A barren frost, flesh-tone. The eastern woods of Ontario. Branches of spruce pines. A soft midnight ban, thin across purple-tipped mountains. A wounded coyote beneath a bone-white birch. There was a blood trail\u2014paw prints in snow, over fallen logs, weaving close-knit around young hemlock\u2014but no signs of pursuit. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
Carl Burke, gray and thinning hair, old eyes splintered with flecks of green, dropped to his knees and knelt before the animal. He searched for a pulse, but he couldn\u2019t feel his hands. No\u2014he could not sense<\/em> his hands\u2014and when did they become his father\u2019s? Pained and arthritic. He blew into them, rubbed them together then locked his fingers into the icy and matted fur. Spacing between the rib bones. <\/p>\n\n\n\n He let out an exhaustive gasp, bowed his head, and then lifted the animal up over his shoulders. The coyote, tongue dry and charcoaled, maybe malnourished seemed remarkably light. <\/p>\n\n\n\n It was getting late. He walked out of the forest, past the birches and drifts of soft snow. He thought that she would have been pleased with him, and though she was not with him, he felt her presence. Above the treetops the sky deepened to blues, magentas, and reds, and above the winter\u2019s sunset, thick and grey, shinned the crest of a full moon. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Yet, he still felt the loss, some meaningful purpose that\u2019d somehow slipped through his hands. Like trying to grab hold of a trout plucked from the icy waters. <\/p>\n\n\n\n A pair of white beams suddenly appeared, lighting up a row of petrified birches. Carl sat the animal down roadside. Icy blood blackened his coat. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Headlights still on, the door squealed open. Nile, the town\u2019s postmaster, got out. His face puckered in the cold. \u201cBagged you one, eh?\u201d he said. He was wearing his official parka. Thick fur collar, squared shoulders, and atop his head, a turban-like fur cap; flaps down. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHunters,\u201d Carl said, then looked down at the coyote\u2019s large, spherical eyes staring up. \u201cI\u2019d heard the shot.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cProbably just some kids,\u201d Nile remarked. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou think kids?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n Nile nodded. \u201cIt\u2019s practically becoming a winter sport around here.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n Carl crouched down and studied the fatal wound caught in the headlights. Was that what killing an animal was about? Something to do? He put his finger in the wound were the bullet entered. \u201cI was out,\u201d he repeated to Nile. \u201cAnd heard a shot.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n It started to lightly snow. Carl, looking up at the night sky then back at Nile, said, \u201cI want to give it a proper burial.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n Nile looked at Carl like Carl was crazy. \u201cJesus,\u201d Nile said, \u201cThe ground is practically frozen solid,\u201d then, swiveling his head around, said, \u201cListen, I got a shovel in the back.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n Nile hustle over to his truck, disappearing behind the beams. He returned with a short-handled shovel, and even produced a pickaxe. \u201cWe can first break up the ice with this,\u201d Nile said, holding the pickaxe up and waving it like a dagger. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Carl took the shovel. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhere\u2019re you thinking of bury it?\u201d Nile asked. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Walking several paces back towards the woods, Carl pointed between two prefect aspens. \u201cHere I suppose.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n Together they started hacking through the ice and snow, and when cleared, Carl dug a grave deep enough to keep the scavengers away. He then lowered the coyote, turning it onto its side before refilling the hole. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Nile stretched his lower back, and smiling a tobacco-stained smile, said, \u201cWords, eh?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n Carl paused for a moment. He looked down at the makeshift grave, not saying nor thinking a thing. He\u2019d never prayed, never, not in his entire life, and even now, heartfelt words defeated him like a foe. <\/p>\n\n\n\n After the awkward moment past, Nile tossed the pickaxe onto the floor of the front seat. He then asked Carl if he wanted a lift back to town. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Carl accepted, but said, \u201cIf you don\u2019t mind, could you take me back to my cabin.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYour cabin?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI\u2019ve been staying there lately.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou got it.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n Driving, Nile tapped his finger on the steering wheel in cadence of holiday music still playing on the radio. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Carl looked out his side window. Snowflakes falling windless. Hardwoods stripped of their leaves. White as elk-bone. A full moon, round and paling beneath a forested sky as if on the prowl for something\u2014something more than prey, more than the sustenance that belies the hunger\u2014something that carries long past the empty winters and frozen peaks. <\/p>\n\n\n\n __ <\/p>\n\n\n\n He\u2019d first met her two winters ago, breaking into his cabin. Two Sisters Lake, a glacial lake forever separated, yet forever joined by a small hump island, where deer, beavers, muskrat, porcupines, and, of course, coyotes parade its shores was where Carl kept a cabin. