A Hermit’s Cost

On the last day of Christmas, a cold blizzard plundered the warmth from within the air. A cabin in the woods stood alone, blinded and deafened in the twirling white limbo; it was a faded vestige of autumn. Piles of soggy fallen leaves still lay at its feet. Sticks of whitened charcoal cackle within the heath. A lone silhouette stood sipping beer at a broken window, which whistled a song of wind and snow through its cracks. The man was a lumberjack, a worn-down fellow with a big frame and hefty mane around the neck. This was his abode. 

This a late snowfall. On the last day, with festival-lovers praying for a miracle, a miracle did occur. It snowed in Christmas after all. He was not one of them. He had seen countless winters from those shattered glass panels. He had seen just as much winters end and for the rejuvenating breeze of the spring seasons to blow the snow away; for those fresh green shoots of the slender firs to seep from within the snow-white coats; for the deep emerald trees to bear fruit; for the evergreen to be green once more. But now a dreary white drowned that possible new life. 

Isaac ... was his name. He had not heard it muttered for so long that he felt discombobulated when he himself said it again. The woods were normally ghost-quiet. He was a stranger to sound. Of course, there was the casual cooing of Mother Night, ready to spread her wings for a hunt in the night; there were the soft footsteps of the Winter Magician, burrowing into the warren with his luxurious fur coat. But he, a human, was all alone. And as much as he’d like to embrace the wild, they didn’t embrace him. That was why he talked to the trees. 

He remembered every one of them. After all, that was all his job dealt with – trees. Yet, he doesn’t like to think of himself as a “Cutter of Trees”. He was a protector of the forest. He planted more trees than he cut. The tall spruce, Emily, sat to the West. The sprouting fir he planted last spring to the East, Adam, overlooking the town below the hill. He sighed and slumped into his handmade sofa chair. From his wooden coffee table, he took a picture frame. Gentle he caressed the portrait and rubbed his eyes. He turned his glance towards the window, realizing that he could only see one of the trees at once. 

“What was I thinking?” He turned his attention back to the photograph. “Wish you were here...” He closed his eyes and imagined that the warmth that engulfed him was arms, slowly tightening their passionate embrace. At this moment, the cabin was not only sanctuary. It was home. He stared outside the window and wondered how much it was snowing. He wondered whether he could clamber down the hill, wander the streets to find that most festive-looking house, and knock on the door looking more “father” than hobo. 

He quickly dismissed the thought, for something else on the coffee table grasped his gaze. It was a pile of orderly paper tainted with the scarlet red stamp of the lumber company. He had forgotten that it was there. Normally, things were hard to locate within the cabin. Paperwork of sorts were buried under the various indistinguishable trinkets, tools, and empty beer cans. He was sure that there was a time when he was pulling his hair off trying to find this particular object. Today, it enraged him. 

He remembered the way the imperious man talked to him about it. “The company is not in need of individualized manual labor once the transition to automation has been accomplished. To be quite frank, you have had several delays in scheduled deliver.” He tried not to glower but found himself uncontrollably twitching his upper lip. It was simply unbearable. It made no sense. He was minding his very own business, yet here they are disrupting his way of life.  

Their following proposal was even more outrageous. “Though, in the season of Christmas, we do have a very generous offer. We do know that you have a fine piece of land in the woods. It had been stagnated there for quite a long time. The company offers to buy it for a large sum, which would be more than enough to buy quite a high-end house in the city, Mr. Walker.” 

And when Isaac squeezed out the words “I’ll think about it”, the man had the audacity to say, “Consider yourself lucky.” 

How! He was just fired from his job. But in no world would he sell his forest. He found himself tightly gripping the picture frame. He sipped his can of beer. These woods were his livelihood, he thought, not some know-it-all officer at the top of the corporal ladder. He thought about cutting down a few firs and dragging them down to the local market. 

