Home Fires Burn – Prologue I

 

 

John Whatley shuddered as he tightened the collar of his overcoat. Momentarily disoriented, he performed a sluggish three-sixty, at first surprised then mildly alarmed by the resolute darkness closing in on him like an ink blot determined to swallow him whole. Looking down he noticed crusts of snow at the hem of his jacket, more at the bottom of his pants. He brushed them away with cold, bare hands, berating himself for carelessly leaving his gloves in the car.

A mirthless sound escaped Whatley’s bluing lips as he soundlessly repeated a common refrain used by many Saskatchewanians: but it’s a dry cold. It was a questionable truism, used to describe the prairie’s uniquely frigid brand of winter weather to make it seem somehow preferable to the cold experienced on the country’s coasts.

Bullocks. Dry, wet, it didn’t matter. Cold is cold and this is damn cold.

How did this happen? How did he let this happen?

He’d been careless. And foolish.

Never mind that, he told himself. It would never happen again; he’d make sure of that. All that mattered now was getting out of the cold and into a hot shower.

Luckily the night was clear, and the moon was full. In the distance, down a snow-swept grid road, he could just make out the dark silhouette of his vehicle’s back end, less than half a kilometre away, he guessed. He could probably cover that in five to seven minutes. When he’d left home that day, he’d checked the forecast as most prairie folk do when going out during wintertime. The good news was that the weather did not include anything too nasty in terms of precipitation. The bad news was the temperature, with a predicted overnight low of -33 degrees Celsius, -42 if you took into account the windchill factor (which only the foolhardy didn’t). Exposed skin would freeze in ten to thirty minutes. Even if the walk took longer than estimated, he’d make it to the car in plenty of time. The only exposed part of him was the top of his head (he wasn’t a toque-wearing kind of guy). Fortunately, at 49, he was still blessed with a full head of hair, which would certainly provide him with an adequate level of protection. Just to be sure, he wrapped his scarf, made more for style than function, around his head, so only his eyes and nose were showing, tying it beneath his chin babushka style. He knew he probably looked ridiculous, but this was no time for vanity.

Halfway to his destination, John stopped to catch his breath and wipe away the ice crystals that had formed on his eyelashes. He was taken aback by the exertion it took to cross such a small distance. He kept himself fit through diet and moderate exercise, but the short walk had kicked his butt. A light but persistent wind fought his every step, its sharpness stealing his breath and biting his cheeks. The road beneath his feet, no doubt a rural school bus route, had been shaved down by a grader, but still its surface was uneven, and hard pellets of snow and loose gravel stuck in the treads of his stylish, unlined boots making them heavier by the minute. As time passed, bitter cold his constant companion, John swore under his breath at the memory of the smarmy salesclerk at his favourite Livingsky clothier. The man suggested that, given his “lifestyle,” he needn’t bother with a bulky parka or arctic-worthy footwear. Despite winter being the province’s longest season, no one should have to look like the Michelin Man, the salesman told him. John Whatley was a man who needed—and wanted—to look sharp. It had taken little to convince him. Another careless decision.

Moving along, intent on covering the second half of the distance in half the time, John gulped freezing air through the fabric of his scarf and expelled its heated counterpart, causing plumes of vapour to obscure his view. Didn’t matter. He knew where he needed to go and the sooner he got there the better.

Success. The car was within a few merciful metres. Never more than now was he grateful for his habit of leaving the car dealership he owned with a new vehicle, full of gas. This particular model was nothing special, but in this moment, and for the first time in his career, John believed in the deepest part of his heart and brain that as long as the engine turned over and the heater did its job, who cared what the car looked like. Reluctantly he withdrew his right hand from its protective cocoon to retrieve the car keys from the jacket’s inside pocket.

They weren’t there.

Startled, John pulled up short of the vehicle. He took a moment to think about whether he’d put the keys in a different pocket. It was highly unlikely. He was a man of habit and always put his car keys in the left inside pocket of whatever jacket he was wearing. He patted down the pocket but felt nothing. Still, he dug inside again to be sure. Immediately he switched to the right-side pocket. Same thing. No keys. When he wasn’t wearing a jacket, for instance in the summertime, he kept his keys in the right-side pocket of his pants. He pushed aside the flap of his jacket to check. They weren’t there. Left side. Same thing.

What the hell? This can’t be happening.

Other than today, apparently, John was a careful man. He rarely misplaced anything. If something went missing, a file, a coffee cup, a sock, it was almost always someone else’s doing. This didn’t make sense. He couldn’t fathom losing something as important as car keys. It couldn’t happen. But it had.