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Normally, he\u2019d spend the winters in town, holed up in his apartment. But that winter, when he\u2019d checked on his lake cabin, he came down with a sudden fever. Spending the night, he was wakened by the sound of someone breaking in. An intruder stood inside his cabin, peeling off a red and fur-hooded parka, and Carl not sure what to say, watched as long, jet-black hair billowed from beneath the hood. A clay-tone but shapely face of a woman appeared. <\/p>\n\n\n\n From behind his bedroom door, he watched her hang her parka on a wooden peg. A bowie knife strapped to her side, she carried a bundle of sticks to the stove, and looked straight at him. Her dark, rounded eyes, saturated in thought, did she really see him? Did he really her? His head ached, vision blurred. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWho are you?\u201d he asked, peering out. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cMy mothers were Algonquin,\u201d she said, opening the stove. \u201cP<\/em>lace of spearing fish<\/em>.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhy are you breaking in?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cKeeping warm,\u201d she replied, then struck a match. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cBut my cabin?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI told you.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhat on earth\u2014\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou hungry?\u201d she asked, lighting the kindling. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cBut I don\u2019t understand.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou\u2019re never here,\u201d she remarked, \u201cand I don\u2019t want to be out in the cold. Hungry?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHave I seen you before?\u201d He then rubbed his eyes, cinching his brow. She was younger than him, maybe by twenty, thirty years, and her eyes were less intense than he\u2019d first noticed\u2014rounder, browner\u2014yet still, a look of an intruder. \u201cIf you\u2019ve stayed my cabin,\u201d he said as if reasoning aloud, \u201cThen you should at least tell me your name.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n She walked over to the sofa, picked up a paperback, and sunk into the leather cushions. \u201cLena,\u201d she replied. <\/p>\n\n\n\n He came out from behind the door. She was moistening the tip of her finger on her tongue. Her hands and arms were strong, showing immense strength just in turning a page. He looked away, then back again. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhere are you from?\u201d he asked. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cCobden.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThat\u2019s far from here.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI work the timber in the spring and summer.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHere?\u201d he asked in a temperate tone. \u201cYou\u2019re a logger here?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cA bucker, you know a bucker?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cChrist sakes, yes.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n Feeling woozy, he could barely stand. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cAre you okay?\u201d she asked, looking over her shoulder. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cNo.\u201d He retreated back to bed. <\/p>\n\n\n\n That evening, standing at the foot of his bed, she held up a mug. \u201cHere drink this,\u201d she said. <\/p>\n\n\n\n He felt so sick he could barely lift his head off the pillow. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cIs this broth?\u201d he asked, trying to sip. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cTea.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhat the hell?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cSome call it Sweet Flag,\u201d she said. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhat do your people call it?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n She shrugged. \u201cTea.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n He could taste the lemony calamus root in his mouth. Then something else. Something bitter he could not identify. \u201cIt\u2019s not poison, is it?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n That night he had a dream: The cabin door flung opened with a sudden breeze; the lamplight flickered; and in a fury, a whitetail doe bolted in. She was as deathly afraid of him as he of her\u2014her huge black eyes caught him square, showing immense fear\u2014and before the deer escaped, it\u2019d kicked the lantern, spilling the oil, igniting a fire, startling Carl, waking him from his dream, shouting. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Next morning, she was still there. She\u2019d made him tea and standing at his bookshelves, she said, \u201cYou have no photos of family. Your father, your mother?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThey\u2019re cherished.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n She examined the rows of books, and said, \u201cBut you read plenty.\u201d On the spines were the names of Whitman, Longfellow, O. Henry, Lowell, Frost, Thoreau, Keats, Arnold, Joyce . . . \u201cThey are all chiefs,\u201d she said, \u201cGreat White Chiefs.