As the Crow Flies (Short Story, Complete)

February 1950

February 1950

With the door of the chalet closed and barred, Abigail all but collapsed on the wooden floor. Cans of food had rolled in every direction when her basket spilled. She stopped one can with the toe of her boot, but otherwise, let them be for now. There would be time later when she could get them.

She did not stand, but let the weight of the day wash over her and, with her hands on the floor before her, she eased herself down to the cold surface. After a moment of collecting her thoughts, she turned over to her back, letting her provisions fall from her. Two more cans freed from the basket turned in small, tight circles. The snow, warmed by her body heat, melted and dripped. If she lay there long enough, it would form puddles, and if the place was cold enough, it would eventually ice back. There was little if any, warmth here. Anything was better than the ice and the snow outside. And the wind. It pulled at her no matter which direction she walked.

She was home now and safe. She had food for a few more days. It was getting dark already. With so little light in the day for her to work by, she would have to try to wake earlier tomorrow.

"This was no way to end the day," she thought to herself and after a few more breaths, she gathered her feet beneath her and stood. Her wet outer garments she shed as she walked. As usual, she dropped them haphazardly before she made it through the large door and left the foyer.

She would gather the clothing and cans of food at a later time. There was once a time when she would have paused and listened to the darkness of the halls, but those days were gone. She had given up hope of anyone being here. Broken chairs, legs, backs, and seats greeted her. They lay in a pile cluttering the entrance to the central room. Her axe and hatchet lay beneath a mural of some mountains in springtime. Quite a contrast to the ice and snow which raged outside now.

The coat room was dark and silent.

Down a second hall and to the left, she went to the double doors that led to the kitchens. Here, sheltered in an alcove that the wind could not touch, a candle waited. It was a large candle, as long as her forearm, and with the wick cut short, it would last many weeks. The single flame brought light to the room.

Abigail smiled.

It was still here.

Taking a brand, she worked the tiny flame as it grew on some old clothing and wood from a chair she had placed in a brick oven. The cloth caught quickly, no oil was needed. She added more of the chair wood until the room was warm enough so her breath did not mist.

The wooden chop block in the center of the kitchen was the size of a table. With a pillow beneath her, she favored it as a place to rest and watch the flames and remember.

Feeling the warmth and smelling the smoke, her stomach grumbled. There was a reason she ventured away from her warm haven. Food waited. In tin cans. In the cold. Just near the entrance.

There was more stashed away for her here. In a cupboard were two cans of peas, the last two cans there, and a container of butter. The French loved their butter. She emptied the cans into a metal mixing bowl, added some water, butter, and salt, and nudged the mix closer to the flames. Her second and last meal of the day was warming.