Road To The Moon [one-minute stories]

The River That Flows Through Your Veins

From the banks of the river, I can see the wintry trees standing as ballet dancers poised to show the world their grace, branches raining down their snow with each seasonal gust. Old man winter has robbed the woods of their usual charm and replaced it with a barren dangerous beauty.

I lift my head into the wind, eyes open for this softly lit day. It wasn't a pleasant coldness. It was the kind that made you walk all the faster and brace your head against the wind. No matter how warm the blood in your veins, your face got frozen just the same.

The river appears still, yet she flows under the thinnest of ice, awaiting the gentle touch of the sun. Though the air bares only the coldness and the ground is frozen once more, they glitter with the gift of each nascent ray. It is as if God ensured there would be hope even on the deepest and most wintry of days, asking us to see the sparks that remain even when the world is frozen. And so I choose not to see the blanket of ice but push my boat forward through the deeper waters, ever moving to join the ocean in its slow yet sure way.

The path that halts at a river is lined on each side with oak trees. Their branches are whitened by last nights snowfall and reach starkly against the blue-white skyline. Frigid water tumbles over the rocky bed, briefly turning white. I train my eyes right towards the bridge, where a carriage lies sideways in the deep snow, beside it a man waving frantically at me.

As I approach him, his screams become clearer through the howling wind. "Stop, please, stop the boat!"

I push towards the banks almost instinctively, hearing the thicker ice scrape against the hull.

The man rushes towards me, his feet trembling on the slippery rocks, "Long Eaton? Are you going there?"

"Yes," I answer, doubtfully, "what is the-" Before I can finish my sentence a second man appears, carrying a trembling woman, pale and clammy, a trail of blood tainting their footsteps in the snow.

Her sudden screams shock me out of my trans and I realize the first man is already standing with one foot in my boat. "Mrs Lancer's waters had broken, contractions only two minutes apart," he explains hastily.

"She's giving birth?" I ask as I step out of the boat to keep it steady while Mrs Lancer is being carried in and laid between my load of coal.

"Premature labour," The man specifies, "if we're not fast both she and the baby will die. I'll pay you any price for saving her life, just get us to Long Eaton, now!"

The cold water seeps into my shoes, stealing the heat from my soles just as fast as the wind steals from my face. I can only nod as I push the boat back into the deep trenches of the river, trying not to face the woman who was crying out in pain right before my eyes.

She had the kind of warm brown eyes, that would be most enchanting if it were not for the staining tears, making the no doubt beautiful face grimace in horror.

None of these people looked like the kind that belonged on a coal boat, with their fur-trimmed coats and top hats. Yet, seeing the lady suffer like this, washed away any kind of pretence of their class and made all of us, merely human. Humans, struggling against nature itself.

The two men covered the lady with their coats, making her as comfortable as one could be laying in a pile of coals. Mr Lancer sat by her side, holding his wife to let her know he was there for her while the older man kept instructing her on how she was doing.

I just stood there, tears pricking my eyes, pale hands trembling with fear and sadness, desperately trying to focus my eyes on the riverbanks, pushing the boat through the ice as fast as I could. I've been trying to block out the screams, but now it's impossible, the noise ripping my heart.