The Ice Sculpture

Daniel had walked little more than a mile from his caravan when he reached the snow-crowned marshes. He laboured across the covered land, bringing his knees up near his waist in order to make a small step forward. The snow tumbled in over the top of his boots and soaked his socks through to his skin. He fought to palm an opening through the clenched branches of brumal trees. Though stray twigs pierced through his gloves and spiked at his hands he proceeded and, eventually, reached the fishing ponds. The dark bark of the surrounding trees was brushed with the gentle frost’s glitter.

“Beautiful,” he uttered, his breath a gasp of vapour.

The ponds froze solid during winter and remained safe to stand upon. But, at the brim of the water and hidden, slightly, in the white of the snow were pink and purple dashes of sprouting wood violets; a suggestion that spring was quickly approaching, and it wouldn’t be safe to stand on the ice for much longer.

He stepped forward onto the edge of the frozen water which crunched beneath his feet. Stray frost flakes dusted under his weight. Daniel knew the frozen water was as sturdy as ground but tread mindfully. Once, he would have held his wife’s hand tight as they stepped onto the frozen water, baring their teeth and forcing their eyes closed, both praying their feet wouldn’t force through the ice. They joked that they’d end up encased in man-sized ice-cubes, frozen, but still blinking.

Now, for the first time in 20 years, Daniel had come to the ponds alone. As a 14-year-old, he would bring his father’s metal detector for company. Spending hours crossing the ponds, he would sway the metal detector over every frozen inch, in hope of finding trinkets lost to the water’s depth and darkness. Drowned tractors, perhaps? Or priceless treasures? He never did find anything. But once he met Carla that no longer mattered. He swapped the metal detector for a flask of wine and a picnic set and, late March each year, they would come to watch the early sunset. It would sink behind the rising fog, changing the atmosphere from white to pale red as winter waned. "It’s the best seat in the house," he had told her, "the most perfect view in Wisconsin."

He took a slow step forward with his right foot, then another step. He continued to tread into the centre of the pond where he unrolled the thick picnic blanket he had carried with him. He unfurled the blanket into the air and it rolled like waves before he smoothed it flat along the ice with his hands, along which side he placed down his oil lamp. He sat down and crossed his legs. From his deep, fleece-lined pocket he drew out a flask and opened it. He knocked back his brandy. The liquor crawled down his throat and warmed the pit of his stomach. He sucked at his top lip where some flavour still lingered.

Daniel looked up at the sky, waiting on the sunset. The sky changed from a blank vanilla-coloured canvas and gradually darkened until it burst into life with a burnt-paper orange. Sky singed black where it met the horizon and the blazing tangerine-sun gave up its light as it was drowned by darkness. It was freezing on the airless plain, well below zero. He wasn’t cold; he wore plenty of layers and was wrapped up in a sleeping bag. The only source of light came from the moon and his little oil-lamp. The lamp’s tender lick of flame reflected off the white pond. As if it were a crystal ball, Daniel shaped his hands around the round glow the flame provided. Daniel lay down and pulled his sleeping bag up to his chin, clutching it at his jaw. The oil in his lamp burned away, the flame died. He closed his eyes and slept.

It was the early morning but the day was already blinding as bright sunlight reflected off the snow that still covered the grounds and Daniel’s bleached skin. Daniel strolled around the trees looking for some dry branches, anything that would burn. Once he had all he could carry, he dumped the wood in the centre of the pond then hurried out onto the fields again.

Later, when he returned more fuel to the pond he glanced up ahead of him. He saw a young boy, around 12-years-old, standing a few yards in front of him.

“Hey there, mister,” the young boy shouted. His long brown hair cushioned the sides of his face underneath his hat, but his nose poked out and was red from cold.

“Hey,” replied Daniel.

“You building a fire?” The boy sniffed. He took an inquisitive step forwards. Daniel nodded as he organised the firewood he had collected.

“We come here to camp sometimes, but we don’t usually light fires on the ice.”

Daniel laughed and wiped a drip from his nose. “No, it ain’t usual,” he replied, “but I got my reasons.”

The boy scanned his eyes across Daniel’s provisions. “But why are you sleeping on the ice, mister?”

“Well it won’t soak you like the snow,” he smiled, “and at night you can catch the sunset-”

“You can see the sun setting from daddy’s bedroom window.”