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cAre you insinuating?\u201d he asked, cradling the mug of medicinal tea. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cSo which one is your favorite?\u201d she asked, then held her hand up. \u201cWait, don\u2019t tell me,\u201d and pulled out a book. \u201cThis one, right?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n Archibald Lampman. \u201cHow?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI know much about you,\u201d she replied, and glanced at another book lying flat. It was Carl\u2019s one-and-only published book of poems. <\/p>\n\n\n\n He felt no more compelled to argue than to stop drinking the tea. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cDo you know him?\u201d she asked, \u201cIs he alive or dead?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n He lowered the mug. \u201cDeceased for about a hundred years\u2014\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhat animal is he?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n He sat the mug down. \u201cWhat are you taking about?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cSomeone like a great poet,\u201d she imagined aloud, \u201cmust be a moose or mountain lion, a bear maybe. Don\u2019t you think?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhat would you know?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI\u2019m just saying.\u201d She browsed further. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI\u2019m not sure,\u201d Carl, muttered softly, distracted by the potency of the tea. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cAbout?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cArchibald.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cDo you want to know?\u201d she asked. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cNo,\u201d he hissed. <\/p>\n\n\n\n She went on, saying that a great poet expects importance in the wishes he writes. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cVerses,\u201d Carl quickly corrected. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWishes,\u201d she insisted. \u201cThey all write about their wishes \u2026 All great poets know what they wish for.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cMaybe, but\u2026\u201d Carl was losing his train of thought. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhat did Archibald wish for?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI\u2019m not really sure.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cTry.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI\u2019m not playing.\u201d His mind raced. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou\u2019re a poet, Carl; you should.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI don\u2019t.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou must.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cDammit, I told you I don\u2019t play games.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cOkay.\u201d She appeared unfazed by his rudeness, and pulling a woolen throw up over her shoulders, said, \u201cBut you\u2019ll know one day.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhat?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhat you wish for.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n He sat there tight lipped. He recalled, during the summer months, people, mostly visiting Americans, tossing coins, medallions, brooches, or the sparkling quartz stones they\u2019d purchase from the Merck into the shallow river that\u2019d flowed gently through the middle of town. From the bridge, they\u2019d watch their good-fortuned trinket sink to the bottom as if weighted by burden. Carl once saw a set of car keys lying at the bottom. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhat is it,\u201d he muttered, \u201cYou have a gift or something?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThe tea must be making you feel better,\u201d she said. <\/p>\n\n\n\n He asked for more. The tea had indeed made him feel better, even breaking his fever. The earthy bitterness was homeopathic and tasted as if tasting the bitter truth. He wondered, though, if all poets who\u2019d come before him, and those who\u2019d follow, knew what they\u2019d wished for. It\u2019s bloody preposterous, he said to himself, sipping. <\/p>\n\n\n\n She took the tea from him. \u201cI\u2019ll wash your hair,\u201d she said, leading him by the elbow. He was compliant, weak, thin. <\/p>\n\n\n\n At the vanity, she cupped her hands with the warm water, soaking his hair. Her breasts swelled beneath her yellow tee-shirt as she massaged the shampoo into his scalp. He felt a different kind of fever\u2014the sudden and warm rush\u2014and when she finished, seeing his round porcelain skull in the mirror, for the first time in his life, he was embarrassed of his age. After she rinsed, she draped a towel over his head, and from beneath, he said, \u201cI have to go into town to do some business.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n She pulled the towel off his head. \u201cWhat do you do?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI\u2019m a rent collector,\u201d he said with some remorse. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThat makes you a landlord.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou can say that,\u201d he then explained that all the properties were left to him by his father. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHe must make you proud.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHe made me a living.