Tears by the Hearth

The howling winds sieged the windows and doors of the wooden chalet, but none of the men inside paid the elements any mind. They gathered by the roaring flames of the stone hearth, tending to a wounded man stretched out on a cot. At frequent intervals, one of the members of the party would depart from the group to fetch one thing or another and bring it back to the group. Besides the men’s hushed whispers, the cavernous room held a solemn silence. Only the cracking of the fire kept conversation with howling wind as if saying, ‘not now.’

At midnight there was a stir. One of the men quickly got up from where he sat on the floor to check on the man on the cot. By now, the injured man was fully bandaged, but did not move. His eyes were still closed. His breath shallow. 

“Did he speak?” called a man from the dark corner. 

The man, who had gotten up to check, shook his head. 

“Oh well,” muttered the man from the corner. 

The other returned to his perch on the floor and rested his head against the wooden wall and closed his eyes, falling immediately to sleep. 

A third man got up and moved to the window. The wind still blew heavily, tossing the snow like great blankets on top of a bed, layer by layer, until they formed high peaks in various places. The man by the window yawned and stretched. He looked like a lion with his great mane of dark auburn hair. He turned back to the hearth where the man on the cot lay. His eyes became moist at the sight of the man still frozen in slumber. With the back of his large hand, he wiped a stray tear from his face, turned, and took a seat in a chair at the side of the room. He sat facing the wall with a frown. On that wall hung a map of the region. A map that he had studied for over a year. Every ridge, valley, and couloir had become as familiar to him as if they had been a part of his being. Based on the terrain he knew that their expedition would have to be precise. Too early and there would not be enough snow. Too late and there would be a great risk of avalanches. It was with great patience that he and the crew waited. Every day he read the condition reports in preparation. He racked his mind to think what he could have done differently, but nothing came to mind. 

“John,” whispered a man with a thick Swedish accent. “Get some rest. I’ll look after him for you.”

John shook his head. 

“C’mon. You will not be able to change anything if you continue to punish yourself like this.”

John sighed. He rose to his feet. Every muscle in his body protested the movement. He followed his friend as he led him to the corner of the room where a sleeping bag had been arranged. John stripped down to his base layers and slid into the sleeping bag. He closed his eyes and gave into the fatigue, allowing his mind to drift. His fear about sleeping was realized. He now found himself on the mountain at the scene of the accident. 

White was all around them. They were skiing for their lives after witnessing a shelf of snow drop in the adjacent couloir. They had to move fast, but also wisely. The path they were forced to take down was known for nasty crevasses. No one spoke except to provide directional signals. John felt his palms damp within his gloves. His heart beat so loudly that it felt like his pulse was banging his head against his helmet. In all this strain, he held his breath, making his head hurt more. He reminded himself to relax his grip on his poles and take a deep breath; soon they would be out of the worst part, or so he had believed. It was a that moment that his brother had fallen in. 

“Ahhh!” cried Shane. 

He was there and then vanished beneath the white. 

With caution, the other men in the party skied to where their fallen teammate had vanished, coming to a stop a short distance from the crevasse. They called out to Shane but he did not say anything. John immediately wanted to jump in and rescue his brother, but he knew such drastic maneuvers could put the whole party in jeopardy. 

The band of men quickly worked together to perform the rescue maneuver with the dexterity of a professional crew. They were extremely worried when Shane did not answer any of their calls.

John awoke when he felt someone nudge him. He opened his eyes and quickly sat up.

“How is he?” he asked. 

“I think I saw him move.”

John leapt out of his sleeping bag, tripped, and fell into a chair. The others in the room looked his way, but did not laugh. John kicked off the sleeping bag tangled at his feet and moved to his brother lying on the cot. He did not see any difference in his brother and felt his heart shatter within him as he collapsed to the floor. 

He thought about how he would tell Maggie, Shane’s young wife and their two little boys. He lost control of himself and curled into a ball and tried to muffle the sounds of his weeping in his arms and knees. He pictured the wide-eyed stare of his nephews who would be fatherless. 

John straightened up when he heard a groan. He looked over his shoulder and saw it was his brother who had made a sound. He fought the urge to embrace his brother and instead took his brother’s free hand and pressed it to his lips. The fingers wiggled. 

Shane groaned again, this time opening his eyes. 

“Wh-where?”

“Shhh,” John said, motioning a finger over his lips. 

The other men in the room gathered around the cot and let out a uniform sigh of relief. 

“Wh-what haaaa-ppen’d?” asked Shane still struggling to find his speech. 

“Don’t worry about this now,” cried John, embracing his brother gently. “Just rest, and we can tell you all about it in the morning.”