The Coppice

2

Hoar snow in the forest. The ground crunches under each crisp mukluk step. Air from his mouth rises heavily in the dry dark. Breathes like pure white smoke signal. Little atmospheres of lifting fog. Language of the north.

Aphotic pine trees stand biblical; as if of microscopic hairs on the albino face of God. His almighty smile is the very bottom of an empty temperature.

Bristles of frozen conifer needles sound like worlds of clocks that will never animate. Never grow to slow again.

Winter groans like the innards of a hungry, short face beast. Wants to eat all movement.

Life seems of permanent hibernation. Except the man. His movement in the wilderness is of a handless pocket watch counting down like lead weights sinking beneath a river. A river he comes upon and crosses. Execrates his own movement.

Curses at the abhorrent bright day. Preserves above the dead things below.

Walks in great strides along the field of ice and snow. A place he'd fished before. With his son. Months ago. This river beyond the wood. His boy. Teaching him Dawkins hand me downs. Practicality in the cultural way. Barb hooks. Appropriate knots. Flaying scales. Campfire shelters. Trappings. Homemade gars. The interpretation of languages spoken by ravens. How to truly curse at the stinging bites of rabid horseflies.

And now? Summer's long dead. Autumn killed it. Winter buried it.

The man creaks along. Watches for any sign of his boy. His beautiful boy. Any symbol or remnant will do. Anything at all.

Something catches his gaze. Shines in his eyes from the opposite side of the ice field. Shines into his jackfish temperament biology. A reflective object glistens like mistaken alarum signals.

The man runs and slides. Stomps through a small snow bank like a crashing wave on a philosopher tide. Understands everything he knows is only a footprint in the snow which will be forever lost to the inclement.

Finds a pair of black frame glasses. Removes his big fur glove. Crouches. Grasps the frames up to his eyes. Recognition. His boy's. Finally, a sign. Cracked lenses like Xs.

Stands and turns around and around and around. Circles. Almost dizzy.

"More. I's need more. Nother clue. Nother path ta take. Nother..."

Witnesses a sort of spectacle. Fallen trees curled circular like a giant wooden aerie under a partial layer of snow. Cadaver smell. Long branch protrudes at the centre. Wears a small boot. It shakes above in the high white breeze. A long shadow remains like effulgence in the sunshine.

He gasps. Places the spectacles in his large fur coat pocket beside his butane lighter. Runs toward the end of the ice river. Slides. Crosses the beginning of the opposite side of the wood. Crunches at the periphery. Comes upon the nest. Grips the frozen skin of pine. Heaves himself up. Climbs over. Jumps down. Sinks knee deep into white. Looks up at his son's boot. Black. Untied laces.

Shivers like a thought has wholly killed him. Grasps the pole. Twists the branch in his hands. Snaps. Falls. Pulls the little boot off. Examines its condition. Smells it. Only a boot. A kids boot but just a boot.

"Not him. Not his boot. Christ fuck. Not his boot. Not him."

No other trace of human material exists in the nest of dead trees. No red on white. Not a drop. Just white.

Turns and looks behind. Thinks he's barely missed witnessing a set of eyes close in the darkest corner of the nest. His mind finds nothing rational about such moments. Discards the idea as hallucinatory. But curious. Superstitious. Nods at himself. Investigates.

The man kneels in the snow. The corner. Digs. Glove shovels crystalline powder aside. Dry like pulverized, ancient shells of cold dead things. Nothing's there. Just his mind acclimating to his fears.

Dawns on him that in the summer, there was no nest. Not that he really remembers. Maybe there was and he just didn't notice. No. He notices almost everything. Would've noticed this.