By the Fire (Fiction)

***

He awoke to sharp sounds, followed by screams. They ricocheted through the trees and pierced through his daze. He stood up and lost his balance, catching himself on a large pine. His head throbbed in beat with the searing pain below his left shoulder.

Someone had attacked him from behind on his way home to the village.

In the distance, a light caught his attention. The canopy at the top of the ridge was flickering in the darkness. An orange glow slowly spread into the sky. He began to walk towards it, stumbling. Woodsmoke laced with the scent of gunpowder stung his nose. He picked up his pace, suddenly, horribly aware. The houses were burning.

He threw himself at the incline, the snow resisting his frantic attempts to gain purchase. He began to slow, his breathing jagged and catching on the sharp night air. A wind rolled down the ridge and stole the voices, carrying them deeper into the forest.

He fell to his knees. He was struggling to breathe. Bright red blood blossomed on the white powder below his left arm. Above him, the flames reached past the tops of the pines, filling the silence.

She would have just put the children to bed. His chest began to ache as faces pulsed through his mind: Bright images flickered like the burning trunks of the trees.

The canopy bowed over him. Stars winked through the moving branches, mirroring the glittering snow gliding across the forest floor. The wind picked up, and he lost track of what was snow and what was starlight.

The world tilted and he fell forward, engulfed in a maelstrom of white.

* * *

An old man read by a paned window in his parlour, borrowing what little light was left in the waning day. An expression of sorrow passed across his face as he turned to the last page. Logs shifted in the fire, and he put his book down. Cold air rolled into the room from the hall, making the flames jump. It carried the fresh twang of pine needles.

The old man straightened in his armchair, watching the fire. He waited a moment, listening. Calmly, he stated, “I’ve got hot coffee and cake here for you. She made butterscotch sugar for the frosting.”

Silence.

Uncertain footsteps shuffled in the hall. They halted, then resumed, and a young man limped into the warm room. He wore a heavy, mottled brown sweater and worn leather boots. His chest was broad, and his pale face was filled out, but empty. Snow speckled his hair, but it was already disappearing with the heat of the hearth.

“Sit down, son. Warm up.” The old man smiled softly, gesturing to a burgundy armchair across from his own.

Melting snow and blood dripped down from the young man’s sleeve, soaking into the amethyst-purple carpet. He looked down at his arm absently, then to the stain at his feet. His dull trance broke, and he searched for something to mop the carpet. His gaze fell on a white cloth napkin slid under a plate of cake with sugar-crusted icing. It sat on a table between the two chairs. As he reached for it, the old man stopped him gently.

“Better the carpet than my wife’s ivory napkins,” he said apologetically. “Here. Wrap this tight.” He pulled a faded blue quilt from the back of his chair.

The young man put it over his shoulders and sat stiffly, attempting to keep blood off the armchair. Despair clung to his features as he looked around.

“This isn’t what I imagined,” he said.

The old man nodded slowly. “It’s different for most people.”

“Why am I still bleeding?”

“Well, this isn’t your final place. It’s mine. My wife’s.”

The young man looked out the window. The light shifted and the room grew darker. Outside, the sun was setting, painting the sky onto a lake in swathes of writhing color.

“Then why am I here?”

“To decide. It’s hard to do in the moment. We’re just here to give you a quiet place to gather yourself.”

“To . . .decide?” The young man’s voice trailed off and broke. He looked down at the bloodstain on the carpet, and his brow furrowed, “I’m dying. Aren’t I?”

The old man shrugged his shoulders. It was a question he had been asked countless times, but he didn’t know the answer. He never knew the damned answer.

He leaned back in his chair, cradling his coffee. They both sat until the only light came from the fire. The edges of the room flickered and danced as the faint orange light mingled with the shadows.

Suddenly, the young man jolted, sitting upright. He tilted his head toward the door to the hall, listening. The old man watched him with a weighted expression as his eyes flashed, hardening his features. The young man stood, swaying slightly, then staggered to the parlour door. Leaning on the frame, he used his good arm to hang the damp quilt on a hook.

“It’s beautiful here,” he stated with his back to the room. Then he pushed himself off the doorframe, set his shoulders, and left.

In the hallway, he swiftly passed a woman whose white hair was cascading around her shoulders. A frigid air swirled around him, whispering past her, but she didn’t turn. He would already be gone. They never make it more than a few steps into the hall.

For a moment, she watched ice crystals swirling through the air in front of her, then she joined her husband in the parlour. She turned on a lamp and set her mug and soft leather book down on the table. The lamplight didn’t quite subdue the shadows, but it made them softer. Snowflakes glittered like stardust on her shawl.

She leaned over with a melancholy smile and brushed her husband’s cheek. He had been eyeing his own green volume with a tired reluctance, but at her touch, he looked up to meet her gaze. The two locked weary eyes.

“I’ll take the next one,” she said.

Hannah Fulton grew up reading epic poetry and fiction, and she enjoys wandering the library shelves. She was raised on a riverside family farm in Virginia. Her interests include history, literature, starry nights, and lamplight.