

  Geezer seemed puzzled by Jim’s concern. “Yep! You’re looking at Weasel Kalhoun. Least what’s left of him. Used to be an accountant or a financial manager for some large firm down east. Had one of them worthless jobs a snake wouldn’t touch. After he filled his pockets and screwed the company, he came north looking for more easy pickings. Stole what he could and put his blade in anyone who wouldn’t play his greedy game. Guess he finally met someone were better with a knife than he were,” he mused.