From The Cold

Entry by: Leif Ove Madsen

22nd December 2014
From The Cold

Another sheep that had missed the round up, trapped when the first snows had arrived in September. It was the third I had found this week. I thought of it stumbling through the pasture, lost and confused in the blizzard, every step and every breath becoming more arduous, until it was buried in the drift. Its eyes were peaceful and still now. It would have to wait. Its frozen limbs were heavy and I was tired. The snow was too deep and there wasn’t enough daylight to carry it back to the farm. It could have been worse; Andresen had lost forty when the storms came. 50,000 krone. I had seen his wife at the market carrying their old bed sheets, her eyes red and glazed, trying to gather enough money to feed the children and keep up the repairs. At least the wolves wouldn’t go hungry, those that were left. They struggled, too, at this time of year.

The door closed behind me as the last of the sun’s glow slipped away. I turned on the lamp and threw a few coals on the fire. They quietly hissed and spat at the icy winds breathing down the chimney. I put the coffee pot on the stove and lit the small blue flame. I looked across the room at her picture. She had always loved the winters. Even the long ones, when a stubborn blanket of snow kept the flock indoors until May, hungry and lethargic. She would spend the short daylight hours watching eiders delicately tiptoe across frozen ponds looking for a meal. She would run down the track towards the stream, laughing and shouting as her feet crunched through the snow and stumbled and fell. Her face lit up at the sight of ice-encrusted branches weighing heavily on the birch trees. At night she would light candles and listen to the radio: Schumann, Schubert, Liszt. She told me that I didn’t really understand. Maybe she was right. That was three years ago. Now she is gone.

The winter solstice is fast approaching. Three more months and the sun would start to burn through the dusky midday haze. The drifts would start to melt and trickle towards the sea. The horses would go out to pasture and the geese would return from their sojourns, cackling with stories of their adventures. The wind dropped and the room was quiet. I poured the coffee and looked through the window into the darkness beyond, waiting for spring.
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