offering what comfort she knew: an apple pie with raisins plump with brandy from the cellar and just the way Jim liked it, a toasted, cinnamon scent warming the house to the eaves all that evening.
Still the snow fell, a soft, insidious rebuttal to that first thrust of spring. When it got unbearable, the silence, her absence, Jim shouldered his gun and headed once more for the woods. Too stubborn to go where they had met, by the Garland property, he circled his old haunts instead. There was nothing to be hunted, he never once lifted the muzzle, but still he walked, through the low, grey light, past sugar brush and pine, until he came at last to the water. The pines along the shore stood dark and brooding in the half-light, sentinels, bridging this world to another. Snow drifted delicately down, sideways, feathering the pines, dusting his face, sifting over the slow-moving river. Where once a balloon had floated, red and swollen, now white ice touched black water; a brief dance, as one slowly dissolved into the other, and still the snow continued to fall.
He stood on the bank, motionless, watching its dark rippled flow. Abruptly he shifted, making up his mind. He would attend the gala.
Perhaps it was the turn in the weather, the way the morning light played over the window panes. Maybe it was the clocking of enough days and the consumption of enough whisky that had served to recess memory once more into dormancy. Whatever the reason, the Major awakened on Saturday, on what – although he didn’t know it yet – was also the morning of the gala, to a blessed, internal stillness.
Instead of reaching automatically for the bottle that lay on the floor, he blinked instead, at the quiet. Dawn was seeping through the windows, the edge of the bureau revealing itself in inches and quarter angles in the soft glimmer of morning.
Aurora , he thought to himself, recalling the ancient Goddess of the dawn. Aurora, riding forth from her saffron bed .
The pressure within his chest had eased; the abyss of the past no longer gaping wide. His pupils shifted, examining the pillow beneath his cheek, a single tuft of goose feather sticking upright through the fabric. His gaze moved lower, taking inventory of the contours of thigh, calf and foot beneath the bedclothes. He lifted a hand and cautiously flexed it. He spread the fingers, absorbed in every ridge and misshapen knuckle, like a newborn discovering the boundaries of its body for the very first time. Shakily, he raised himself, and holding on to the headboard for support, lowered his feet to the floor. A wave of nausea; he squeezed his eyes shut, opened them, focused on the rumpled sheets, stained yellow with sweat.
Saffron bed . . . he thought again, faintly amused by the irony.
The water from the faucet stung his skin, so cold that it hurt his teeth, but it cleared some of the fuzz from his tongue. He limped slowly downstairs, staying close to the balustrade, and in the kitchen, tacked cordwood on to the smouldering remains in the stove.
A spark flew out, caught on the front of his flannel shirt, flaring into a brief, fierce orange before spluttering out. He picked at the spot of soot, flicking it from him. A sense of accomplishment even in so small a task, relief over finding himself in the present once more, at being able to participate in the mundane events of the day. He ran over the facts in his head, taking comfort in this litany: a spark had lit out. The belly of the stove was bright with fire. It was April 1932.
Pulling on his boots, the Major stepped into the dawn. The apple trees beckoned through the mist like old friends. He limped among them, touching a familiar hand to bark and bough. Angling to the right, he continued along the old stone wall that bounded the orchard, waist high and scattered with snow and fragments of moss. The wall dated back to the first Stonebridge claim on this part of the hills, and was built from rocks cleared from the land. Some gneiss, a few
Still the snow fell, a soft, insidious rebuttal to that first thrust of spring. When it got unbearable, the silence, her absence, Jim shouldered his gun and headed once more for the woods. Too stubborn to go where they had met, by the Garland property, he circled his old haunts instead. There was nothing to be hunted, he never once lifted the muzzle, but still he walked, through the low, grey light, past sugar brush and pine, until he came at last to the water. The pines along the shore stood dark and brooding in the half-light, sentinels, bridging this world to another. Snow drifted delicately down, sideways, feathering the pines, dusting his face, sifting over the slow-moving river. Where once a balloon had floated, red and swollen, now white ice touched black water; a brief dance, as one slowly dissolved into the other, and still the snow continued to fall.
He stood on the bank, motionless, watching its dark rippled flow. Abruptly he shifted, making up his mind. He would attend the gala.
Perhaps it was the turn in the weather, the way the morning light played over the window panes. Maybe it was the clocking of enough days and the consumption of enough whisky that had served to recess memory once more into dormancy. Whatever the reason, the Major awakened on Saturday, on what – although he didn’t know it yet – was also the morning of the gala, to a blessed, internal stillness.
Instead of reaching automatically for the bottle that lay on the floor, he blinked instead, at the quiet. Dawn was seeping through the windows, the edge of the bureau revealing itself in inches and quarter angles in the soft glimmer of morning.
Aurora , he thought to himself, recalling the ancient Goddess of the dawn. Aurora, riding forth from her saffron bed .
The pressure within his chest had eased; the abyss of the past no longer gaping wide. His pupils shifted, examining the pillow beneath his cheek, a single tuft of goose feather sticking upright through the fabric. His gaze moved lower, taking inventory of the contours of thigh, calf and foot beneath the bedclothes. He lifted a hand and cautiously flexed it. He spread the fingers, absorbed in every ridge and misshapen knuckle, like a newborn discovering the boundaries of its body for the very first time. Shakily, he raised himself, and holding on to the headboard for support, lowered his feet to the floor. A wave of nausea; he squeezed his eyes shut, opened them, focused on the rumpled sheets, stained yellow with sweat.
Saffron bed . . . he thought again, faintly amused by the irony.
The water from the faucet stung his skin, so cold that it hurt his teeth, but it cleared some of the fuzz from his tongue. He limped slowly downstairs, staying close to the balustrade, and in the kitchen, tacked cordwood on to the smouldering remains in the stove.
A spark flew out, caught on the front of his flannel shirt, flaring into a brief, fierce orange before spluttering out. He picked at the spot of soot, flicking it from him. A sense of accomplishment even in so small a task, relief over finding himself in the present once more, at being able to participate in the mundane events of the day. He ran over the facts in his head, taking comfort in this litany: a spark had lit out. The belly of the stove was bright with fire. It was April 1932.
Pulling on his boots, the Major stepped into the dawn. The apple trees beckoned through the mist like old friends. He limped among them, touching a familiar hand to bark and bough. Angling to the right, he continued along the old stone wall that bounded the orchard, waist high and scattered with snow and fragments of moss. The wall dated back to the first Stonebridge claim on this part of the hills, and was built from rocks cleared from the land. Some gneiss, a few
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