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n She paused. \u201cAre you hungry?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI\u2019ll get something while in town.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI\u2019ll make you something here.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou don\u2019t have too.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n Carl finished drying his hair and got dressed. His father died nearly thirty-eight years ago, when Carl, in college, had just completed his first and only collection of poems, which the Ontario Press published. His father had built the cabin, losing a finger hand-hewing logs, and bequeathed to Carl, not only the cabin, but all the old buildings he\u2019d owned in town, which, after his father\u2019s death, turned out to be more of a burden than grace. He was once close to his father, and to the day, he regretted ever writing the book. The inspiration that came and went. Lena made him a plate of hash from a can decorated with peas. After he\u2019d taken a bite, he looked up with a smile. \u201cI apologize,\u201d he said, \u201cfor my earlier rudeness.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n She looked at him. \u201cDo you know what animal you wish to be?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n He thought about it but felt that he\u2019d make the wrong choice\u2014as if a Great Spirit was eavesdropping. \u201cNo,\u201d he said trembling inside. Then asked, \u201cWhat animal are you?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cA salmon,\u201d she quickly replied. <\/p>\n\n\n\n He was taken aback and then he saw words float by: Leap, contort, swag in a silent rage of mercy,<\/em> and though the words confused him, they\u2019d taken him back to the river that ran through the middle of town. A young boy, he and his father would stand at its shore and look down at the rapids that\u2019d raced over the smooth stones and crashed against the larger of rocks. Shimmering green trout jumped the whitecaps. Flip of their tailfins as curtains of spray would hit his face like tears of joy. It was his father\u2019s idea to turn the gristmill across the river into a tourist attraction, filled with novelty stores and bakeries and ice cream parlors. So, he convinced the town they should dam the river to lower the water level, quell its rapids, and build a footbridge. The rapids, the fish, the time he\u2019d spent as a boy with his father, were suddenly gone. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Carl could still hear the roar, a roar so ferocious that it trembled the heavy stones. Then, while Lena slept, he touched the tip of his pencil to his tongue, and began to write, because, in his head, instead of hearing the deafening silence, there was this roar. More like a thrumming beat. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Just after the New Year\u2019s, she told him that she would soon have to leave, which made him both surprised and confused. A couple of weeks later, end of February, she started packing. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Carl bristled. \u201cHeavens, why are you running?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI don\u2019t run,\u201d she said, stuffing a duffle bag with the last folded sweater. \u201cBut I must go.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThen you\u2019ll be back?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI never know.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n She then strapped the duffel over her shoulder. He did not try to stop her, and she left just as she\u2019d first entered, quietly, like an intruder, a ghost. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Being alone for the rest of the winter gave him time to think and read. He read poems from Nerval and Milton, and with the help of the tea, began to meditate, realizing that his love was transcending, and his mind started churning, crafting poetry, and he knew that things would not be the same\u2014forces were at play\u2014and into the spring, the air was thinner, the squawks of warblers returning to the lake louder, the rat-a-tat-tats of the pileated woodpecker brasher, harmonics he\u2019d never witnessed before, and the leaves of the forest, greener, lusher, that\u2019d carried him all the way through fall and into winter. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Plagued with heavy snow and high drifts, that winter had raised his doubts, but when she entered the cabin, removing her red parka, hooking it on the peg, he immediately rushed to her side, taking her duffle. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Long black hair, dark eyes, and a worn smile on her face, seeing her again, he realized that he\u2019d fallen in love. It felt new and uneasy in bed together for the first time. Her head on his shoulder. Her round, terracotta breasts flattened against the grey hairs of his chest. He felt adolescent. <\/p>\n\n\n\n That night, she laid with him in bed, the orange fragrance of her hair nearly set him on fire. He said, \u201cI am writing again.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cIs it good?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI don\u2019t know.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n She lifted her head. \u201cYou want me to read it.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou can\u2019t. I mean, I\u2019m not finished.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhy are you so scared?\u201d she asked. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cScared?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI hear it in your heart.