The Saskatchewan Winter Wind

Laying there in the dark, he listens to the wind howl. Laying there, he listens to the wind howl through the open crack of his window. Laying there under his wool blanket, he tries desperately to block out the cold.

With his brother kicking him in the back, trying to force him out from under the covers so they don’t have to share, the winds on the farm do nothing but howl. If not through some split in the wood or break in the house boards, they find it in the barn and project their echo. Even as the winds bring the Christmas snow, they howl as if in great pain or great labour. He never knows which.

This day, as his brother finally forces him out of bed, is a great day for reasons he just doesn’t know yet. And one he cannot wait for, but must.

“Nathaniel,” his mother cries when he appears in the kitchen. “Go wash up and tell your brother to do the same. We’ll be having guests this Christmas.”

Without protest and without a word, he does as he is asked. For today of all days, he doesn’t care about the small chores as long as he gets to open his present.

Hours later, he is greeted by his father and their guests. “Hello, I’m Tabitha, who’re you?” It’s the daughter of the new neighbours. They live more than a mile down the road, but they’re still the new neighbours because that is rural life. It has been his entire life.

“Nathaniel.”

“I’m eight. How old are you?”

“Ten.”

Trying to spy his present, this bouncy, little girl blocks his sight. But he already knows what it is; he saw his mother wrapping them. Wrapped in that colourful paper are a new pair of skates and the wait is deadly. As everyone opens their gifts, he finally notices that ‘that girl’ won’t leave his side.

“And where do you two think you’re goin’?” His father asks. ‘That girl’ is following him still.

“To try my new skates,” he answers, taking notice that ‘that girl’ is dressed to go out as well.

“The pond is too far today. That wind will bite you clear to the bone. I’ll take you when the wind dies in a few days.”

“But —”

“No buts,” his father interrupts. “Now, since you’re dressed, be a good lad and go grab some more firewood from the barn.”

The trip would have been easy, but ‘that girl’ came with him. He truly had forgotten about her, as he carried the wood to the house, until her scream resonates from the far end of the barn.

His eyes sharpen and without thinking, he drops the wood and grabs the pitchfork. Still driven by instinct, he runs to her. In a full, headlong charge, he screams and pins a coyote to the barn door through its neck. Until the adults arrive, all he feels is her hugging him. All he hears is the wind howling at her tears as they begin to freeze to her cheeks.

Back in the darkness under that blanket, he just listens to the wind. This time the wind is biting, nipping at the tears on his face. His blanket affords him no real protection. But he doesn’t need it; all he needs is the warm body in his arms.

Now, in their first apartment with the broken window and the creaking floorboards, the wind howls, but its bite doesn’t touch them. “Can you go turn on the stove?” She asks him. She wears the same smile that she dawns every time she wants him to do something for her. It was the same one as on their wedding day, not a month prior, but what she doesn’t know is that he would do it with or without the smile.

“Yes,” but he loves the smile.

When he returns, she hugs him tight and nuzzles her face into his chest, ignoring all but the wind. Their apartment is in a small town, situated above the general store. He can hear people coming and going, the cars going by, and even the train as it shakes the town. Still he ignores all but the wind and, of course, her smile.

“Nathaniel,” there’s a hesitation in her voice.

“Yes?”

“We … I … well no, we need to make a decision.” The smile is as bright as ever when she looks up.

“What is it?”

“I’m … we need to move back to the farm. Your family is there, mine is there —”

“We decided to try and make it on our own.”

“Yeah, but the town is dangerous. Remember the gang the RCMP drove out last year, I think they’ve returned.”

“I can protect you.”

“And it’s no place to raise a baby.”

He goes to protest, but catches himself. As the gaze between them blurs reality, all he can do is listen to the cold wind howl.

Staring into the empty darkness listening to the cold winter wind, he is numb now. The blanket useless. The tears have stopped and a momentary flatness of his lips resonates against the flash of her long-gone smile. The wind took it. Froze it. Then shattered it. And still the wind howls.

The smell of whisky, rum, and beer permeates the immediate area. The ruckus of darts, pool, and other bar activities are there, but above all the wind circles about outside, bringing with it the chill and bite of that winter day. The cold of that day reviving a frozen moment from history.

“Did ya fight in da war?” The bartender asks at his semi-uniform outfit.

“Lieutenant Nathaniel at your service,” he says, draining his whisky as his new salute. “3^rd regiment.”

“Next one is free,” and the bartender pours.

“Let me pay,” he counters.

“Yer money ain’t no good here, friend.”

“Well, would a story do instead?”

“Aye, I’ll accept that.”

The bar falls silent. Even the wind seems to stop to listen to him for a change. There is only eight or nine people gathered, outside of him and the bartender, but he sizes each one up and laughs inside. Not a single one can stand against him.

“A man falls in love with a woman; she is sixteen and he is eighteen. Eight years they know each other, all of which culminates —”

“What?”

