Among The Birch

Chapter Four

Four days later there is snow on the ground and neither Jack or I have left the house since the burial. Normally, as soon as the snow has kissed the ground, we're out building snow forts and throwing snowballs. The wooden steps creak outside and soon after Father John appears at the doorway. He smiles cherubically, I assume to lift my spirits, but once I don't react, the smile falters.

He walks towards the kitchen and motions for me to follow. "Ranger, how've you been?" He asks. His bushy gray eyebrows scrunch together.

"I'm fine," I lie. He smiles again. I haven't fooled him with my words. He grabs me gently by the shoulder and whispers to me in my ear for Jack not to hear.

"Why don't you head down to the forest? You could use some fresh air." My hobby of walking through the trees wasn't a secret to anyone in town. Mom showed me the beauties of nature as soon as my eyes saw this world. I look over at Jack who is silently playing with blocks. "Don't worry about Jack. I'll take care of the little fellow," Father John says.

I manage a small smile and turn to get a jacket. Before I leave, Father John stops me another time. He's a fragile man, and I notice I'm taller than him by a few inches. Mom always said I got my height from my father because she herself wasn't that tall.

"Stay safe," Father John says. Immediately, I notice the patch of gerbera daisies and forget-me-nots are covered in snow and withered. A part of me feels sad at the loss as if it was Mom's own work. The snow under foot is soft, and my feet sink through. My light jacket is getting more useless by the minute as the cold seeps in. The crisp air snakes its way through my airways, and I relish the fresh air for a minute. Finally, I make my way to a birch tree. I sit down by it, resting my back against the trunk, and ignoring the coldness from the snow.

The wind blows calmly in the background of silence. It is my own kind of peace. Memories flood my mind as I escape into my own world. Remembering the good and the bad. Tears well up in my eyes and a few manage to slip. The cold bites at the skin on my face touched by tears. Minutes that go by turn into an hour. I don't move from my spot. The pain boiling inside demanding to be felt.

The anger that has built up inside of me rages. How can everyone go on with their lives like nothing ever happened? Why am I only affected by the loss of my Mom? Why doesn't the whole town feel it? The whole world?

The sky has begun turning a darker color. I stand to leave, but then a flash of silver catches my focus. I walk to a nearby tree that has something lodged into the earth by it's trunk. It's metal and black, with some silver on one side. I pull at the black and it dislodges. A pocket knife. Above where the knife was stuck is a faint etching of some letters.

In the distance, a howl can be heard. My fists tighten, and I feel the cool metal in my right hand. I slide my fingers over the metal. I hesitantly touch the sharp side and run my fingers over it. I spin around to face the birch tree that supported my back for the past hour. I grab for the tree and put blade to wood. I carve for a few minutes until I'm satisfied with the gouges I'm left with. "Margaret Brooks" and beneath it, "Mom" can be read. I think for a few more minutes before I put the blade to the tree once more, adding the year Mom was born and the year she died. I smile the tiniest bit and turn around.

A little over a hundred feet away are two wolves, one black and one white. My heart rate picks up as slumbering ancient instincts sense danger. Without moving, I look around and see more wolves have already passed. Both wolves make eye contact with me, but the black wolf nudges the white wolf ahead. It quickly walks away in the same direction as the previous wolves were headed. The black wolf stays and keeps eye contact with me. After a few seconds, it trots off after the others, disinterested with me.

A breath I wasn't aware I was holding escapes my lungs. I remain still for a few more minutes until I'm sure the wolves have vanished. Immediately, my brain starts thinking through the strange occurrence. I might be the only person in my town's history to have stood a hundred feet away from a whole pack of wolves. Mom would say I was lucky that winter had just started and the wolves were still well fed. I remember I have a blade on me, so I could have defended myself somewhat, but then I realize the blade is not in my hand.

I check both my pant pockets and my jacket pockets, but don't find the knife. I look down to my feet, and there it is. I dropped it from fear. I laugh a little. I'm probably not the person you'd pick to be on your side in a fight. I stoop down to pick it up and head back to town.