WINTER SUMMONS

Elias listens to the squeaking of snow beneath his feet, his labored breathing, and the wind howling through the black and barren trees.

His body aches. The cold stings his face and pierces his clothing, but his focus on reaching the end makes these feelings insignificant.

White flakes of snow cling to his beard and hair like ash.

The fallen bodies of the children, and less hearty litter the way, pointing him forward like icy blue guide stones.

A week earlier, he watched a group depart. The next day, another. All headed the same direction with inherent knowledge like migrating deer.

The tickling in his mind turns to an itch, then to a pressured grip.

Perhaps it is loneliness, or curiosity of where the others went, but Elias stops resisting, and finally lets the pull take him where it wills.

The days of reflecting on what he witnessed are gone, replaced only by the singular desire to move forward.

He slips, falls, and lands staring into the open, dead eyes of his neighbor Oliver. Elias pushes himself up, walks past the corpse of Oliver's wife Eleanor, and presses on.

The growing number of bodies lets Elias know he is close.

He finds his place among the circle of the dead and reverent pilgrims.

He fixes his eyes upon the watching, calling figure standing still as death at the center.

Elias collapses to his knees and raises his hands, remaining thus until he is frozen like a statue in holy adoration.