“Comes together,” he answers the drunk to his right. “In a moment of pure passion. A night, while camping, the two slip from their families and down to the lake shore. The wind sings in the trees, the water ripples with delight, the sand moulds itself into the perfect bed and the two consummate —”

“What?”

“Have sex,” this time he answers the biker to his left. Cheers rise and he sees all the pool cues that are being held. “When the day arrives, they tell their families of their plans to marry. Happiness is everywhere until the man announces that he has joined the military to fight the damned Gerries. He flies through training and excels at hand-to-hand combat, all his years working on the family farm have given him a strong arm and grip. Three years into combat, he’s wounded, only in the arm. But, he is also cut off from his troop and presumed dead. The official record states he personally killed over a hundred Gerries on his own, but the truth is it was only one troop. And with the help of a well-placed grenade, he only had to fight three in hand-to-hand.”

More cheers arise when he drains another ounce and places the empty glass down. The bartender refills it, even the wind chimes in with a rattle of the walls, then dies again.

“He gets back to his troop, but his family and fiancée have already been informed of his death. He hears the screams of joy when he personally radios from the nearest military base to his home to correct this error. 1945 … the war is ending, but conflicts still happen. He’s wounded again. A shot to the gut lays him out … and as he lays there, the wind is howling this time, instead of singing. He awakens in a hospital, the bullet lodged itself in his kidney blocking all blood flow. This tiny piece of metal,” he pulls the bullet from around his neck, now forged into a necklace, “saved his life.”

He hears the people shuffle when he drains another glass. Five in particular group together to his left for they have seen this bullet before. They had pawned it for cash. “Honourably discharged and sent home. He gives the bullet to ‘that girl’ as an apology for making her worry. She is attending university in Saskatoon now, so they put the wedding off until she has her degree. He worries that she won’t want him anymore because she’ll find him stupid. But … but she gets him a job at the university telling stories about the war to professors and students, just to be close to him.”

Draining another glass, he slams it into the bar. It’s refilled and he continues, “They marry and a month later she tells him she is pregnant.” He slips his left hand into his jacket pocket while draining his final glass. With this one done, he smashes the glass into the bar, shattering it.

“Not a week later, she’s brutally attacked, violated, and left for dead. The bullet he had made into a necklace gone.” Pulling his left hand out, his knife shocks everyone but the five. The biker to his immediate left has no time to react as the knife bites his heart. “These five men got away with murder, rape, and theft. The RCMP couldn’t catch them.”

The fight ensues.

He’s back killing Gerries without thought or remorse. Without conscience. Listening to the bombs falling around him, another biker falls dead; the biker’s skull smashed into the bar. Bullets fly again in the dusk light of the trenches; a pool cue travels through the human body, digging a new trench of war.

He is hit.

He feels nothing but the warm sensation of her arms around him. His knife slices the throat of the fourth, silencing anything he could’ve said. There is a flash of a Gerry begging for his life and he plunges his bayonet down into the enemy for a quick death. Pulling his knife from the back of a biker’s skull, he falls back onto his stool like he had never left it. The whisky bottle is right there; he drains it as he listens to the cold winter wind sing his praise once again.

The cold winter wind is calling in his cell. The darkness slowly consuming him. The wind’s bitterness and anger gone once it moves through the crack of his window, but its voice remains. He doesn’t shiver or move, the warmth is slipping from him. He knows this; he feels this; his senses are too focused.

The hospital is bustling with activity. Racing through the halls, even through the RCMP blockade, to her side, there is no stopping him. When he falls by her bed, she doesn’t respond. His senses are dull.

He fights the RCMP, who tell him what they’ve found and who they suspect but can’t prove guilty. And as they leave, the doctor comes in to inform him that, “She miscarried due to trauma.” Out of everything he was told that day, he always remembers that clearly and he has never figured out why.

The day passes to night, no one has entered since the doctor left. Her hands are spotted black, frostbite covers more than thirty percent of her skin. Given her condition and the remoteness of the hospital, they don’t want to waste the bandages to cover every affected area. So the skin is rough and doesn’t feel like hers.

He places his head to her hands and prays. She taught him God, his faith shaken now but not gone. He asks God to relieve her of her pain, to give it to him so she can survive; he is still unsure if it has been answered.

After he kisses her hands, he whispers softly to her, “Tabitha, they say that before you die the most important events of your life are played out before your eyes, so that you can see what you’ve done. I hope you’re seeing only good things.”

The wind howls passed the window as her breath slips from her for the last time. The doctors rush in and the nurses pull him out of the way, but he knows. The wind is not howling; it is God taking her into his loving arms. He knows he will never wake up to her brown hair choking him again. He will never see that smile again. Never call her ‘that girl’ again.

The cold Saskatchewan winter wind howls through the crack of his window. He smiles her smile. His skin is stiff, rough, and not like his own. He feels the pain of his brother’s foot, the bullet in his missing kidney, and the rush of energy at a little girl’s scream. All that is left is to listen to that same Saskatchewan winter wind howl.