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI\u2019m not scared.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cIt\u2019s good to be scared,\u201d she said, sitting up. \u201cAnimals are always scared. That\u2019s how they survive.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThat\u2019s preposterous.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou\u2019ve love someone before,\u201d she stated, not asked. <\/p>\n\n\n\n He said nothing. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYour poems tell as much.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n He shook his head. His heart was, indeed, racing. He knew that poems revealed too much of oneself \u201cThere\u2019s no secret,\u201d he countered, \u201cYou don\u2019t have to be a bloody poet.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n He\u2019d waited for this most his life. But he waited in dread. He first met her back in 1978, in Montr\u00e9al, at the University. Carl, a senior, studied English, and she, a junior who studied French Literature. Her name was Marissa. Not a pretty girl. Yet, like Lena, there was something to her beauty that\u2019d captivated him, but unlike Lena, she had tarnished red hair, curls cut short, and green eyes. She was impressionable, and yet, her lovemaking was as passionate as it was quixotic. One evening, up in his tiny apartment on the second floor of an old building fronting, Place Jean-Paul Riopelle, one twin bed of white oak planks and a feathered mattress, after they made love, he got out of bed and sat at his desk to write. At first it was unnerving for him to stare at Marissa\u2019s nakedness: curled on her side, fetal-like with her back to him\u2014soiled pads of feet, a rippled spine dividing her heart-shaped back<\/em>\u2014and he better angled his chair towards her. <\/p>\n\n\n\n For months afterwards he wrote and wrote, and found himself lost in his work, not realizing how much time he\u2019d spent, until one day, he\u2019d looked up and she was gone. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Lena was different, and thirty-eight years was a long time to have never loved another woman. Yes, he was frightened, yes, his fear was his survival, but passively he repeated, over and over, \u201cI\u2019m not scared.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n Lena got out of bed covering herself with a blanket. Something told him that she was upset. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhat\u2019s wrong?\u201d he asked. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cNothing,\u201d she said, leaving the bedroom. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Christmas was just a few days away and he wasn\u2019t sure if he should say something. Like, Merry Christmas. Or happy Boxer Day. Or maybe he should just say nothing. Get her a gift instead. A sweater or new pair of gloves. Maybe. He then asked her if she would like to go into town. He didn\u2019t mention shopping for a gift. That would be a surprised. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cNo,\u201d she said, and curled up on the sofa. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHave you seen the town?\u201d he asked. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cNo.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cDon\u2019t you want to?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n He did not push further and wondered if he should even be seen with her. Not that it\u2019d matter to anyone. He was of little conversation. <\/p>\n\n\n\n The winter days, the cabin was cold, but Lena would run barefoot, wearing nothing but a men\u2019s flannel shirt past her naked bottom. In the evenings, she would wrap herself in a wool blanket and read next to a lamp with a rawhide shade that emitted a weak and caramel light. Carl worked on his poems, and often, would glance up towards the window. The dark glass mirrored only dark calm, and for some reason, he\u2019d never felt the poems were right. But why? Was it because he did not know what he wished for? \u201cI\u2019ll let you read it soon,\u201d he once said to her, and when she did not respond, he realized that he\u2019d only thought it. <\/p>\n\n\n\n On Christmas morning, when Carl woke, Lena was already up and out. He shaved, rubbed Bag Balm on his feet and hands, and dressed in a grey turtleneck sweater. He lit the stove and waited in his armchair for her return. Between his fingers he held a pearl bracelet. It was made of pearls from freshwater mussels. Maybe from Lake Simcoe or the North Bay. But it was a delicate strand that\u2019d instantly changed his image of her sawing branches off thirty-inch diameter trunks with a chainsaw or log jack. <\/p>\n\n\n\n His poems were finished, and he was anxious for her to read them. He remembered an Archibald Lampman poem, January<\/em> Morning<\/em>, \u201cThe glittering roofs are still with frost,\u201d and for as long as he could, he listened to the morning light strip leafless branches, reaching the cold, colorless ground. He felt it himself. The melting snow running down his body. It\u2019d been awhile, he now wondered where she\u2019d run off too. <\/p>\n\n\n\n He went outside looking for her. He heard his name called out down by the lake. He quickly descended the stairs to the dock. The morning air pulled taut on his freshly shaven face, and Lena, on the ice, was holding a small bucket. He waved her back to shore. \u201cWhat are you doing out there?\u201d he cried. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI was fishing.\u201d She held up a bucket of lake trout, and then asked, \u201cSomething wrong?