Nahoonkara

by Peter Grandbois

  The town of Seven Falls would have died that month. And later, when the last of the snow melted at the end of May, it would have revealed a perfectly preserved town with people curled up in their beds or rocking in their chairs, blankets thrown over them. It would have been that way, a town-sized tomb, if it hadn’t been for the children, for it was the children who led the people out of the darkness of their homes and back into life.

  During that last month of the long snow, the children too grew languid, as if their blood was thickening and icicles were forming in their veins. It was then the miraculous change occurred, as so often happens with children. They throw off their old skins, the selves that are no longer of use or that have grown stiff and boring with age, and they emerge ready to play. And so, the children tunneled out, making their way up through the schoolhouse bell tower, carrying snowshoes, sleds, and homemade skis, anything that would help them adapt to their new life on the surface.

  Once there, they looked for areas where the drifts hadn’t piled quite so high, areas that would make for good sledding. And they mounted their sleds and skis and slid from the top of the schoolhouse bell tower down to the rooftop of Guller’s Saloon, then hiked up to the top of Demings’ Hotel and down again to Pete Myers’ General Store. But the children didn’t think in these terms. To them, the buildings had disappeared, existed as faint webs in the recesses of their memory, and they’d already swatted those webs away. All they saw were a series of hills and valleys stretched out in white, calling to them, demanding that they play until, exhausted, they climbed back down the bell tower and into their beds only to begin again the next day. It didn’t matter that they were hungry. Hunger had also been forgotten.

  Carl Cluskey was the first to follow. Though he’d told his wife, Ellen, if their three children were going to play that hard they were going to need food to eat and supplies were all but gone, what really woke him from his stupor were the giggles floating gently down like bubbles through the layers of white. So he took his snowshoes and rifle and ascended the bell tower. While Carl was emerging into the new world, Eli made a similar decision in the mining camp up the mountain. The miners had actually been better off as their camp was protected in large part by La Nana herself and so only received about half the snow, which was still enough to bury their small cabins.

  The men with children emerged first, either inspired by their children’s adaptability or driven by the knowledge that they needed to feed them. Martin Watson and Galway Giberson soon followed and joined Carl on his first hunting expedition, but Eli remained to himself, disappearing for days at a time up the valley between La Nana and her sister. Both Eli above and Carl’s group below left unsure if they’d find anything, and at first they didn’t, for they hunted in the old style, looking for life on the surface. Each adapted in their own way.

  After three days of returning home exhausted and empty handed, Martin Watson finally suggested to Carl Cluskey that they try digging by the river to see what might turn up. They uncovered a family of frozen deer, the meat perfectly preserved. Soon, instead of hunting expeditions where the men were equipped with rifles, they went out in groups of three, equipped with shovels, hoping to emulate that first successful expedition. And they did, quickly realizing that if they followed the river, they were bound to come upon more animals dying for lack of water in the frozen desert.

  Higher up the mountain, Eli still hunted by the old method, his only adaptation aiming his sights to the trees instead of the ground. Each day, Eli returned with birds slung about his neck: owls and hawks, woodpeckers and jays. At first his daughters, Alice and Jane, refused to eat, for they loved the birds, but Charlotte, their mother, soon learned to cook and prepare the meat out of the girls’ sight, and then they ate willingly and ravenously. Eli enjoyed watching them eat; in fact, he found he was happier than he’d ever been. Often, during those days, he’d sit in his chair by the fire, watching how happy his girls were after they’d filled their stomachs, and, perhaps for the first time in his life, he felt he had a purpose. For this reason, each time he left for another day of hunting, he found himself torn by the desire to simply sit and watch his girls and the happy responsibility of needing to provide for them. And it was at just one of these moments, when Eli stood in the doorway wishing both to stay and to go, that the long snow finally stopped. It did not slow down before stopping completely, but rather, after three months of snowfall without abatement, it ceased in an instant, as if the sky had gone empty and couldn’t possibly expel another flake.

