ANNE OF IVORY GLEN

Chapter Two: Blindsided and Blinded

"Are you sure you won't stay longer, Miss Shirley?" asked the grateful Emmaline Dunbar. It had been weeks since her husband's death, and weeks since anyone hadn't walked on eggshells around her. Before she had opened the door to the ebullient Anne Shirley, Mrs. Dunbar would have sworn that anyone so cheerful when she was engulfed in grief would have rubbed her the wrong way; but to her surprise she'd found upon obligingly inviting Anne in that cheer was exactly what she had needed. Neither had Anne come in pretending that Emmaline's recent tragedy hadn't happened, as she would have expected. Rather Anne actually broached the subject, asking how she was holding up, and over the course of an hour and tea (along with some of Marilla's wonderful cooking) had steered the conversation to Mrs. Dunbar's memories of her husband, so that Mrs. Dunbar found herself recounting bright, happy days with her husband, and actually heard herself laughing a couple times. Now as she stood by the front door as Anne put back on her coat, gloves, and hat, the pain of her loss was still keen, but it was made bittersweet by the memories Anne had helped her revive, and she was sorry to see the young woman go so soon.

"Marilla is expecting me before dark," Anne said as she pulled on her last glove. "I'll get an earful if I stay any longer. But I'll come back and see you after this storm blows over," she promised, putting a comforting hand on the woman's arm.

"I'd like that," said Mrs. Dunbar.

Anne smiled as Emmaline opened the door for her. "Stay warm!" she told her.

"I'll try. Have a safe trip home."

Anne stepped out onto the porch, and Mrs. Dunbar closed the door behind her. Careful of the ice on the steps, Anne made her way to the barn where Mrs. Dunbar had let her put the horse and buggy to keep them out of the snow. She found the animal nibbling stray bits of grass and oats off the floor and retethered him to the buggy, leading him outside and closing the barn door behind her. Climbing up into the seat, she took the reins and started for home.

Though it was still a few hours till nightfall, it seemed darker than when she'd entered Mrs. Dunbar's house, she noticed. She could distinguish no change in the sky or breeze, but everything had a faint gray cast to it, even the drifts of pure snow, and it seemed a mite colder as well. It's only because I've been sitting in a warm, bright room for an hour, she told herself. But she felt her body tingle, as though the very air was electrified, and she tapped the horse with the reins to speed up his step.

She'd been on the road half an hour when a gust of wind pulled at her hat and flipped the corners of her collar, followed a few seconds later by a second, stronger gust that made her squint. When she opened her eyes again snow had begun to fall in heavy, careening flakes. But it was only dusting the drifts on either side, and so Anne Shirley turned up her coat collar and kept going.

So did the wind, and so did the snow. Even before it really began to come down the wind began carrying loose snow off the tops of the drifts, like sand off dunes in a desert storm, blowing it into Anne's eyes and nose and leaving the road blanketed in a deepening layer that forced the horse to slow down. The snowfall thickened rapidly until within another quarter hour the light was no brighter than the final edge of dusk and the sky was lost to view. As the snow reached halfway up the buggy's wheels, Anne began to doubt she could make out the road: the gap between the drifts was beginning to fill, and the wind seemed to be blowing in all directions at once, playing with her sense of direction. Another gust ripped off her hat, and Anne gasped, turning her head to look for it, but it was already lost. She tried to peer through the haze, but what she could glimpse through the white curtain immediately around her was solid gray.

Shivering with cold and nerves, Anne let the straining horse stop. She was only halfway home with five miles yet to go. There was no place between here and a half mile of Green Gables unless you went down an adjoining road, and Anne thought that she should have passed the one leading to the Waverley's home at old Creek Hollow by now, but she hadn't seen a sign of it, and she didn't dare turn back to look for it for fear that perhaps she had not passed it after all and it was still ahead.

