The Cold World

Cold, a simple thing to be sure, but often the simple things are the most powerful. The cold drives people mad, hunting for firewood in wild frensy to avoid freezing, or trapping people and forcing them to eat each other. For all the politics and arguments on the nature of evil, the absence of warmth is stronger still.

“We always used to speak philosophical, didn’t we Jerome?” I ask to no one. Infront of me is a large frozen over lake. It’s a beautiful site, the snow-covered trees and hills in the distance, the birds landing and sliding around on the ice, the tall mountains in the back. Nothing will change the postcard like view. “Daddy always said ‘Billy Boy don’t you be talking that nonsense. There’s work to be doing. All you need to know is the shovel and the good book!’.” I can’t help but laugh at that memory. “Daddy wasn’t much of a thinker. Worked the field, got drunk, went to bed, repeat. But you and I, we could talk.”

As I say this, I can’t help but remember all the little things. Jerome and I worked these fields hard, tending the animals, and ran through the woods when we had the time. Our talks were long, pointless in the short term but better that than silence and boredom. I take a long drink from my beer, quiet as I look back over the lake.

“We always used to swim in here. When the field work was done, on a hot day, just jump on in. Mama wasn’t too happy with the wet clothes, but she didn’t mind us smelling better. Life was simple, easy then. Well for while anyway.”

With that said I start walking onto the ice. Beer in hand still, I pull a few small knives from my belt. Jerome and I had fun with throwing things, competitions for accuracy. I liked pulling knives out and hitting targets. Some call it quirky, I ask if they say that about archery. Simple folk where we live, most didn’t have an answer. Every dozen or so feet I throw a knife to the distance, marking a spot. I keep well away from the impact, falling into the water isn’t my idea of dying. My beer is empty by the time I run out of knives, but I just put the glass in my pocket. I stop now, eyes fixed on one exact spot. Early today I came out, sliding along the ice with a pick in hand. A few swings and stabs and I was able to carve an x into the frozen water. I must have looked a sight, some crazy person looking at a single spot of ice. Never much cared for what others think, but it’s at least something ponder on.

“This spot here, means something. Jerome, this spot has as much fear in it as a gun shot or bomb.” I say aloud. With a deep break, the cold air flooding my lungs and knocking me alert, I talk more. “This is just cold water, so cold it went hard. Yet this swallowed you up, pulled you under. I can’t imagine what cold like that feels like, I wasn’t able to go in after you. Stupid kids, cutting up ice and nothing counting on cracks. A gun just seems quick and easy after that.” I wish I still had some beer on me; there is more at the shore, but I don’t feel like trekking back to get it yet. I settle for the cold air in my lungs. “Our dads would tan our hides every time they saw us playing on this ice patch. Told us it was dangerous. Simple and dumb folk at times, but they had the right of it. I am sorry, for what that’s worth”

I look up now, searching for something. The good book tells us, or at least what our parents say it does, is that the righteous and innocent go to heaven. Mine were a bit more open minded, telling me good people, not just Christians, got up there. The older families were less than willing to accept that. Its funny, you go down in that ice whole, you freeze till your blue, and you end up in the sky. I’m sure I’m being too literal but half the time that’s how they explain it. Comfort in simplicity, I suppose.

“I’ll never forget that day. Terrifying, for you much worse I know.” I say aloud again. “A simple thing like cold doing all that. Sure, our digging and stupidity helped, but if it wasn’t cold lake would be water. Funny thing, that. This world can do all the killing for us, without trying or intent. Ice doesn’t think, water, fire don’t. Animals act to eat or defend mostly, some a bit ornery but nothing as bad as us. I sound like one of those old men come back from war.”

There was silence again as I contemplated my own words. It took another swig from my empty beer bottle, habit if anything else, but it managed a few drops. That done I reached down to the ice floor, grabbing the knife I stabbed near the cross mark I left. I twirled it between my fingers for a moment before I spoke to the air again.

“Worst part is, I can’t do anything about it. If some wretch of a person tried to do you in, I could fight them. I could hurt them, or even call the police if I was being smart about it. Never was know for being bright, not in the ways that mattered around here.” I laughed now, an odd calm washing over me at this realization. I was quiet again, just breathing in the air.

“You really need to stop talking like I’m dead. It’s weird.” A voice suddenly said from behind. I jumped, so engrossed in my own thoughts that I didn’t hear anyone approach. Spinning to face the voice I found Jerome looked back with a tired expression. “I fell into an ice hole, and you got me out. I didn’t even get my head under before you grabbed my arms.”

“Well, yeah but it was a profound experience. You could have died then.” I argued. Jerome grabbed my arm and started pulling me to the shore.

“Yes, and you spent every day since going on about how nature and cold are brutal without thought. It’s been five years, write a novel or shut up already.” Jerome joked, we both laughed. “I got the rods ready, there is good fish in here now.”

“Yeah yeah, always ruining my fun.”

“Fishing with me is the payment for listening to your philosophizing. Now grab a seat, and don’t stab the ice anymore!”

I don’t think we stopped laughing for an age, cold be damned.