“Maybe, but I’ll tell you. This is the place you want to be sitting when that big old sun takes its dive behind that Wisconsin fog we tend to get around this time of year. Up above the trees and the old barn you can see over in the distance. I used to come here with my wife each year. This is the best seat in the house for that, kid. The most perfect view in Wisconsin.”

Daniel continued to lay out his wood to burn, and the boy watched on. Soon Daniel sat back down amongst his belongings, the firewood prepared in front of him. He looked up at the boy and their eyes made contact.

“Where’s your wife now?”

Daniel didn’t answer. He snapped a thin tree branch between his fingers and threw it upon the rest of the pile. He swiped at his face, as though he was brushing his hair out of his eyes, even though he was balding beneath his woollen hat. The boy narrowed his eyes, took two steps towards Daniel.

“Don’t move any closer,” snapped Daniel. “Get lost, kid. I gotta lot of things to be doing.”

For a few moments, Daniel and the boy stared each other down. The boy’s glare broke first. He looked down and kicked at a sodden stick. Daniel turned his back and started cracking open the glass dome of his oil lamp, and muttered under his breath.

“Good luck, mister,” the boy turned and tumbled through the snowy marshes.

It began to grow dark. Daniel struggled to light the firewood with his oil lamp. Once he did, the flames crawled all over the wood, engulfing, until it was burning steady. Burning branches and dry leaves crackled away and Daniel stared down into the red and orange licks. Tears lingered in his eyes and then ran a course towards his lips. They stopped at the stubble on his cheek, flaked with dry skin. He wiped his face dry and thumbed his nose with his gloved hands, and then he drew his knees up to his chest and hugged his legs. His voice scratched his throat as he started to whisper a song. Water vapour floated like musical notes and merged with fire smoke.

“You may say I’m a dreamer, but I’m not the only one.”

Closing his eyes he could feel Carla’s breath on his neck and ear. He could hear her singing along with him until they lost their voices somewhere in the dark. Although he wasn’t cold, he began to shake. His mind spun as though he was drunk, and he had to gulp the air to sooth the burning sick taste in his throat.

The doctor beckoned Daniel to follow him as he left the caravan. Daniel followed him outside. The wind blew and slapped him in the face, slammed the front door closed behind him.

“I didn’t want to talk in front of Carla. We can’t risk upsetting her,” he said.

“What’s wrong with her? How long until she can start getting better?” begged Daniel.

“She has tuberculosis, Mr Tully. Possibly elevating to pneumonia, and this can be extremely dangerous for her, and you.” The doctor was blunt. His voice lowered to a whisper and he moved close to Daniel’s face.

“She needs treatment, and care. Without the proper treatment, Mr. Tully, she will die. Your caravan is too cold for her at the moment. The least you can do is get some heat in the room, just to keep her more comfortable –”

“We don’t have the money. I’m out of work. Carla’s too sick to work -”

“Then I suggest you find a job, Mr Tully. And I suggest you find one quickly.” The doctor turned, and with a regimental walk left Daniel’s caravan site.

“Wait. Please,” but Daniel didn’t have much else to add.

“It’s half 6. I have other people to tend to.” He continued to walk away but turned as he reached his car door. His eyebrows lowered.

“Please take my advice, Daniel. Get some money together and pay for some treatment. It’s the best for the pair of you.”

Daniel watched as the doctor drove away, leaving dust in the air behind him.

Carla coughed from inside the caravan. Daniel covered his ears and slumped down onto his knees, which stuck into the damp mud. He pulled his hood over his eyes and rubbed the backs of his arms.

Daniel felt himself drifting to sleep and jerked himself awake. He looked down at his watch, and it was past 7 already. He shook his head, and lightly slapped his cheek as he yawned. Standing, he dragged his knees out of the mud. His pants were dripping with dirt and rainwater. He batted off the muck with his hands, removed his filthy shoes. He stepped up into the caravan, stretching his back as he reached the entrance. Once inside he could see Carla fast asleep on the bed as he walked past to the bathroom. He pushed the door open slowly. Every latch and hinge creaked loudly in the caravan. The door jammed, halted only halfway open, as the tasseled rug caught on splinters underneath the roughly cut wood. Daniel pushed himself through the gap and into the room, glancing back at Carla to make sure he hadn’t disturbed her. She was still sleeping. As Daniel stretched out his leg and placed it down, something was warm and damp under his foot. He turned and looked down, and closed his eyes as he did. Lifted his foot off the floor, but his sock had absorbed enough for the warm, wet sensation to linger. Blood dripped from the sink, the taps, like they hadn’t been turned off all the way. The mirror was smeared and peppered with dark red and white phlegm, and the floor was covered with blood and vomit. With bare tip-toe prints on the cold, tile flooring. He took a deep breath and started the taps running, wiping the blood with a dirty towel he found in the corner of the room.