Snow was piling up in her lap and on the horse's back. She blinked away stinging tears of frustration. She certainly wasn't going to get anywhere sitting here, she chided herself. She wasn't lost yet – by her best judgment she was still on the road to Green Gables, and it was a straight shot most of the way – but she would be lost if she didn't get moving.

She scrambled out of the buggy, immediately sinking into the snow to her knees. Stumbling, she made her way to the horse and began trying to unbuckle the harness, her gloved fingers fumbling on the slick leather. With a cry of frustration, she ripped her gloves off, throwing them down, and tore at the buckles with her bare fingers. Finally freeing the horse, she clambered onto his back and began leading the him down the road, abandoning the buggy to the storm.

But even without the load of the buggy, the horse was struggling. Anne dismounted, taking the reins over his head and pulling them. The wind had risen to a scream, and it tore at her clothes and hair, pulling lanks of it free from its pins, and forcing her to keep her head down. She couldn't step as high as the horse, and was having to trudge through the snow, leaving a deep channel behind her. All her layers did nothing to keep her warm, her skirts pooling on the surface of the snow around her while her legs sank mid-way up her thighs with every step, and she could feel snow collecting in her boots.

They had been out of sight of the buggy for twenty minutes, and had made it perhaps a third of a mile, when the horse gave a sudden shrill, almost human scream, falling into the snow above its shoulders behind her. Anne spun to see the horse struggling, its eyes wild with pain and fear. "Come on!" she yelled desperately, yanking the reins. The horse bucked and thrashed for a moment before finally freeing itself, lunging forward so that Anne was forced to fall backwards to evade the horse's hooves. As she picked herself up and turned to the horse, she saw something that made her stomach sink with dizzying speed: The horse was standing on three legs, holding one of its forelegs above the snow, and in the dimness she could see that it was mangled and twisted, dripping with watery blood.

Dread chilled her as she realized that she had wandered slightly off the road, walking over the creek that ran along side it. Light enough, the packed snow had kept her suspended above it, but the heavier horse had hit a thin enough spot that he had fallen through, breaking his foot on the uneven creek bottom and shredding his skin on the ice.

Denial flooded through her almost as quickly, and she began to pull on the horse's reins as hard as she could. The horse made it a couple faltering steps before falling with a tortured neigh. "Come on!" she cried. "Come on! Get up!" He struggled, and made it a step more before his legs quivered and gave out beneath him. "Come on!!!" she screamed into the wind. "Get up!" But the horse laid down, giving a trembling groan. "No!" Dropping the reins, she grabbed his bridle and heaved with all her weight. "Please! You can't stop! Get up! Please, get up!" she started sobbing. He made no effort, letting her pull his head apathetically until she gave up. She rushed forward, wrapping her arms around his neck. "Please…!" she begged hoarsely. "You can't…! You can't stop!"

The horse huffed and sighed, and laid its head down on the snow, pulling from her grasp. "No!!!" she screamed down at him, standing in front of him. "Get up! Get UP!" He didn't move, his puffs of breath clouding in the air, and she dissolved into wracking sobs, wrapping her arms around herself.

Move, Anne, a voice inside her urged. Move!

Keening, she began stumbling backwards, finally forcing herself to tear her eyes away from the surrendering animal and began slogging her way through the snow.

Her body felt like lead. Tears and snow burned her eyes and blinded her. Her feet and hands were numb, and the scalding in her legs was beginning to ebb. Time wobbled and began to loose meaning. She wanted so badly to sleep. Just sleep and make all this go away. She tripped and fell forwards with a cry, and couldn't catch herself. Weakly, she tried to stand, only to find her legs wouldn't stay under her. With a desperate mew she started to crawl forwards on her hands and knees, but suddenly sank back in again after a few paces.

Shakily, she lifted her head and looked around. Where was she? How did she get here? She couldn't remember. Snow? Why was she crawling? None of it made sense. And then it didn't seem to matter anymore, why it was snowing, or where she was, or why she couldn't remember. None of it mattered. Anne let herself lay down in the embracing softness all around her, and then everything…

wasn't.