her area. Her current coffee mug is half drained. I walk patiently down the stairs, into the morgue. The mortician still sleeps. Slowly, I open the door and drag out the body. Her pale, stiff skin, golden brown curls, even the crispness of her lips holds a macabre type of beauty. I wrap her in the moose fur and tarp. Her body disappears in the mass of hair and plastic, and it looks as if I only re-rolled my blanket.
I make my way back up to the entrance, grab my coat, goggles, boots, hat and gloves and go outside. I set my wife on the ground and dress for the elements. I place her on the sled and lash her to it and put on the harness and backpack.
This is now a memory, tangible. I know I dragged the sled home and lashed to it her jewelry, vases, pictures, blankets, her stuffed tiger, moccasins, and slippers. No one is looking for me. I pull the map out of my pocket to gain my bearings. A note is written on the corner from the Inuit man with the red cap.
“Always look to the North Star.”
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I stir from my reminiscing. It is the middle of winter. This I know. As these thoughts go through my head, I look at my watch. It has been six hours since I crawled into the tent. I roll up the bag, tear down the tent and secure them in my pack. I am now curious to see if my dreams were real. Carefully and gently I pull apart the cords. I move past the possessions and flip open the moose fur blanket.
She is there, as beautiful as I remember in my dream. I kiss her gently on her forehead. I know now, past point of clarity, what my desire is. I wish to take her to her spirit, and reunite them together, so that I can be with her.
The wind has stilled and I make good time in the dark. The Lights are becoming more beautiful. The white expanse has now changed to a foggy mirror, reflecting the yellows, greens and blues of the lights above them. I am walking on fire it seems. I feel by body begin to warm. I have not felt this sensation at any time on my journey. I do not sweat but pull onward. The heat is now stifling and I sense that my chest is about to explode. I feel constrained, captive within my coat and sweaters. I stop to disrobe and lash my jacket and sweater to the sleigh and pull northward. I look into my pocket, staring at the map the Inuit man provided. I have traveled forty miles northward.
I look again at the sled. There is one box at the back to weigh down the skis. It was given to me by the Inuit man. I think back for a moment. He was there as I was leaving the town.
“You’ll need this,” he said. “It is not part of the cleansing, but you must eat and drink. In it you will find food, cans of heat and water.”
“How did you know Inuit man? How did you get out here? You were sleeping,” I said.
“Sleep also. This you must try to do. Scream and cry if you can, if it helps you sleep. The way north is barren. No creature would travel it. That too is part of the cleansing,” he says, dodging. The snow whips between us. Every inch of me is covered in winter gear, yet the Inuit man wears a wind breaker and his red hat.
“How is it you got here before me?”
“Travel well,” he says. He takes a few steps to my right and disappears in the white out.
Numbness has consumed my legs. My fingers curl from the tension of pulling on the lead rope. I try to open them, but in the midst of the burning snow, they seem frozen shut. I blow hot air on them, but nothing moves. I continue northward.
On the horizon, where the Lights seem to bend from, is a bright light. I quicken my pace. The sky bends and shimmers. It would take too much energy now to sleep. I am almost there. I can feel it.
“And miles to go before I sleep, and miles to go before I sleep,” I say. I must press forward. I come closer to the bright light. Within it, I see someone. I pull harder. I take off my gloves, tossing them in the vibrant colored snow.
I call to the figure. The figure turns. It is her; I can see her clearly, it is my wife. My heart is racing. I strip off my shirt. I am still too warm. The cool wind does not chill me. I see her. I stop in front of her. Her skin burns a golden white.
“I am here,” I say.
She does not speak. I reach to touch her, and in that moment, the golden light that swarmed around her consumes me as well. I feel her warm hands tracing the lines of my palms. I look behind me, to see how far I have come. I see myself, lying in the snow, the wind burning my bare skin. My wife kisses my cheek. She is tangible, and together, we travel northward into the sunless day.
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About the Author
My inspiration comes from being in nature. Whether it is hiking in the cascades, fishing in the muddy rivers of Minnesota, or standing atop a sand dune in St. Anthony, Idaho, stories come most often when I am in the great outdoors. I am often asked "Where do you find the time to write?" or told, "How do you do it? I could never write a book!" The answer comes with any craft or skill any of us want to develop. To them I give a piece of advice I once read from Terry Brooks in "Sometimes the Magic Works"
Read! Read! Read!
Write! Write! Write!
Read! Read! Read!
Repeat!
There is no better time than now to get started in your own dream career. After all, dreams never came to those who dreamt about them!
I am married to a beautiful woman who has also been my best friend for most of my life. We currently reside in rural Minnesota and are both working in the corporate world, running hand in hand towards our dreams.
Other Works Published by C.L. Patterson
The Silver Sheen Chronicle – Emblems of Power
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