The Last Winter

barleygirl's story about her mountain hike brought a rush of memories about my gold prospecting days. While her story is entertaining and warm...this one is bleak and cold...

 

The Last Winter

 

The world has been reduced to black, and various shades of gray and white.  Snow has been falling for eight days, and I can only see out through a thin strip at the top of the windows.  I’m tired, I can only sleep three hours at the time before I must clear the doorway and check that the top of the marker poles can still be seen.  This summer past, I placed 10 foot poles at two foot intervals to mark the paths to the barn and the woodshed.  There are twenty to the woodshed and thirty-seven to the barn.  I also painted them a bright red, but at night, they become just another shade of dark gray, their vivid hue stolen by the swirling snow. 

 

My days and nights are reduced to cycles of sleeping, clearing snow, checking on the horse, and bringing from the woodshed only the number of pieces I have burned since the last trip.  This activity does not deplete my energy and rob me of vital body heat, and is the right amount of exertion to ensure adequate circulation.  I eat before each trip out and tried to read the first two days, but the blinding whiteness drained me, and I now just sleep until the next cycle.

 

It’s beginning to take longer and longer for the horse to respond to me and I will have to bring him in soon.  I must try to save him if I can. The first day of the snow, I placed old blankets on extra hay in his stall and I must break the ice on his water every three or four hours.  I considered banking a small fire in the barn, well away from any timbers and piling stones very high around it to ensure containment, but this goes against all I know of hay, barns and fire.  I will bring him into the cabin if this goes on much longer.

 

He and I have worked together fifteen summers now, and I am too old to do our work alone.  My bones could not tolerate the heavy burdens he carries for me from the claim to my cabin, and I no longer have the inclination to acquire a younger horse to replace him.  When he dies, I will cease to work, and it will be my last winter. 

 

I miss the dog.  He found his way to me this past summer and I fed him and took him in.  Before the snow was very deep, I would let him run when I went to the barn and the woodshed, and he would come bounding up when I called him to come in.  The fourth day he did not return and I dare not travel beyond my markers to hunt for him.

 

The silence of so much snow is deafening.  The absence of the noises of the forest, the wildlife and the wind in the trees, is louder than the roar of the waterfall when you stand so close as to be soaked in minutes from the mist.   When I speak aloud to reassure the horse, my words boom like the dynamite used by the road crews in summer to shift the granite rock.

 

I must bring the horse in, now.  He is lethargic and shivering, another few hours and he will surely die.  I drape all of the old blankets on him and begin moving his grain and hay to the cabin, piling it outside the door.  I lead him out of the barn and he stumbles in the first high drift.  I try to soothe him and to urge him to hurry with me to the cabin, to the light ahead, but he is old, now, and tired, and I must pull roughly on the halter to move him forward.  When we reach the cabin, I pull him through the door and to the opposite wall, to a space I have kept clear for just this purpose.  There is hay, a small trough with grain attached to the wall, and a bucket of water.  He begins to shudder from the sudden warmth of the room, and can barely stand.  I urge him down, and remain by his side, stroking his legs to help the near frozen blood to circulate.  He finally stops his shivering, and lays his head back as if to sleep.  With one big sigh through his pink nostrils, he breathes no more, and is gone.  I continue to stroke him for my own comfort and until my legs begin to stiffen.

 

I get up and move the bed away from the wall, open the trap door to the cellar and climb down the ladder into the dirt-walled space.  I need no lantern here, for the light is golden and ever shining; night and day, summer and winter.  In fifteen years, my horse and I have filled this crude room with the golden light pulled from the claim and I will breathe my last breath here.  I am glad, now, that the dog is not here.  I hope he got lost and someone down river has taken him in.  I would not want to leave him here to starve and I can be easy in my mind when I come down here to stay.

 

I return to the room above and look fondly at the horse.  He was my only companion for so long, and I find myself grieving and missing his easy presence.  No matter, I will be joining him soon.  I bank the fire and set the room to rights.  Everything is put away and all the cooking utensils are clean and hung.  From the bed, I take one of the blankets that warmed me all these years, and drape it over the horse; it is his shroud.   I bundle up the remainder of the bedding, toss it down into the cellar and turning, I look around this room that has been my home for fifteen years.  I go to the door and open it wide, looking upon my last winter.  The snow, still in the ever-swirling dance.  Now, I am ready to move into the golden room and I climb down, pulling the door down over my head.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Reviews

[Seeker]

You have a way with words that bring to life a warm companionship between the beauty and the beast --- in a manner of speaking. I am tempted to add that your equine friend was lucky to have you by his deathbed. A job well done.

[Carol Cashes]

Beauty and the beast! Interesting that you perceived the narrator as female. I worked this piece to leave no clues as to gender. Thank you for reading this, I wrote it as an informal companion piece to Fool's Gold. Again...Beauty and the beast! I love that.

[Seeker]

I read it twice. Funny that the piece in first person was at best gender neutral and I fell for the axiom. But the fondness, emotions and the passion --- and I say this with no sexist streak --- appear to betray a female write. No offense intended.

[Carol Cashes]

None taken. However, us females tend to think that we have cornered the market, so to speak, on the deeper emotions, but, while some men struggle to express these same emotions, they feel them just as keenly. I wanted this piece to be in the gender of the reader, thus giving them the opportunity to "contribute" to the story, soooo....Good Job!

[Seeker]

Yes, true to a large extent, on keenly felt emotions felt by men, but the female streak would require some special talent to disguise. Just as well. For us adoring males especially. Sorry to spoil your party.

[Carol Cashes]

Party?! There's a party? I think I can leave work early... *cough* *sniffle*

[Seeker]

Yes, the gender guessing game party...

[Carol Cashes]

Pin the tail on the...wha...?!

[Samuel Dickens]

This is strong, stark and powerful. I was right there with the miner, feeling the cold and helplessness. How refreshing to see such writing on this site!

[Carol Cashes]

Thank you. Now, is the miner male or female? I had to really work thus piece to not suggest a gender. It would be interesting to know which genders pick what gender.

[Samuel Dickens]

The person I saw was male, but I can see a female in the role, also.

[Samuel Dickens]

Thinking about it more, the first person pov should've facilitated the gender-less voice without much trouble.