The streets were empty, abandoned by men. In winter, they often hid, and sometimes buried themselves. As for the animals, they have only meager defenses against the cold. Some have chosen to hibernate or migrate. For those who remain, each day is a struggle for survival. For them, time does not exist as such. Only the succession of seasons counts.
Tom liked to be absorbed in his never-ending daydreams. He sometimes glanced at the chickadees that came in turn to steal some seeds. He spent a lot of time at his window, hoping that his meditations would lead to a new text. But for the past few days, the notebook had remained open on two empty pages. He sighed and turned to his quote box. He had gotten into the habit of copying down the sentences he liked and putting them inside. Thinking about his lack of inspiration, he asked his box:
- And you? What do you think?
It was his way of consulting the oracle. He grabbed a small piece of paper and read:"Nature does things without hurrying, and yet everything is accomplished". Lao-tzu
Tom put down his pen and smiled. He thought to himself that he too must have his seasons. Perhaps the act of writing, the rush of words, corresponded to spring. Then came the summer and the maturing, the time to touch up his text, in short the time of the harvest. These two seasons were exhilarating but exhausting. Thus the autumn of writing came, the time when the leaves turned in a vacuum before falling to fertilize the ground. It was also the season of inspiring rains that imperceptibly permeated him. The earth had to be nourished before being allowed to rest. Finally came winter, a necessary time of rest and decantation. Only then could the cycle begin again.
He watched the flakes slowly settle outside. Tom understood that a similar phenomenon was happening inside him. In no way could he hasten the coming of spring but simply accept the blank page as part of the process. It was not a problem but the solution itself. It was like a field covered with snow. It seemed empty, but it said something, hollow. So Tom decided not to insist.
The chickadees were going back and forth between the nearby woods and his terrace. He suddenly felt like paying them a courtesy call. He dressed warmly. He felt confused that if he didn't become a chickadee, he had to face the rigors of winter. It was not necessary to break the cycle. Outside he felt as if he was weightless. He was warm and sounds were muffled by his heavy hood. He walked on the lunar surface with a child's joy. The dark and mysterious forest was there, close by. He cherished the hope of encountering a deer.
In the forest he felt protected. He even found it warm inside the vegetal edifice, a bit like the mother's womb. The trees stopped the wind, filtered the light and suspended time. He followed the path and saw a strange vehicle parked there. It was an old military transport truck that had been transformed. The tarpaulin and benches had been removed from the back. A sort of cottage had been fixed on the cleared platform. Narrow windows let in a soft light and a smoking fireplace betrayed the presence of a stove. Tom wondered who might be living there.
Then a man came out of the woods, pulling a sled loaded with dead wood. The man stopped to catch his breath, while looking at Tom who approached him:
- Do you need help?
- Here, take this rope
They pulled the load to the truck and loaded the wood inside the cabin. A metal staircase led up to the front door. The man opened the door and held out his arms:
- Pass me the wood!
Tom did as he was told. Once the job was done, he added:
- The sled now!
The man pulled the sled in. Tom was waiting at the bottom of the truck. The man said, "You're coming!
- Come on! I'm not going to heat up the clouds!
Tom climbed up, his foot slipped on a step. The man caught him and pulled him inside. He had already taken off his coat. Tom was sweating. Now that he was close, he noticed that he was unable to tell his age. His face was marked like that of a mature man, but his deep blue eyes flashed. He had an inner fire that Tom could feel from this distance.
- Take off your coat or you'll melt. My name is Yuri, what's yours?
- Tom
His gaze went round the place. The sled was at the entrance. The stove was in the middle. There was a bench that served as a bed, a table, two chairs, a kitchenette, books, many books...
- Not so ordinary, eh? Yuri said.
- No, it's true
- Take it!
Yuri handed Tom a glass. He took his and drank in one gulp. Tom did the same and started coughing. He had never drunk such strong alcohol.
- What's that? he managed to say between two coughing fits
- Vodka, Tom, Vodka!
Yuri pulled up a chair.
- Sit down
His clear eyes sought Tom's. He suddenly looked more serious:
- I never stay too long in one place, you know.
- Oh, why not?
- Sedentary people don't really like nomads, at least those who live differently from them. So after a while I get into the cabin of my GMC and I go and settle down further away. But you are different, aren't you?
Yuri poured himself another drink. Tom detected an intention behind his gesture, perhaps the bite of loneliness. A pain that vodka could not numb for long.
- Is it the sedentary ones who don't like you, or is it you who shuns sedentary life?
A smile lit up Yuri's face. He nodded his head.
- You are a sedentary person, but your soul travels, doesn't it? Do you have a job?
- Writer
- That explains it all!
Yuri swallowed his drink and continued
- Writers are hermits. They are here, but when they write their body is here, but their soul travels.
Yuri looked out the window. A chickadee was picking up some seeds on the windowsill.
- And what about you? Are you a nomad-hermit or a nomadic hermit?
- I became a hermit and a nomad for lack of becoming a writer. My soul stubbornly resides in my body. I can't make a journey without the other
- Except with vodka
- Except with vodka, Yuri repeated
The sentence bounced around inside him. He got up, opened the window and threw the bottle out.
- For a long time I thought I was alone, but there are so many people in the world who feel the same way, who can stand there and watch a chickadee, and simply marvel at life. We don't see each other and we rarely meet.
- And yet we exist.
- It's getting dark
- Maybe I should go home
- I'm not chasing you. Here, take my number and give me news from time to time
- Do you have a phone?
- Yes, I have a phone. I also have solar panels to recharge batteries.
- Too bad you threw the bottle away, we could have celebrated this new friendship
Yuri laughed and went to a cupboard
- What do you think? I have a stash!
A chickadee flew up at the same time. It flew through the woods and in no time it arrived on Tom's terrace. She smoothed her feathers. Who could imagine that it was thanks to her, after all, that Tom and Yuri had met?
