High C

22. Feather and Fur

It didn't feel like a dream and yet Bob knew it must be.

He recalled how he'd returned to his apartment that evening and booked a flight home for Buffalo at the week's end, calling to tell to his parents about it before saying goodnight. He'd then texted late Christmas greetings to as many friends he thought would appreciate it, freeing up his later hours for quiet, solitary misery. He watched as many black and white Christmas movies as he had snacks for, even made toast from the cinnamon-raisin bread in a can he had ordered out of too much curiosity. It was molasses-y, like a dry fruitcake. He set it down unfinished, falling asleep just before Scrooge called Jacob Marley an "undigested bit of beef".

All this he was vaguely aware of even as he gazed out onto a river glinting in the sun and rippling gently with the casting of lures from a number of fly-fisherman stood shins-deep along the banks in their hip-waders. The sun warmed his face as cool breeze taunted his ears enjoying the rush of the water; the scents of moss and mud filled his nose as his feet sank into cushions of both.

This was no memory. He had been fishing once when he was younger. It was off a pier with some friends before they explained they didn't have the licenses they needed, and Bob spent the entire time afraid of getting his finger hooked and being busted by some authority. These peaceful surroundings were like something from a film or magazine, an idea of what he thought fly-fishing would be. He was mesmerised by the sway and flow of cast lines. They curved through the air with neither a crack nor a click nor a splash of their weightless flies, barely skipping to float on the water's gliding surface. As quiet as the rods' movements were, there was a rhythm to it and soon Bob's mind began hearing a check mark of short and long low notes of a clarinet repeating. The sound filled out and it set him to humming his carriage song, so often an earworm of his own making.

"Oh the city is for sweatin' and a-frettin' and a-gettin' by at any price
But in a mountain town where greener pastures crown until the snow falls down and makes ice
There's a-sportin' and a-slippin' and more time for courtshippin' so you don't have to ask me twice -
where I want to go

Hitch up your horse and leave your cares
Worries scurry in a hurry like the hides and hares
With a kiss from your miss or tender sigh from your sir
Holding hands, making plans out of feather and fur"

His voice trailed off in synch with the steady flicks of a fishing line he watched like a hypnotist's watch. The line's thickness changed suggesting a whip and suddenly his focus widened again. Gone was the river bank replaced by rolling snowy hills and Bob found himself in a sleigh, slipping on a smooth seat covered by a heavy woven blanket. He felt it through warm gloves, and followed his line of sight up the arm of the thick, dark, woolen coat he now wore. A red glove with a daintier hand grabbed his arm and he looked beside him to see the vibrant smile of a familiar face barely able to contain its excitement.

"Ready?" Crystal asked, her set blonde curls winging away from her cheeks under a round, white furry hat.

"Oh, hey!" Bob said recognizing her, his mind unlocking the pleasant recollection of the lost visitation.

"Hang on, kids!" Jonas called over his shoulder from the driver's seat up front. He cracked his whip against the sleigh's side. "Giddyup!"

Two white horses kicked off quickly causing Crystal and Bob to knock into each other as they slipped on the blanket in the back.

The horses picked up an incredible speed in no time, whooshing past white hills and fir trees repeating the same pattern as if they were drawings in a zoetrope.

"Woo-hoo! Crystal shouted, shaking Bob's arm and squealing, thrilled. "Faster, Jonas!"

"Do you want to drive?" Jonas hollered back.