Light Snow on Christmas Eve

James shifted the reigns into his left hand and reached back absently into the darkness that hung over his wagon. In the years since his accident with the timber pile, his right shoulder always seemed to cramp up during long rides, and this trip had been especially rough; he had set out before first light, and it was now well past sunset as he negotiated the forest road home. Tomorrow was Christmas day and he had promised Marie, his wife, that she wouldn’t be alone in the morning. A smile crept to his lips. James hoped she was already in bed, but he knew she was probably asleep in the cushioned chair facing the door. He had her angelic features to look forward to, and it made the miles easier.

With a heavy sigh James returned his grip to the reigns. His gloves had once been warm, but the leather under his palms has worn thin; now the cold seeps in without pause, remorseless in its hunger. Reigns still in hand, he rubs his fingers into his grip, succeeding only at renewing the pinpricks of pain from half-frozen hands.

“I should’ve picked out a new pair of gloves in Northam,” he muttered. But then he wouldn’t have been able to afford the carefully wrapped gift behind him. The firewood he’d sold today had been worth just enough to afford a new dress for Marie. She’d diligently patched up her current rags for months; he couldn’t wait to see the light in her eyes when she opened it. She looked dazzling in everything, but that pink would bring out the warmth in her skin and make her all the more perfect.

“A woman like that deserves more than I can give her. Nearly two decades she’s waited for me with nary a complaint voiced. I can’t believe she’s mine to hold.” But there won’t be much holding to do if I’m not home soon, he thought, while his mind drifted back to their honeymoon on the coast.

“Should’ve bought those gloves,” the wind whispered back. He was dimly aware of the snow that had just begun to fall, but mentally he was far, far away.

Warmth poured from her like a wood stove; her fingers curled up into mine as a salty breeze swept through her lively brown curls. We were barefoot, walking across a deserted, sandy beach. Storm clouds raged far out at sea, frothy waves tore at the shore, but I barely noticed; I was lost in the ecstasy of her touch, in the taste of her lips, in the grace of her presence. Adrift, I didn’t notice the slick seaweed underfoot and barely registered when my legs flew out from under me. Hands never separating, she was quick to follow me down, landing with the grace of a beside me in the sand. Teeth, white like porcelain, reflected sunlight from far above while our laughter danced into the wind.

The beach stretched on for miles and miles; far in the distance, a lighthouse stood adamant on a jagged bluff which threatened all ships who passed by carelessly. My heartbeat fell into a rhythm with the pulse of the light, and hers into mine.

This beach was special, there was no better a place to celebrate the best day of our lives. Our families had taken us here as kids. Purely by chance, I saw her for the first time, all those years ago, holding a tidepool crab which wasn’t fast enough to escape. Even then, without a decade of experience in the world, I was blinded by her soul. There is goodness in the world, and she is all the proof I’ve ever needed. Our footprints in the sand follow the same path we’ve always walked; our bodies know the way forward.

As a lumberman I had no business wedding a pastor’s daughter. Especially one blessed with all the beauty in heaven. Her father didn’t find me worthy either, but he was a kind man who trusted his daughter’s judgement. If he knew my secret, that I didn’t particularly care for his God, that I visited church every Sunday to admire her radiance rather than the tacky brass cross which hung behind the altar, he’d be even less impressed.

Just hours before, we’d made our vows in front of that very same altar, in the church my wife had called home. Now, we walk hand-in-hand into a new future, our future.

I stop in my tracks and she lingers at the edge of my reach, our hands still intertwined.

“My love,” I coo, drawing her hips delicately to mine, “I worry even now that I’m not worthy of you. You are the sun; every morning you rise with a love so warm, so pure, that all I can do is smile in gratitude.”

“Oh shush,” she laughs into my chest, “the sun is nothing special without a world to warm. You are my sturdy mountain, my kind forest, my shifting sea. I’m lucky to love you.”

The newlyweds pull in closer, drunk in their love. Just as their lips meet, a shadow glides overhead, a barn owl, stoic and majestic.

“Strange,” James thinks. “you don’t see those this time of year,” but this too melted into the warmth of his personal sun.

Suddenly, a jolt rips James from his fantasy. At first all he sees is the thick layer of white powder which now enshrouds everything. He is dimly aware that his whole world is drooping to the right as his wagon shudders to a halt. His horse rears, frustrated.

Fat snowflakes are falling as he spins in his seat. The outline of his back, right wheel in the snow marks where it fell; a deep gouge in the road tore it off the axel as he passed over. God damn it if he’d only been paying closer attention. A wheel is challenging to replace even in normal conditions.