John was also a logical man. People lost things all of the time, by accident or from lack of attention. Certainly, he could be forgiven if his attention hadn’t been quite as sharp as it should have been today. And if that was the case, which it must have been, it wouldn’t be difficult to remedy. As someone who regularly drove vehicles which he didn’t personally own, he never wanted to be in a situation of having left keys in a car. Many of the vehicles he drove off the lot were luxury models, magnets for unscrupulous car thieves. Leaving keys in the ignition was like begging for a car to be stolen. His habit was to pocket keys before exiting a vehicle. Only when he was out and the door was closed, did he withdraw them to click the lock button. In which case, they had to have somehow slipped out of his pocket and fallen to the ground after he’d locked the door. God knows he’d been distracted.

John quickly scanned the area nearest the driver’s side of the car. He remembered that when he’d pulled off to the side of the road onto an approach, it had been clear of snow, so it’s not like the keys would be buried in the damned stuff.

But there was nothing there.

Only one option remained.

John dropped to his knees, raking bare fingers through a thin layer of snow like it was sand. As he did so, the scarf he’d wrapped around his head came loose. Frigid air immediately attacked, causing newly exposed, tender skin to contract as ice crystals formed inside and around its cells.

They had to be here somewhere. Lying flat on his belly he checked beneath the car’s carriage just in case a careless movement had kicked them there. Nothing. Just more snow, and ice and the prickly pebbles and grit that made up gravel roads.

Turning over onto his backside and maneuvering into a sitting position with his back against the car, John did what he rarely did. He swore. Loudly. Enthusiastically.

This can’t be happening.

It was.

That was it. He was going to have to do the thing he most definitely did not want to do. He was going to have to call for help. He was going to have to tell someone where he was and ask them to come get him. It would be embarrassing, awkward, galling. But wait. No. It needn’t be any of those things. He didn’t have to call someone he knew. He would call CAA. He was a long-term, paid-up member. It was high time that annual fee paid off. They would come and get him and his car, no questions asked. His location wasn’t even that far out of the city, maybe five or ten kilometres at most? Thank god for CAA.

He always kept his phone in the left inside pocket of his jacket. The same pocket in which he’d unsuccessfully searched for his missing keys. The horror struck him all at once, like an unexpected, savage slap in the face.

Not only were the keys not in the pocket, neither was anything else. 

“No! No! No!” John bellowed, struggling to his feet.

He patted down his jacket, his pants, anywhere he could think of, praying to feel the small, hard, rectangular shape of his phone. When he came up empty, he ripped off his coat, ignoring the cold’s subterfuge, quickly stealing away the heat his once-covered body had been preserving. Anxiously, he flapped the coat in the wind as if hoping a phone might suddenly free itself from the fabric. When nothing appeared, he tossed the coat to the ground as if it were his worst enemy. Instantly realizing the threat of not wearing the jacket, he climbed back into it, but somehow it no longer offered the same protection, as if in the short time he’d abandoned it the coat had become recruited as an ally by his worst enemy: ice-cold darkness.

What now?

What now!

God help me. God help me! Please! Please! What do I do now?

 Startled by the overwhelming bout of self-pity, John began to pray under his breath. The words were familiar to him, they’d brought him solace and assurance in difficult times, challenging times, times when he’d doubted whether he was doing the right thing. Today he prayed for guidance and direction.

After what felt like several, fevered minutes, the answer appeared. Right in front of him.

While he’d been praying, his eyes had roamed into a nearby ditch, and there, half submerged in a snowbank, was salvation, in the form of a fence post. The farmer’s field on the other side of the ditch was encircled by barbed-wire fencing, which meant the land was probably utilized for livestock rather than growing crops. The abandoned fence post was most likely cast off during a long-ago repair. John rushed headlong into the ditch, sloshing through surprisingly deep drifts to reach the post. With adrenaline-fueled strength he loosened the wooden cylinder from its icy burial ground. One end was raw splinters where the post had obviously snapped—who knew why or when—still, he was left with two-and-a-half feet of solid wood. Enough, he hoped, to save his life.

 

John gazed down at his bloody, raw hands. Curlicues of peeling skin had frozen and snapped off, falling into a crimson mound of snow and wood shards, all that was left of the fence post. The car’s windows and doors, even its hood and trunk, scratched and dented but otherwise intact, had all been subjected to a brutal beating.

