Cold

COLD

By Andy Pearson © 2023

Cold.  

So much cold.  

Cold curls around me like despair. It moves across exposed skin and leaves hopelessness.

Cold slides and weaves under my clothing like a living thing looking for warmth. My skin is frozen into lines like crumpled waxed paper. My feet and hands are clubbish with the biting freeze. My clothing is stiff and rasps with each movement. 

Frozen ground snaps underfoot with each step. The crunching sound in my ears makes the cold harder to suffer. The cold invites me want to lie down for a moment to rest. It must be warmer to lie down and hug myself just for a bit. My knees bend before I can stop. I’m kneeling on the frozen white.  The tops of small plants push out from the early snow. They’re stiff with frost, but they look warm and comfortable.  

I yell in my head. 

Stop!

Get up! 

I must get up. My knees are so cold. The cold has crossed through my woolen pants and pushed into my bones. I fear the cold will cause them to break if I push hard, but I strain upwards. I’m standing. 

 The frozen air carries sound, but I realize I no longer hear the dogs. Did they get too cold?  Can they not find scent in the cold? I don’t know, but I must keep moving. The dogs aren’t the only things chasing me.

The trees get nearer as I stumble forward. Evergreens stark against a white sky. A sky filled with future snow. Inside the emerald forest, the wind breaks. I continue deeper into the trees. Darkness slides among the trees. I stumble against a flat surface.

Salvation made of timber. A cabin. A lone building in the trees. I lean against the door while I work to open it. The latch gives and I fall into the darkness landing on warped wood. Curling my legs in, I push the door closed with stiff feet  The wooden floor looks rough as I lie on it, but I can’t feel it. The closed-door cuts off the light and the rest of the wind.  

I lie still. What now? Lie here until the pain stops? That’s death. I’ve come too far to give up. Grunting, I pull myself upright. My eyes adjust to the darkness. I’m in a small room. A bed made of timbers is anchored to a wall. A rough wool blanket folded neatly on the end. A small rough wooden chair and a matching rough table are all the furnishings. A shelf pegged to the wall. A window covered with a shutter is in one log wall. A small crease of light slides into the room around the shutter. A small metal stove with a pile of wood next to it stands in one corner.  

The stove is as cold as the outside. But the cold of the stove gives hope. I envision it radiating warmth. Tears well up and freeze on my cheek.  

Using the frozen gloves on my hands like paddles, I push them together with the metal handle between them. I swing the little door open. Inside I find wood in a small pile sitting on top of fine curled kindling. The last resident, a saint in my estimation, left a fire laid in the stove. 

On the table is a box of matches. I stare at my frozen hands encased in frozen mittens. Scraping the mittens off on the tabletop, I try to flex my fingers. They are curled into fists. I tip the matches over with my clenched hands. They spill bouncing and skittering on the table. Pressing one to the edge of the table with my left fist, I slide the end between the stiff knuckles of my right hand. I stroke the small white tip against the cold black of the stove.  

A spark. 

A flash. 

Fire.

Mesmerized by the light and the heat on the little wooden stick's end, I stare at the flame. Cautiously, I move the flame toward the little curls of wood at the base of the pile. The dry wood flares and then catches strongly. The match burns to my skin. I can smell a scent like leather being drawn through a flame. It sizzles out and I never feel it.

The fire burns higher and its light escapes the little door. I know I can't feel the heat yet, but I imagine it. Flowing over me. The flames are warming me and bringing me to life like winter wheat in the spring sun.   

Closing the little door, I stand next to the cold stove and wait. I hear drips falling on the floor and look down at a puddle around my feet. The ice on my clothing is melting.  The stove begins to creak and pop with the heat.

Heat.

Is. 

Flowing.  

I stand still and let the dripping continue. I feed more wood into the stove. The room grows hotter.  

I begin shivering. I succumb to the heat. Falling to the floor, blackness overtakes me.

I wake and the fire has died down. I’m lying in a puddle of warm melted water. I shed clothes and stoke the fire to a new blaze. Spreading my clothes on the floor and table, I sit naked in front of the heat and fall asleep again. 

When I wake the second time, I hear the wind blowing and the shush of ice and snow raking the log walls. Staggering to my feet, I pull a folded blanket off the end of the bed and wrap it around me.  Cracking the door open, I see the white sky is now falling. Visibility is down to feet. I shut the door and lean against it.  

For now, I’m safe.  Nothing is coming through this weather.  I have a time to rest.

The fire is burning down. I add a new log. In this small space, the stack of dry split wood is more than enough for several days. With time and heat, I examine the space around me more. The bed is attached to the wall on one side.  The mattress is a rope crisscrossed inside the frame. The walls are rough logs chinked with moss. The ceiling is low. The window is a square outline with the shutter closed tight.

I turn to the shelf. On it is a book with a pencil. Taking the book down, I step toward the stove for light. Names. One name after another. I recognize the last name. Raul Piers. Piers ran before I did. I look for the names of other runners, but only Piers is familiar. The other names must be even earlier than my time. 

Piers was here.

I look around the room. Piers made it here after he ran two months ago.  Piers made it here. Maybe he made it free. I look at the stove. Did Piers lay the fire for another runner?

Taking the pencil, I write my name under Piers’ name. Stephen Bascomb. I place the book back on the shelf and look at the table. Nothing on it, but the matches. I carefully replace the spilled matches. I see that the box is new. Someone must be coming to the cabin. Is someone taking care of the cabin? Who built the cabin? Why?  I wonder, was it for runners?  

The wind slams against the walls and slides around the cabin. I open the door and the snow swirls in around my bare feet. I slam it shut.

Pulling the blanket around me tighter, I retrieve my jacket and pull the small bundle from the pocket. Unwrapping the package exposes the small amount of food I’d been saving for my run. This is my dinner and my breakfast. I stare at the meager rations and wonder if it is my last meal. I decide to ration the roll, the apple slices, and the few pieces of dried meat. My hunger rages with the first taste and I eat it all.

I know when the weather breaks, I will need to run further. I know this, but right now I’m warm. Pulling the blanket tight, I lie down on the rope bed and fall dreamlessly asleep.

I wake and the cabin is quiet. The stove is cold. The room is warm. I snake an arm out of the blanket and touch my clothes. Dry.

I rise and dress. Opening the door, I see the storm has broken and the sun shines. It is time to go. Folding the blanket, I place it on the end of the bed. I push in the chair and move to the door. I stop and turn back into the room. I carefully lay a fire in the stove for the next runner who makes it this far.  

Stepping out in the white cold, I close the door tightly and continue my journey.