With fingers now completely numb, he clumsily ties the reigns to his coach and slips off the side. His fall is cushioned by snow now piled up to mid-calf. Startled, he takes a closer look at the stoic forest.

“It’s piled up this high, and its only just now starting to really come down.” His hushed words barely make it to the tree line, dampened as they are by the powder descending from heaven in great sheets. With great lumbering strides he makes for the back of the wagon. It’s a break he’s seen and fixed a hundred times, but he freezes in place. His mind wills him to go forward, but his body is paralyzed, rooted in place as a dark whispering begins to claw at his psyche.

“No, I can do this,” he forces out, just as the spark of life returns to his limbs. He makes for the wheel and drags it out from where it fell. Needles of pain rip into his fingers as he closes his hands around the chilled wood. “Aaaargh!” He cries, wincing against the shock as he pulls the wheel forth with a great effort. He marvels at how hard such a simple task was, but the fear is pushing him faster.

He braces his back against the side of the wagon. Feet firmly planted on packed snow and frozen ground, blood rushes into his legs as he pushes hard into the earth. The wagon shudders and lifts a few inches, but not nearly high enough to slide the wheel back into place. Lungs cry out for mercy, but he braces his body once more. Something pops in his shoulder; moisture gathers at the corners of his eyes. With a herculean, vein-popping effort accented by a great grunt, he pushes everything against the wagon, willing it to comply.

Slowly the frame inches up, higher and higher, until it is just level with the wheel. All he has to do now is reach out and slide it back into place. But as his fingertips graze the edge of the worn oak, his left foot catches on a patch of ice hidden under the snow. In a flash he is on his side, the wagon lurching down over him. James’s whole body cries out as a new cold fills every dip and pocket of his being. Sweat drips from his brow, disappearing into the embankment where it freezes almost instantly.

“Fuck,” he breathes, “I should’ve taken the fucking load out of the back first. Now I’ve not the strength to try again.”

His breath races as he lies there in the cold. Wildly his eyes dart amongst the trees, looking for a familiar sign, for any solution. Fear chills his heart as he realizes: this isn’t even the right road. He missed the turn a mile back.

The trees mock him silently as he tries to lurch to his feet; he only succeeds at banging his head against the bottom of the wagon. Darkness washes over his vision, and he collapses back down onto the cruel earth.

“No, no, no… please God. Not here, not all alone.”

Silence lies on its haunches like a predator waiting to strike.

Again, he tries to rise, this time carefully ducking out from under the useless petrified frame. His ears still ring, and his vision is swimming, but he lurches back to the front of the wagon. His digits have long since stopped responding to signals, but his shoddy knot does not hold as fumbles at the reigns. Romeo, his horse, stamps his feet in protest; the cold is no more a friend to him than it is to James.

A whisper escapes James’s frigid lips: “come on now, boy. We’ve got to be home for breakfast or mum will be mad.” If Romeo could see the wild grin now spreading over James’s face, he might be rather disturbed, but he follows on into the blizzard, grateful to be moving again. Man, and beast lumber forward, leaving behind the wagon, the gift, and two sets of footprints.

Time flows by unmonitored as James drags on, now entrenched nearly to his knees. Shadows dance at the edge of his vision; he whips his head to either side to see them, but they fade into the murk.

“SHOW YOURSELVES, YOU BASTARDS!” He wails into the void. Tears stream down his face now as a laugh rips from his chest. Still moving forward, his eyes close, just to rest for a moment.

“It can’t be much further, Romeo. No sir, I’d say we’re nearly there if I know anything at all.”

Darkness saturates his mind; it turns back to a beach somewhere to the east. Where exactly, he can’t quite remember, but he saw the most beautiful girl in the world there once. Someone he could love if she’d only give him the chance.

Her eyes, brown like the earth, pierce the veil strangling his thoughts. Her lips, warm and graceful, warm his face, just enough to melt the ice which encrusted his eyelids.

Startled, his eyes fly open. “Marie!” he cries out into the night. No sound answers his call: only the silent wingbeats of a barn owl overhead. James’s vision swings to follow it, lingering on its grace. It catches a draft and rises higher into the air, dodging the roof of a cabin as it vanishes into the canopy.

Wait, not just any cabin, James realizes. My cabin, my home. “Marie!” he cries again, this time with hope and trust.

With the last of his strength, he rushes forward, tearing through the piled snow towards the image of his wife’s face, now emblazoned in his vision. He is before the door, a single candle flickers in the lantern overhead, casting his shadow far behind him. Both hands reach out and wrap around the frozen door handle.

All the warmth in the world fills his heart.