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cNo,\u201d he said, panting out of breath. \u201cIt\u2019s too cold to be out so long.\u201d He couldn\u2019t answer with the truth, no more than reveal the fear in his heart. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cDid you light the stove?\u201d she asked, stepping through the snow back towards the dock. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYes,\u201d he replied, following. \u201cThe cabin is warm.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cGood,\u201d she said, then she looked back, maybe back at lake or maybe she heard something he hadn\u2019t. <\/p>\n\n\n\n He wanted her to tell her, right then, what he was scared of. Instead, he took the pail of fish from her and carried back to the cabin. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Inside, he watched by the window her outside, gutting and cleaning the fish. She tossed the gutted fish in a bucket of water and cleaned her knife in the same water. She then scattered the inners among the trees and using her knife, buried the bones. He found it odd, what appeared, her praying. As she headed back, he quickly dashed to the kitchen table and sat, pretending to be writing. <\/p>\n\n\n\n She boiled the fish she\u2019d caught earlier and made a casserole with corn meal and bake beans, which he\u2019d stocked plenty. His thoughts had reached a far, unsettling place, and he couldn\u2019t stop thinking what if she\u2019d fallen in. He pushed the thought away when she came to the table. <\/p>\n\n\n\n They ate in silence. Carl didn\u2019t know what to say or think that evening, much less feel. She too was remarkably quiet. He finally said what was on his mind. \u201cYou should have told me where you ran off too.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n She looked up from her plate. \u201cWhat are you talking about?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI\u2019m saying that you could have fallen in.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n She tucked a fallen strand of hair back behind her ear. \u201cIs that what you fear?\u201d she asked. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cIt\u2019s what I know. I know that lake. I grew up with that lake.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhy are you so upset?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n He raised his voice. \u201cI\u2019m not upset, dammit.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n She looked away as if she felt embarrassed for him. Carl sat there, drinking tea while Lena cleared the table and washed the plates. He was not sure how he could live with this one-sided affair. He then reminded himself that she was three decades younger than him. She was never meant for him. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Finally, he apologized and said that he wouldn\u2019t know what he\u2019d do if he lost her. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Lena, finished in the kitchen, sat next to him. She looked upset. \u201cMen like you,\u201d she said, \u201cthink too much of themselves.\u201d She then said, \u201cYour world exists only by chance, which way the wind blows is the way you run.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cAre you talking about me?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n She looked hurt. \u201cThis isn\u2019t about me,\u201d she said. <\/p>\n\n\n\n He wanted to take his apology back. \u201cWhat is it you\u2019re scared of?\u201d he asked. <\/p>\n\n\n\n She wouldn\u2019t answer. <\/p>\n\n\n\n He then said, \u201cThere are winter camps for loggers,\u201d and leaning in closer, he whispered, \u201cWhy this place? My place.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n She looked at him teary eyed. \u201cI\u2019ve told you, Carl.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n The bracelet he wanted to give her remained in his pocket. <\/p>\n\n\n\n He leaned back, and without an argument, insisted that she make him more of the Sweet Flag tea. Lena, wiping her eyes, warned him that, if he kept it up, there wouldn\u2019t be much of the calamus root left for the remaining winter. Carl didn\u2019t seem to care. <\/p>\n\n\n\n That evening, he muttered that he\u2019d seen the earth opened and bare its entrenched soul, and then when nighttime came, and the cabin dimmed to candlelight, the front door burst open with a sudden rush of cold air. Flames shuttered and flickered. The deer, he\u2019d seen before, a dream, stood by the open door. This time, neither were frighten of the other. He felt immediate joy as the deer stared at him through its large, black eyes that in the candlelight sparkled like two soaring planets. He couldn\u2019t risk moving from the confines of his leather armchair and begged the deer to come in; inveigling the creature with a verse from childhood memory: Thine austere beauty canst never <\/em>oust<\/em> the light<\/em>. Carl turned to Lena, but she was already asleep. <\/p>\n\n\n\n The following afternoon, he placed his finished manuscript on the end table beneath the rawhide lamp. He told her that he wanted her to read them. She resisted at first, but he assured her that it was all right, then told her that he was going to take a long walk. \u201cI\u2019ll leave you alone,\u201d he then said. She picked up the manuscript. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Outside, the clouds frayed over the treetops. Stillness hung in the glower of absolute serenity, and he waded through deep drifts of snow beneath weakened spires of pine trees. He wouldn\u2019t know what he\u2019d do if she didn\u2019t like his poetry. What was he afraid of? That it would kill him? Or worse, that it would expose him as he truly was. A lonely, old man. <\/p>\n\n\n\n After an hour, his joints began to stiffen, and the wet snow had made his feet heavy, sloshing about, and what was supposed to be a hike, amounted to a long and insufferable time away. <\/p>\n\n\n\n When he returned, exhausted, cold and damp, he immediately warmed his hands by the stove. She was standing by the window. He didn\u2019t say anything. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHe was a great elk,\u201d she said. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhat\u2019s that?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYour Archibald. An elk.\u201d She smiled. <\/p>\n\n\n\n He rubbed his hands together and saw the book on the table. \u201cYou like them?\u201d She nodded. There was a sense of happiness that gripped him. <\/p>\n\n\n\n One morning, he was so preoccupied writing that he didn\u2019t, at first, notice that her red parka missing from the hook. \u201cWhat the?\u201d He called her name and walked into the bedroom where all her things were missing, then rushed back into the living room. He opened the front door and stepped out onto the icy air. A storm whitened the sky. The cold breeze caused his eyes to weep and beneath a nave a birch he picked up some tracks. Hers maybe. But the snow fell as the wind blew stronger, and using a forearm to shield his face, he plowed on. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Under these ungodly conditions, inhaling a mouthful of snowflakes, he cursed, and nearly giving up, at the top of the dock stairs, he was horrified to see a break in the ice. <\/p>\n\n\n\n He shouted her name into the storm and nearly tumbled down the stairs. At the lake\u2019s edge, falling to his knees, he splayed his body on the ice. He wormed out on his stomach, jabbing elbows his like small pickaxes. <\/p>\n\n\n\n The ice could break from his weight. But that thought quickly vanished when he found a mound of black hair buoying just below the surface. Plastering his face to the ice and reaching in, he clutched a fist of sinewy hair. Exerting leverage, he pulled the weighty mass partway out, and with both hands, slid the sopping body out onto the slick surface of the lake, where he lay supine beneath the clouds; snow blanketing, wet, matted hair twisted through his fingers. His breath roiled feathery, and beside him, a small black bear. A yearling: lost, hungry, possibly delirious from its winter\u2019s nap. <\/p>\n\n\n\n There were things he\u2019d wanted to say to her; something about a belief in himself, about reasoning his ideals and his faithfulness to her as an expression of is love, and a gratitude for giving him the strength to go on, and even if they were together just one winter at a time, he\u2019d take it. He wanted to really tell her was that the pretense was over, and that he was willing to accept his position in this world. He knew that she understood. She had always understood. But he was afraid to speak it. To write it. As if what mattered didn\u2019t. All he needed was to feel it. <\/p>\n\n\n\n He returned to the cabin wet and trembling, but so enraged that he knocked over the lamp making his way to the bookshelves. He began pulling the out books, one-by-one, cursing all the great writers, all the great white chiefs, and cursing all their goddamn wishes, knocking each to the floor. He then grabbed his book, and ready to throw it across the room, when a note fell out. <\/p>\n\n\n\n He picked it up. The paper was dry, as faded as the pages of the book, and it read\u2014Y<\/em>ou are <\/em>a<\/em> bear<\/em>.<\/em> <\/p>\n\n\n\n His eyes closed. He felt himself falling, pulling up but couldn\u2019t, and when he opened them, he dropped the note, quickly returning to the lake. He gazed out at the view of white, the white bark, the white snow, the white frozen lake, and the cub, encircled by a mangy pack of coyotes. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Their heads buried; feeding; disemboweling; tearing at the yearling as would an angry child to a stuffed toy. He turned away not able to watch, and back in the cabin he collapsed in his chair, and for the rest of the day stared at all the books piled on the floor. He didn\u2019t want to pick them up, and each day, the room, getting colder, darker, and the moonlight drawing in like a predator. He then removed the bracelet from his pocket. Held it in the palm of his hand. <\/p>\n\n\n\n It was depressing for him and the bracelet he held dearly was merely a trinket that it could easily be purchased at the Merc, something people would toss into the river to watch sink, only to find its place among all other dreams. He then let it go, <\/p>\n\n\n\n He had little expectations of her ever retuning and wanted nothing more to do with writing, or love, or thinking about each for the next thirty years. He stored the pages of manuscript in a box on the shelf of his closet, next to another box of old and retired manuscripts. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Next morning, he placed a kettle on the burner and rummaged through metal canisters for tea bags. It\u2019d seemed to him that the more he rummaged the more frustrated he got. He paused to look out the window not sure what he\u2019d come to expect. The kettle began to steam. Keeping his gaze along the shadows of the trees on the white snow, he spotted tracks. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2014And just as he grabbed his coat to rush out the door, the kettle started screaming. <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" <\/s> <\/p>\n\n\n\n.<\/s> <\/s> <\/p>\n\n\n\n