  Sunlight broke through the clouds almost immediately, not content to wait another moment after having waited so long. Eli stepped forth, blind in the new world. It took him several minutes before he could see again and many hours more before he could truly welcome the punishing glare. And immediately, he went out into the woods, for he knew now was the hunting time, that for this day alone the world and all the animals in it were half awake. The animals would stumble upon him in their search for food, and he would gather all he needed in a few days and then return to spend the spring with his family.

  He did not understand that the day after a heavy snow is the most dangerous day of all, particularly when the harsh sun works so hard to warm the earth. In the cold, the snow sticks stubbornly frozen to the surface of the mountain, but as the mountain heats up, great slabs of snow slough off and slide away, slowly at first, but as the friction generates more heat, the slabs slide faster, crushing everything in their path before finally coming to rest.

  THE SPEECH OF TREES

  Killian | Colorado

  I wake and find myself in the snow far from town.

  I walk over the frozen world, and with each flake that falls upon my skin my heart slows. I don’t mind this slowing of blood, this thickening of life. Soon my body will match the body of the world.

  I walk, and the air fills with the tinkling of bells. I don’t know if it’s the snow or if Uncle Frank is dressed as Santa again or maybe it’s the little bells they’ve taken to hanging on the children so they can find them if they venture to the surface and get lost or buried in the drifts.

  I walk, and the higher I climb the more I hear. The trees are the loudest of all. From deep inside their sap-stilled bodies, they cry out under the weight of all that snow. The world is pressed to their pace. They speak to me in creaks and groans, telling me what eternity really means.

  THE WARM BREATH

  Eli | Colorado

  Sorrow falls quickly here, in the mountains. Cuts us from our families. Cuts us from ourselves. Cuts us until we bleed white.

  Before the snow silenced my life, morning came, the last leaden clouds scraping the sky, forcing out the darkness. And I gazed into the sun, not yet able to see. Like Saul, I was blinded by the light of heaven, and, like him, I trusted in God to guide me as he did when he sent his servant, Ananias. How can we know our trust in God is well-founded when he tests us so? How could I know, my darling Charlotte, Alice, and Jane, that he would sever me from my body?

  That afternoon, after my sight returned, I shot two rabbits and a crow. I should not have killed the black bird.

  Vengeance falls quickly here. Dusk came, and I spied no other creatures. I would have better luck the next day, I told myself, as I packed the snow beneath my feet and built my shelter of ice. After skinning and cooking the rabbit, I sat within my shelter, the dim glow of the dying embers casting shadows upon the wall.

  When morning returned, I gathered my voice, my eyes, the life remaining to me, and tied the last rabbit to my belt. The crow I left buried inside the shelter, but still it followed me, pecking at the back of my neck as I turned toward home. I would not stay out another day.

  Pines broke the surface, first one, and then another. They’d not been there the day before, or at least I’d not been aware of their existence. Now they demanded to be seen. The world was changing before my eyes, and I asked myself, who was I to see it?

  Cruelty falls quickly here. And I’m plagued with the memory
of that beauty turned to heartbreak and horror.

  It was then I saw the buck, ribs pushing at skin, legs wobbly with the exertion of staying upright, of balancing atop the fragile crust. He nibbled at the exposed bark as I brought my rifle to my shoulder and sighted him. The blast echoed through the valley but by the time it returned to me, it carried with it another sound, a deep rumbling and shaking as if the earth were sloughing off her skin. The buck fell, spilling its life into the snow, but my gaze turned to La Nana not so far away, yet far enough that all I could do was watch as the top third of the mountain gave way, one giant slab of snow and ice, falling, sliding downward, driving all the snow before it until it became its own mountain of tumbling snow. I called out to Charlotte, told her to run, to gather the children, but my voice was buried in the growing roar. Only later did it return, and then I scarcely knew it.

  Justice falls quickly here. There is a long white scar on La Nana, and I follow that scar down to my heart. The only tree left standing marks where my house once was, and that is where I dig.

