The Blizzard



  THE BLIZZARD

  Craig Melville

  “Then said Raphael, I know, Tobias, that thy father will open his eyes. Therefore anoint thou his eyes with the gall, and being pricked therewith, he shall rub, and the whiteness shall fall away, and he shall see thee.”

  Book of Tobit, Ch 11:7-8

  "I see the ridge of hinds, the steep of the sloping glen 

  The wood of cuckoos at its foot,

  The blue height of a thousand pines, 

  Of wolves, and roes, and elks."

  Gaelic poem

  The Blizzard

  Craig Melville

  Copyright 2013 by Craig Melville

  BOOK ONE

  SNOW

  CHAPTER ONE

  STRANG pressed his back against the cold tree bark and rubbed his eyes. The darkness remained.

  He had been asleep in the snow. Dozing, dazed, not fully conscious, but somehow still aware of the trouble he was in. Now awake once more. Heavy lids slowly opened but were unable to find the light. A warm sludge was sliding down his cheek. A powerful surge of ammonia rose through his nostrils.

  There was no light. Nothing at all.

  He clutched at his face, numb fingers exploring the lifeless sockets, clumsily spreading the watery paste further across his brow. Grasping around, Strang filled his hands with fat clumps of snow, squashing it into his stinging eyes.

  His skin tightened at it touched the frozen water, but still everything remained dull. There was no variation in colour, shape or hue: just uninterrupted darkness in every direction.

  Strang concentrated as he tried to assess his surroundings with what senses remained. He wasn’t entirely useless. Think! Think! The cold dampness of the snow around him, the cruel whisper of the breeze, the elastic flapping of wings. Birds nesting in the tree above, he realised. And – with the stinging sludge in his face, he made the mental leap – one of them has relieved itself in my face. Strang drew his sleeve over his face. It was clean now but his sight remained lost.

  What now? Staying put was not an option as he would be caught for sure. The policemen could be just minutes away, the policemen and the Butlers for sure. For long minutes he sat, the shallow breaths spilling out of his lungs, the diaphragm wheezing like an old musical instrument.

  Above, the shrill boasts continued. There was something else he had failed to notice, something different to the birds, a rhythmic clack so deep and sonorous it seemed to ring through his head, rising and falling through his very bones.

  Beyond this, to his right perhaps, was the churn of running water. It could have been the stream at the bottom of the tree-lined valley but he couldn’t swear by it. He’d been running for his life after all, crashing through the snow-covered pines with barely a thought to his direction. To navigate this frozen land in the middle of winter with warm furs and proper equipment would have been a challenge at best. But miles from anywhere, without a map or compass, without even the comfort of a jerkin, his chances of remaining alive were marginal at best.

  The men were nearby. He could shout for help, but when they came they would only finish the job that the cold was already performing.

  He felt once again to the soft skin around his lifeless eyes.

  The burning sensation in his fingers and the itching on his nose must be the beginnings of frostbite. The clattering he had heard since waking was the sound of his own teeth shaking in the cold.

  Suddenly and unexpectedly, the blind man began to laugh. He was going to die all for the lack of a coat. People had once hung upon his words his words, attendants made sure he wanted for nothing. But he was now a fugitive, who even the crows saw fit to toilet upon.

  Snow fell, pine needles whispered their song. Strang could not feel his fingers but did not care. He was no longer cold, just very tired. It was the time to close his eyes; it was the time to sleep.

  My boy – his last thought – I’m sorry…