CHAPTER 50
The following morning, a group of lumberjacks wearing thick winter coats of many colors finish their breakfast and prepare for work as the sun rises.
Dark spruce trees mingle with tall maples. The spruce are distinct from the maple in that their branches hang low, making them almost frown. Autumn had stripped the trees of their leaves. Wind had brought both frost and a heavy snow and made the trees bend, so that they looked like they were kissing each other. Where sunlight couldn't penetrate the density of the forest, ominous shadows warned onlookers to beware.
"Can lungs freeze?" Chris, a gnome-looking fellow whose nickname is derived from his appearance, asks. He rubs his bright red nose and exhales thick clouds of steam through his full beard. Moisture catches on the fibers and forms into ice crystals.
"Can't be. You're blowing dragon's breath," an old man replies. He's managed to keep his given name a mystery, which brings him boatloads of delight. His peers have dubbed him Father Time because of the long white beard that goes to his waist and the cracks in his face.
The five men fasten their snowshoes and gather their axes, saws, and hammers. The tight geometric webs of twine in their snowshoes serve their purpose and keep the lumberjacks from falling through the nine-foot powder base.
Little John sticks out like a sore thumb. His height and girth make him look more like a giant than a man. On the rusted head of his steel ax, a gleaming blade indicates a fresh grind.
"Tools sharp, boys," he says, licking his finger and running it along the blade. "Me and Biscuit are ready to make some gravy. You ever hear of any wolves out here, Gnome?" he asks Chris.
"Can't say that I have. I imagine if you went out farther in the woods you wouldn't have any trouble finding 'em. I'd rather not, though!" Gnome puckers his lips and nods his head, picking his teeth.
"Why do you ask?" Father Time asks, wrapping his arms around his ax blade. He spins back and forth and rotates his hips.
"Oh, this kook at King's was spinnin' my marbles yesterday. Said he was hunting wolves in our neck of the woods."
"If there was wolves here, we woulda heard them by now," Father Time says, combing his fingers through his beard.
Bob, the quiet man they call Silent Slim, leans back and howls. One by one the other men join in. They pause and keep quiet in the white winter's day to see if their wild call is answered.
When there is no response, they have a good laugh.
"I think we got a fella who's cryin' wolf!" Little John roars, slapping his dusty knee.
"Where'd you boys wanna start today?" Father Time asks, changing the subject.
"I'll scout for fallen timber north of the forest," Little John answers, winding up his ax and taking some practice blows.
"We might'in want to stay in pairs," Father Time suggests as he slides his hand into a cotton mitten. "Ya never wanna be alone in these woods. Getting lost out in this rugged wilderness and freezin' to death would a far worse end than comin' upon a pack of wolves."
"Nah. I don't need a partner to scout. With just the five of us, we'll have two saw teams. I'll head on up that ridge to sample and mark the trees."
"You got enough paint to mark 'em?" Gnome asks.
Little John removes a half-charred cigar and tosses it in his mouth. He nods as he strikes a match with his thumbnail.
"We should be able to get about ten out today, doncha think?" Silent Slim asks, hoisting a large two-handled saw blade on his shoulder.
"That would be a good day, eh, Foreman?" Gnome asks Little John, as they shoulder their six-foot blade.
"Yep, that sure would make the owners happy, wouldn't it?"
The men greedily nod, counting Canadian pounds that haven't been earned and already scheming ways to spend them.
As the men part ways, Little John tramples a path up the ravine. He pulls the branches back on the snow-packed maple trees and inspects the bases for ice. With the back of his hammer, he taps on a long spike to see if he can drive it into the tree. If he can, he measures the tree with his arm span, because any tree that is wider than his arms belongs to the King of England, Edward VII.
He finds almost an inch of ice on the first few inspections, which discourages him, forcing him farther down the high ridge and into a deep ravine. There he hopes the frost hasn't had as strong an effect.
After a few attempts, he finally finds one worth chopping. He winds his hefty ax up over his head and slams it against the tree trunk. With several chops, he chips off the bark in an X shape, then uses orange chalk to "paint" the tree.
"Got one here, boys!" he hollers at a saw team that meanders over an adjacent ridge and drops down into a draw.
"Ain't no wolves out here, just ice, snow, trees, and an empty heaven, with no God," Little John says, moving away from his team over to another tree.
A one-time Christian, Little John lost his faith when he lost his wife and six-month-old baby boy to the croup.
As the day wanes on, he gets farther from his team. Around noon, he's located eight trees after surveying thirty or so.
Feeling the sweat press against his black wool cap, he pulls it off and wipes his forehead with his frosty sleeve. Icicles have begun to form on his mustache. He breaks them off and removes his mitten. With his glove off, he flexes his fingers and reaches inside his warm pants pocket. Fumbling around, he removes a silver flask and unscrews the lid.
It ain't encouraging drinking on the job if the boys can't see. He chuckles to himself and takes a long swallow of whiskey. The liquid travels down his throat, lava hitting his stomach and coursing through his veins. Like antifreeze, the spirits regulate the temperature in his core, and with another shoulder-wrenching swallow, he feels completely cozy.
As he screws the cap back on and goes to put his hand back in his mitten, he sees something he has never seen before.
Beneath a tall evergreen, the skirt moves and the snow collapses on its own. He looks around to see if maybe a gust of wind caused the disturbance, but all of the treetops are perfectly still, and all of the branches retain their snow.