Frozen Heart

Dense brilliant stars in the deep black midnight sky made the snow glow faintly blue and the trees dark shadows with glowing boughs were weighted down by thick snow. Running with snowshoes was draining Jason Stoavics’s strength fast. His knees and hips were sore, his shoulders ached with the weight of a heavy canvas backpack and he needed to stop. He fell back, submitting to exhaustion against a spruce tree and clumps of snow fell, some into his collar on sweaty skin giving a stinging jolt. His chest rose and fell deep and quick, drawing in cold and expelling plumes of steamy breath into the bitter cold dry January air. He took off his thick leather mitts and shook snow from his fur lined hat with ear flaps, put it back on not quite straight, wiped his face and turned around to look back up the hill. Spruce and pines were sparse behind him and it was silent.

Another mile, maybe a mile and a quarter.

He watched, staying very still, straining to see if anything was moving over the crest of the hill. Then a small dark figure emerged a few hundred yards away. There was just enough starlight to see it against the snow moving quick and steady through the trees.

Damn him! Damn him to hell.

He stood up laboriously against the weight of his bulging sack containing seven frozen marten, a fisher and a dozen traps and started running, lifting his stout legs high so his snowshoes cleared the deep snow.

I should just leave it behind. But there’s a least five hundred in there. I should have stopped the last time and pulled my traps. But it was just too good. Too much money just running around. He doesn’t have a gun. Why doesn’t he have a gun? Just a big wood chopping ax. Crazy old bastard.

In starlight he had driven on the Mawgi river for eighteen miles then turned off into the trees, leaving his own trap line and going deep into Abe Jensen’s territory on a trail he’d been using for three weeks. There was rough country to pass through with gullies, dense spruce and rock bluffs and he had to leave his snowmobile and use snowshoes.  He chose this part of the forest because it was far from where Abe was working, rich with fur, and poaching it in darkness gave him a peculiar satisfaction.

He had walked two miles collecting furs and pulling all his traps because he knew he’d taken enough risk and when approaching the last one noticed the shadow of a trail far ahead cutting through the dim glowing snow. He stared at it as he walked thinking it was made by a moose but it didn’t seem right. Then the trail just ended and he froze. As soon as he stopped Abe leaped up like some kind of ancient warrior from under the snow, holding a huge ax with both hands, taking big leaping steps in long narrow snowshoes. He didn’t even yell or threaten and was only a few strides away when Jason ran for his life. Abe hadn’t said a thing because he meant to kill him fast and words would have just been a waste.

The old man was tall with long strong legs and had caught up to him pretty quick, getting close to striking distance. A rock bluff had saved Jason. He ran with everything he had and leaped off the edge, landing on his snowshoes then slid and tumbled down a slope in deep soft snow and found himself on his feet feeling pretty lucky. It had been a risky desperate jump and he hoped Abe wouldn’t do it. When he looked back he didn’t see him and it was then Abe spoke from top of the bluff.

“You ain’t gonna make it out of here young fella. You know the rules!”

Jason ran furious and awkward in his traditional style Ojibway snowshoes. They were excellent for walking in deep snow but became unruly when he ran.

The rules? The rules? What the hell you talking about old man, Jason had thought to himself. You’re just crazy.

The short rest under the spruce tree hadn’t revived his strength and his chest was sore and tight from breathing the cold air in deep. He looked back and the Abe was making ground quick.

Good God, the old man can run! If I fall it’s over.

He felt the small ax he kept on his belt.

The old bastards strong as a bear and a whole foot taller than me. I wouldn’t stand a chance.

He remembered Abe’s hands. No man had hands like them with knuckles like a ridge of mountains. If he put one of them around his neck it would reach almost all the way around.

Jason’s sides and stomach were tightening in pain, his leg muscles seizing, slowing him down fast, and he forced himself forward but knew he was too far from his snow machine. He looked back again and was stunned to see how close Abe was, a dozen yards, keeping steady long strides. He pulled the straps off his shoulders and let the pack sack fall.

“There. You can have ‘em! You have your proof for the police so you can stop now!”

But Abe just ran by not looking at it.

“You know the rules,” said Abe and his voice didn’t have the sound of an old man running. It was like he was just sitting and talking.

“Rules!” Jason yelled exhausted and panting. “Those day were over a long time ago Abe. Be reasonable Abe!”

He knew he may have well been talking to the stars and darkness. He could feel the single unalterable purpose of Abe that was far beyond stubbornness, like he was just a representation of a perfectly established idea that was as hard as birch and cold as the frozen Mawgi. Then ahead he could see the snow ended and beyond were the pointed tops of spruce trees. It was another bluff and he didn’t know what was below but it was his only hope. He ran with all his remaining strength, legs seizing fast, and just before jumping couldn’t help looking back and Abe was raising his ax.

