story: The Comfort of Snow

The Comfort of Snow
by D. A. Ward - daward74@comcast.net

At the end of all things, Daniel was little more than a toiler. Other men dreamt of great things and saw them come to fruition. Inventors, writers, artists, scientists, builders; especially builders. Off the backs of men like himself were their visions realized, for Daniels only skill was that of laying brick. Not the dreamer of cities, not the architect. He lacked the divine spark of inspiration for such things. He rolled down the Plymouths window and felt the deep chill of winter seep in as he lit a cigarette. The gray blanket of sky, its damp smell betraying the oncoming snow, rolled lazily above the horizon of the city, so close but never touching the tops of the tall buildings that lined the floodwall on the other side of the violently flowing river. Looking again about him, he thought of the abandoned and run-down buildings that were once part of the great southern city. It would seem that south of the James River downtown was a terrible place to be, having not yet been touched by the downtown renaissance that was taking place where the tall buildings grew and middle-aged hipsters dwelt in lavish apartments that had once housed tobacco and Union prisoners. Just south of the river, it was decay. He felt sadness, for other toilers like himself, who laid the foundations and walls of these buildings so long ago. Grand old buildings built of fine red brick that were now relegated to memory, inhabited only by the ghosts of human beings. Squatters and addicts whose lives had perhaps meant something more at one time, but who now came to call this blighted stretch of civilization their home or perhaps buzzardly wandered its streets in search of what carrion could be found. Trash blew across the street, tumbling like weeds gathered in the desert of human neglect. He snickered. How appropriate it was that he should seek knowledge and guidance in such a place as this. Surely, it was the notion only a madman would have offered, but then his friend the priest was no madman. It was he who had directed Daniel to this place, to a point of light amidst a vast darkness. An old used bookshop called Serapeum Books, a home for words of the strange and antique. Something there, perhaps, to help quell the thirst within him demanding to know more of her loss. Something that neither priest nor policeman had been able to offer.

It was a year ago, nearly to the day, that his beloved had disappeared. A blinding snow storm and her faithful canine companion with a shorn leash waiting alone in the gathering snow were all the memories he had of that night. He had suffered a year of postulation from the authorities and friends alike. Many explanations had he heard, and none had satisfied him. A violent crime? Probably. A sudden urge to flee from their impending nuptials? Perhaps. After all, he was often capable of being the lousiest of drunks. Nothing had sat right with him, nothing had added up. Last week, odd dreams and memories more powerful than usual had led him to that great hole in the earth near their apartment, and it was there that he had felt the most truthful thing since her disappearance. He remembered the sense of dread, palpable and pounding in his chest as he stood there paralyzed. A drumsong of fear and human suffering seemed to pour out of the black depths and resound in his soul alone, for none other could hear it. Daniel didn't know how or why, but he knew then that the answers to his loss lay in that hollow tunnel beneath the earth, and if he could find some explanation then he might have some hope of reconciling the days of emptiness he had endured. If the answer be there, then by God he would find it, even if it meant facing down his own demons or whatever dark thing lay hungry in the hillside.

Daniel rolled up the window of the Plymouth and swung its heavy door open wide. Stepping out onto the cold street, he pulled his coat about him as the wind toppled off the river and spiraled around the corners of the buildings and through the alleyways. Indeed the bookstore seemed like an oasis; the only building not in ruin, grand in its stature and meticulously cared for, almost as if time and poverty had spared it entirely. Warm lights burned within and wholesome smoke from a wood fire drifted from a chimney in its roof. A modest wreath of holly and red berries adorned the front door. If he could not find direction in such an unlikely place as this, then where?

Taking a last drag from his cigarette, he dropped it and ground it beneath his shoe. The warmth that beckoned from within the place stirred something in him, and he thought of the way that Shannon had always made Christmastime so special. Her spirit for it had resonated within him, where he’d nothing of his own. Hot cups of cocoa, blankets bound around them as they dozed on the couch, the way the lights of the tree in the dark of the small apartment and the scent of evergreen made him feel safe and content. The way she laughed and how she grinned like a child, her long dark hair falling around her face as she dug into a wrapped gift. Then there was the comfort of snow that had always been so magical, but which had since become a painful reminder of that night of his loss. Long had he mourned her, and he mourned her even now. As he stepped off the curb and began his pensive strides down the long walk among the first falling snowflakes, a murder of crows broke loose from the skeletal treetops along the rivers edge. That they seemed an eerie welcome was not lost on him.

= = = = =

bio: David is a native of the vibrant artist community that is Richmond, Virginia. He moonlights as an inconspicuous Ops Manager by day before sitting down to pen his tales of the darker side of the south by night. His fiction and poetry have been published in Dream International Quarterly, and Treasures.