  All morning, I tunnel down, piling mounds of snow on each side. I hear the cries of others up from town as they search for friends, loved ones. Double Tom, are you here? Big Jim! Will, Will Markey, tell us if you live! Wilbert Marshall, you never turned down a bottle of whiskey before, so come out and get some now! I dig until I find the splinters of my house. Henry and Nell stand by me then, but I pay them no notice, not even when Nell screams and falls writhing upon the snow. My girls lie sleeping in the remains of their bed, sharing their long slumber, Alice’s blonde hair entwined with Jane’s brown. I find Charlotte nearby on the floor. And now there is nowhere to run.

  Henry and Nell tried to take the bodies down the mountain, but I waved my rifle in their direction, and they understood.

  Long I slept beside my family, waking sometime in the darkness, sometime in the light. It made no difference. Then, as if in a dream, I took my hatchet to the lone tree, cut out its heart. With my long knife I spent the night carving my heart. I needed to shape my anger and my grief, put them somewhere where they could sing.

  And all the while I carved my fiddle, I could feel him there watching me in the distance. I shouted to my brother, but still he stood, so faint I could barely make him out in the woods beyond.

  “You’re a devil!” I shouted to him. “Like Father, you bring nothing but death.”

  He did not answer, just stood there as he’d done before with the roan. As he’d always done.

  “What dark pact have you made that you roam the earth so freely?”

  Again, he did not answer.

  I rose then, turned to face him directly. “Come here, Killian!” I shouted. “Come here and taste the warm breath of the Holy Spirit!”

  And still he did not come.

  I laid my grief like a skin over the fiddle, and waited. When morning came, I played a sweet song and prayed for someone to wake me. It was then He made himself known, told me my mission had just begun, my life had only now begun.

  The townsfolk returned shortly after first light, better equipped with shovels, ready this time to carry the frozen bodies to town. “Listen closely,” I told them as I stepped from the pit where my house once stood. I left my fiddle alongside my wife and carried with me my rifle instead. They did not take heed to my words, so I fired into the air, and they were more attentive.

  “Listen closely to the words of the Lord,” I said, as they gathered about me. “As told in the second book of Esdras . . .”

  They stood rapt.

  But it is for you, Ezra, to tear out your hair and to let every calamity loose on those who have disobeyed my law. My people are beyond correction.

  And still they stood. So, I told them what the Lord asked me to speak.

  VOICES

  Killian | Colorado

  Spring has done its work. Near the banks, the snow is only a few feet deep, the ice upon the surface only a foot or so. And even then, the river finds a way, patches of dark clear water push to the surface, needing to breathe. Sinkholes in the snow strengthen the river’s voice, murmurs bubbling up, reverberating off the ice.

  I kneel upon the bank to better hear, the wet soaking through my overalls. I place my ear upon the snow and listen to the voices rising from the deep.

  Remember me ….

  What am I doing lying about well past dawn? There’s work to do. With Eli gone, there’s double the work, and the girls will be hungry soon. I’ll wake them with potato pancakes. I think there’s even a little syrup left. Jane loves extra syrup. And look at this mess! The girls will clean it up before they get any pancakes. I don’t know. It seems the more I clean the dirtier things get. How did this snow find its way inside? Eli, I’m going to need your strong back before the day is over. Just look at me, how soft I’ve become, complaining about a little snow. Grandmother always said she had no time for words when there was work to be done. Alice? Jane? Where are you, my dears? There’s going to be pancakes!

  Bees flying into my skull, the voices continue.

  Remember me. . .Where’s my pipe, my tobacco? No sense going on if I can’t have my tobacco. I’m a man of few needs. All I ask is for my hat, my goose-bone pipe, and a dry place to lay me down, and now I don’t have a damn one. Life doesn’t amount to a whole hell of a lot if a man can’t have a smoke when he wants to. Ah, there you are, my beauty, let me dust the snow off you, let me warm you in my hands. The sweet smell of fudge still lingers from the last smoke, clinging to the air like a whisper. Now as soon as I find my tobacco, I’m getting the hell out of here. Damn the “Meg”, Henry. It’s no good anymore anyway. La Nana has had the final word. All there’s left for us to do is to walk away and start again.