Daniel had hold of Carla’s sweaty, skinny hands as she shuddered in their bed. A dying glimmer from the Christmas tree lights barely sparkled back in her dull eyes. The light was pale on her gaunt face.

“You’re okay, baby,” grumbled Daniel. “Next holidays I’ll get us all we need. I’ll be working by then, I promise.”

“I know,” she smiled, “I don’t worry about those kinda things.” She grimaced as she tried to sit upright. Daniel’s heart jumped.

“And I’ll get back to nursing when I’m better and we won’t have to worry about this shit anymore.” She scratched at her arms where her skin was red and broken. Daniel covered her hands to stop her.

“Are we heading to the ponds come the New Year?” she asked. “I’ve been looking forward to it.”

Daniel smiled. “I wouldn’t miss it for all the money in the world,” he said, as he gave her hands a guilty squeeze.

Carla coughed and blood speckled across the beige bed sheets. She covered her mouth with her hand. Daniel pulled them away, which spread the blood thinly across her face. He dabbed her lips and chin with his handkerchief. Then put it back into his pocket.

Carla panted, struggling for a full lung.

“I think I need to get some more sleep,” she wheezed and turned her body over. Daniel sat at the side of the bed the whole night.

Daniel coughed and bolted awake and his eyes stung as smoke from the charred wood drifted across him. He sat up straight and looked down at where the fire had been left to burn. The ice around that area had largely melted and looked clear and thin. He dragged himself backwards. Standing up, he stretched his back and rolled his head from shoulder to shoulder, cracked his neck. His joints were stiff, frozen. His nose was blocked and red and raw. He sneezed into a handkerchief and cleared his throat. He spat on the grass at the brim of the pond. The snow had started to melt. The dashes of wood violets had now become rows of deep purple and pink.

Daniel shifted his feet carefully back to where he had slept, where the ice had become thinner. He took the time to pick away the bigger remains of burnt wood and threw them into a pile on the slush and grass. He picked up his blanket and straightened it out, placing it over the thin ice and warily sat down upon it. The ice creaked below him. He crossed his legs and wrapped his sleeping bag around his back. His skin felt pocked and blemished, clammy and sallow. His lips were sore, blotted with marks of dry blood were they had cracked and split. He glanced down into the ice, barely blinking at all until a strong gust of wind blew dust across his face and rocked him backwards. He steadied himself again. Below, the ice juddered. He felt himself lower, about half an inch. Then lower, as the ice creaked louder. Daniel pulled the sleeping bag from his back and tossed it to where he had thrown the burnt wood, along with his empty flask and oil lamp. He raised his head, glanced up at the blank, ageless sky and smiled. So still and battered by the cold, he looked like an ice sculpture. He breathed in and filled his lungs, held it for a moment then let it all out at once. He watched his hot breath toy with a gentle breeze. As the ice gave way he started to laugh. His body dipped into the black, freezing water. It seized him. It rushed at his skin and shattered in between his creases. The liquid tore through his clothes as though they were just paper. His snow-jacket became heavy as the water soaked through it, and anchored him down deeper into the pond. He didn’t fight it. He held his breath and kept his eyes open for as long as he could before they began to sting and everything became so dark he didn’t really know if they were still open or not. He screamed out bubbles of air that floated towards the surface. Water surged into his mouth, pulling at his teeth from the very nerve like pincers. He tried to close his mouth but his jaw felt broken, the bones shattered. His body twisted and compacted with the pain. His head flooded with a thousand migraines. A few seconds became hours with such torture, until, suddenly, it stopped. He couldn’t feel much of anything anymore, and he felt less as he sunk deeper. At the bottom of the pond, it all became so dark. Daniel transformed into the water, and the water transformed into him.