Turning his back on the cruelly impenetrable vehicle, John allowed his body to flag, using the solidity of the car’s frame to hold himself up while he tried to catch his ragged breath. The intense, violent effort had caused him to sweat profusely. As he’d grown hotter, he’d torn the scarf from his neck and tossed it to the ground. He now considered retrieving it, but the effort seemed Herculean. He needed rest. But there was no time for rest. Even as he attempted to control his heaving chest, raging pain charged to the fore as blood, attempting to flow through a fine mesh of capillaries, found its movement increasingly restricted by his true mortal enemy: ice.

John Whatley was not done for. There was still hope. He had to keep moving. Constant movement would stave off the conditions intent on killing him, at least until he found help or a place to shelter. The Saskatchewan countryside is littered with homesteads, grain storage units, even an abandoned farmyard would do. He just had to find one. Just one. Then he could get out of the cold, out of the wind. Out of death’s grasp. Someone would come looking for him. Someone would find him. And if he couldn’t find shelter, if no one came for him, then he would damn well keep moving until he reached Livingsky, until he found his way home. He was in a challenging situation, he could admit that much, but he also knew without doubt, that the same persistence and bullheadedness that had served him so well in building a wildly successful business would serve him now too.  

Gingerly, he crouched down and reached out to reclaim the scarf, tugging to free it from where the warmth of his sweat had caused the fabric to freeze to the ground. Refastening it for optimum protection, and more determined than ever, John buried his battered hands within the pockets of his jacket and stamped his boots to loosen the treads of collected snow and detritus.

As he collected himself, an unwelcome, stubborn truth emerged in his brain like a mind thistle. On average, fifteen people die from hyperthermia/exposure in Saskatchewan every year. It was a grim statistic that most people in the province were aware of, having heard it over and over again throughout their lives on the news or social media channels, especially at this time of year. The announcements were made more as a cautionary tale than anything else, reminding people to be careful, to make appropriate preparations if they were going out on the road or planning to spend significant time out of doors, especially if they were doing so by themselves. In the past, John would scoff at the warnings, thinking to himself: what idiot living in Saskatchewan wouldn’t have the common sense to be prepared? Shivering in the remote darkness, he grumbled out loud: Idiot, meet John. John, meet Idiot.

More than half of these fatal incidents occurred in rural areas. Check.

In significantly more than half, drugs or alcohol were found to be a factor. John Whatley was not drunk. He wished he was.

He’d never been a big drinker. He didn’t like how alcohol clouded his judgement. He was a man often called upon to make decisions and yes, sometimes, judgement calls. People relied on him to do so. His staff relied on him for their bread and butter. Countless individuals who benefited from the charities he supported, the facilities he founded, the community endeavors he contributed to, counted on him. As did his customers. He’d been a good man, helped a great many people. He’d lived a good life. He most certainly did not deserve to have it end this way. So it was with surprise when, after wiping away a build-up of delicate snowflakes from his face—when did it start snowing?—John looked up and saw the unexpected.

On the horizon. A diffused halo. It was…Livingsky. My god, it’s Livingsky!

He’d obviously made excellent progress. He would swear the twinkling skyline was not there even a few seconds ago. The city was closer than he’d dared hope. His plan was working. The closer he got, the greater the chance he’d stumble upon shelter or a car would come by and rescue him. No matter who was behind the wheel, he was going to hug the driver with all his might. Maybe even give them money. Of course he would give them money. They were a hero, a lifesaver. His lifesaver.

John Whatley was a man who lived his life by the motto that it was best not to judge yourself on where you were but on how far you’d come. Sometimes, however, where you are right now is important too. Too often people forget to be present, to appreciate the moment. This was certainly one of those moments, one in which he’d truly veered between life and death. He needed to respect this moment.

But he couldn’t help himself.

How far have I come? Literally.

Where is the car?

Getting his bearings would establish not only how far he’d come but how much further he had to go if indeed he needed to walk the entire way to Livingsky, which he was certainly prepared to do.

John noted that his limbs felt sluggish, but fortunately the cold had become less of an issue as time passed. Knowing his horrific dilemma would soon be over was probably helping his body withstand the elements. Hope was a powerful thing. Never forget that, he told himself, repeating it in his head like a mantra.

With more effort than he expected he’d need, John urged his torso to move. If he was going to assess his progress, he’d need to turn around and look behind him, find the car in the distance (if it was even still visible). But, strangely, his body resisted. Instead of moving forward, it rolled, slowly, cumbersomely, rotating until it wedged itself into a crook of something big and solid.

What the…?

John’s confusion turned to surprise, then shock, then back to surprise. In that horrible moment he realized he wasn’t on the road, halfway to Livingsky. He wasn’t even upright. He was on the ground, cheek and jowl flattened against icy snow, lying next to his car.

And now he knew. The judgement was in. He’d come no way at all.