  Watch where you swing that shovel, Percy, you almost took my head off.

  Martin, you got any tobacco? All I need’s a pinch.

  Carl don’t sit there like that, staring into the snow like you can’t see anymore. This is nothing. You’ve got three beautiful girls. So get up off your butt and tend to them. Stand up and be a man! All I need’s a little damn tobacco . . .

  And the buzzing voices only grow louder.

  Remember . . . The snow piled us, sinners one atop the other. A tomb of ice and snow. I will shape the snow about me until I have four walls to keep the Lord with me, a new church to call the souls to heaven. But the voices are unbearable. I will build the church God wants, but first I must drown the voices. I know Lucy will give me a drink. Just one little drink to stop the voices. She knows I’m good for it. She knows I need it to do the Lord’s work. Now where does she keep them bottles? I bring the bottle to my lips, but all is frozen within. Not a drop for poor Wilbert.

  The droning continues, each voice buzzing over the other, and then I remember the bees deep in the hollow log beyond the birch grove. Eli leads me there. The golden light blinds me until I’m no longer sure if I’m watching the bees and dreaming I’m here or if I’m here in the snow dreaming I’m watching the bees. And it’s then I hear the girls. Their light voices buzzing higher than all the rest.

  Me, Me, Me . . . Do you smell that? Do you Jane? Momma’s making potato pancakes! Get out of bed . . . I don’t want to . . . Not even if she gives you extra syrup? . . . Okay, okay. What’s that sound, Alice? . . . I don’t know . . . It’s the snow speaking to us. Can you hear it? . . . It sounds like people calling. It’s so soft I can barely hear it . . . It’s loud to me. Do you hear the drunk preacher? He says we’re sinners . . . I hear Momma calling. She says we better clean up . . . I don’t want to clean. I want to play. Come on, Alice, see if you can find me . . . Why is it dark if we’re awake? . . . You can’t see? . . . Not very well . . . I think we’re dreaming . . . We’ve never dreamed together before . . . Yes, we have. Remember that time we almost drowned in the river? . . . That’s you that nearly drowned, Jane . . . Yeah, but you dreamed it, too. Let’s climb to the surface and make snow angels! Let’s make a city of tunnels! Look, there’s Killian lying in the snow beside the river! He ca
n help us . . . Momma’s going to get mad if we don’t get moving . . . No, she won’t. She’s always nicer when Daddy’s gone . . . My stomach’s growling . . . I can’t hear anything but the voices. And the horses. Do you see the white horses, Alice? They’re beautiful . . . Come on, Jane. I’m hungry . . . You’re always hungry. I’m going to ride the white horses. Tell Momma I’ll be along soon . . . She’s not going to like it!

  The longer I lay in the snow the more confused the voices get inside my brain until the buzzing turns to stinging and I can no longer hear myself anymore. My head is swollen so big. They fly inside my head. Voices buzzing, flying, louder and louder. And it’s then I realize I’m a voice, too.

  I tell myself I know the way home, but all I hear is the roiling voices. And so I search. For days I wander looking for my body, hoping to wake from the dream, but the more I search, the harder I struggle, the more the dream ensnares me. I tell myself I know the way, but then I don’t know. The crooked mountain calls, and I stumble beneath the killing cliff where the roan waits. Why don’t I recognize the smell of flesh decaying to madness?

  I stagger forward, frost clinging to my eyes, blurring my vision. The buzzing stretching before me with each step.

  Dressed for hunting, my brother sits upon a rock. His rifle slung upon his back. I see him clearly now, though I’m not sure if it’s in my mind’s eye or my real ones.