The winter wind sang its song of melancholy. The frozen snow preserved the land in ethereal beauty. Something felt comforting before in this cabin. With the tingling smell of smoked logs and warmth, it isolated him from the cruel cold. Yet now it felt like a cage. He drank and anguished over insignificant things. Now, there was a fox who posed herself outside his shattered window. Through the branched cracks and the several snowflakes that sat on the window, her orange fur bloomed like an iris. He longed to run outside like the fox. He gave a side glance at the contract and tossed it into the heath.  

He slowly shed his clothes, like how a snake sheds its skin. First his hand-knitted jacket, then the sweater, until he is fully exposed to the elements. The cold wind that leaked through the door enveloped his skin. Then he swung open the wooden door and walked, bare foot, out into the open. 

The snow was like silk. Slowly, he lay down face first. He sunk into it like a soft mattress. The cold permeated his body, bringing its freshness and clearing his mind. It was a relief of sensations. He could feel each individual flake amongst the sea of white. He could hear the whistling wind and the crunching snow. His eyes slowly closed. All he felt was the snow against his skin. There the man lied in the snow motionless, one with the rest of the world, one with nature. The world was silent once more. The man had disappeared beneath the piles of snow. 

 He rose up from within the pile of snow, skin red from its scorch. He shook off the flakes that had infested his hair and beard, looked around just to make sure there was no one watching, and stumbled back into the house. The trees weren't going to chop themselves. The cogs don't cough nor does the steel gruntle, he must get on working. 

He got dressed and dragged out his dull axe. He looked around for which firs were the right to put down. Then he decided that selling one would be enough. He wandered around the woods, staring at each tree indecisively. His footsteps got faster until he was basically running around between tree and tree. He stopped a 5-foot fir that was as straight as a wooden pole. He swung the axe towards its trunk. However, it slowed down near the end of the swing when it just barely touched the tree bark. He stared at the point of contact. It had made a dent in the tree's exterior. He dropped the axe and collapsed onto the ground. He just couldn't do it.  

On the way back, he went to visit Emily. He stood under the cyclopean spruce that towered into the sky. Staring up, the snow trickled into his eyes. "So, how are you doing up there?" There was a silence that lingered in the air. He just stared up the tree and thought still driving downhill just to see what the town looked like. He had no trees to sell, but what's stopping him? 

A nudge was given to the sprouting fir as he got into his rusted pickup truck. Its engine gasped for air and coughed steam into the air. The burgundy paint was peeling from its sides. Yet, it still drove fine, rolling down onto the streets. He first went to the Christmas market, which was filled with much people and their families. Toddlers were riding around the various fake reindeer; families were picking out souvenirs to make the festive steam last a little longer; friends were exploring antique shops run by interestingly eccentric owners. The market was lit with colorful light that stung his eyes. He wanted to pick out something but couldn't find the place to start. It seemed foreign to him.  

He decided to stop by the housing district. His eyes were glued to each house as he drove down the street. They all looked the same to him. He couldn't believe it. He drove along the street again. This time he was slower, taking his time to examine each house. Then, he found it. 

The exterior was painted a pristine white. Warm light seeped outside the huge living room window. There, sat upon a red checkered coach was a slim man in a turtleneck reading a book. The firelight reflected off of his face. He looked so much older, Isaac thought. Oddly enough, Isaac didn't remember how he looked like.  

The pickup panted continuously outside the house. Isaac observed the man, feeling guilty of an invasion of privacy, but trying to remember when he last saw him. He tried to convince himself this is what he looked like but, in truth, he didn't know. He stroked his beard, and for the first time, his fingers began to tremble. 

 He dragged his arm up to open the door, and his exhausted body walked up to the house door. He felt that his dirty boots tainted the white porch. He could feel his heart pounding faster and faster up his throat. Braving himself, he knocked on the door.  

He cleared his throat and adjusted the shirt. He waited anxiously for a few minutes and knocked on the door again. 

The door swung open. 

"Adam," the man looked back in confusion. 

"Who is this?"