He hit soft springy branches cushioned with snow and tried clutching the top of a tree but slid down fast and during his descent his snowshoes caught in the thick lower tangled branches of two spruce trees. He stopped suddenly, swung violently upside down and the back of his head hit hard against a tree and dull lights flashed in his head. When he opened his eyes he was a few feet off the ground hanging upside down. Pain made him wince and moan and there was a strange throbbing pain in one of his hips and his face felt tight with blood from being upside. He shook off his mitts, felt the back of his head and his hand was wet and warm. He brought it to his face and it was dark with blood. He strained to bend up and reach his feet to free himself from the leather bindings but was too stout and thick in the middle, in pain and exhausted.

What the hell happened to my leg?

He could see Abe’s dark figure walking steady along the bottom of the bluff.

“Damn it hurts Abe!”

Abe remained quiet and just kept walking an unhurried pace carrying his big ax in one hand. Jason reached up and pulled the small ax from his belt. His jacket and shirt had slid down exposing his big round stomach that glowed dully in the starlight.

“I’m warning you Abe stay back!” He swung his ax weakly then let his arm drop in exhaustion. His ax fell and disappeared in the soft snow. Abe came close. In the cool glow of the stars Jason could see the outline of Abe’s dark imposing bearded figure standing still looking down at him.

“My God. My leg is on fire!”

Abe looked up at Jason’s legs. One was longer than the other. “It’s dislocated,” he said calmly.

“Goddamn it Abe you win. Help me down Abe please,” Jason bent his head back and could see blood dripping in the snow.

“I’m bleeding to death Abe!”

“No you’re not young fella.”

“No?”

“No. You’re gonna freeze to death.”

“What? No! Please Abe. Please. I’ve got a wife Abe, who loves me. You don’t have one Abe. You don’t know what that means Abe. Please help me…they’ll come looking for me…and then they’ll look for you Abe.”

Abe looked at Jason quiet and still for a moment.

“Your father was a poacher and so was your granddad,” said he calmly. “I knew you since you was small and knew you’d be one too. They knew the risks but couldn’t help themselves either. Like egg sucking dogs. It’s in your blood.”

“I’m a human Abe! Not a dog Goddamn it!” He hung quiet for a moment and closed his eyes feeling the pain shooting through him.

“Wait, wait now,” he said opening his eyes, straining to look up. “My grandfather? You know what happened to my grandfather don’t you Abe? He didn’t die in accident like they said did he? What happened to him? You know don’t you Abe!”

“Caught him at Mawgi Falls just before the snow setting traps. Cocky when I caught him. Like I was the villain. Chased him two miles down the Mawgi and he was fast in that green cedar canoe and I was in mine. Chased him hard for two miles. That was a good canoe he had. When I caught him I grabbed his stern and turned him into the river. The old man couldn’t swim and the water was cold. Pushed his canoe away with my paddle and him trying…”

“Murderer! Murderer! Murderer!”

“He cursed me good…and begged. But he knew the rules.”

Abe looked up at Jason’s snowshoes caught in the branches and pointed at them with his ax handle.

“Those are good snowshoes. But you wear your bindings too high. That’s why they flop so much when you run and why you can’t slip out of them. Well I guess that’s it. There’s gonna be a lot a snow tomorrow. Lots to do.”

Abe turned and walked away with big even strides through the snow.

“Murderer! You’re just a damn murderer! Oh please Abe don’t leave me here. Come back you bastard! They’ll come for you Abe!”

“Didn’t put a hand on you young fella!” Abe shouted back.

Jason cursed and begged into the still dark boreal wilderness, struggling until he couldn’t anymore. Pain was muted by the coldness that was claiming him. He pulled his coat down over his face because he knew things would be pecking and nibbling at his frozen body and he didn’t want the whiskey jacks to get his eyes.

*****

About the author: Glen Louttit was relocated from Thorold, Ontario at the tender age of 6 years old when his mother moved their family back to her home town in Northern Ontario. He grew up in Oba, Ontario where the population during his life time never exceeded eighty-five. It was shocking and beautiful and after a short time Glen forgot that he ever lived in southern Ontario. Always a writer, over the last two years Glen has written a collection of short fiction, most of it set in the North. Says the author, “I think some of these stories came out of a longing to be there. At fifty seven years old, living and working in the Sault, I look forward to retirement so I can go back.”