Fireside Memories
written by: Caroline Ashley
@Akacarolineash
I walked along the crumbling tarmac of the old main road. My path was lined with trees on either side, their branches reaching out across the boundary, threatening to pull me in. I used to drive this route in minutes but the fuel had gone off years ago and now it was hours, even on youthful feet.
It was only a few days until Christmas, and the snow was overdue. I wanted to buy a gift for my wife, so I gambled on the skies staying clear another day and hiked to Callander. Fresh baked gingerbread now nestled in my bag, along with some extra supplies, I was pushing to make it back for nightfall.
Usually, the first fall is just a flurry, a prologue to the main event. I was dressed for the cold, in layers of thermals and wool and waterproofs, but I hadn’t brought snow shoes, hadn’t packed goggles – I thought I had time.
A few small flakes danced like fairies across my vision and melted on my cheek. Pretty at first but with every step, the snow grew thicker. I blinked to keep my vision clear, a hopeless exercise as the road turned to flickering static.
The weather compelled me to leave the road and take shelter in the shadow of the woods. The snow was held back by the canopies above but ferns and moss formed a slick blanket over uneven ground. I stumbled on a jutting tree root and dropped like a rabbit caught in a snare. In years past, I might have rolled and absorbed the impact, but time carries a weight that slows us all eventually. As it was, my ankle twisted and my knee cracked on the unforgiving ground.
Pain scraped its talons along my leg, and a scream forced its way up my throat. I clenched my fists and bottled the pain inside – there can be worse things in the woods than the snow. I sat back against a gnarled trunk and attempted to move my knee, but the talons dug deeper, trapping me in place.
“Dammit.”
Home was still a good few miles away – a thought that chilled me more than the snow. The weather would have slowed me anyway, but an injured leg might mean becoming another ghost, lost forever in the thicket.
Leaning forward, I hefted the pack off my shoulders. In a side pocket, I had blister packs of paracetamol, recently bartered in town. I took a couple, then tried to pull myself to my feet, but a hammer blow to my knee dropped me back to the ground.
“Dammit. Dammit.”
I pressed my head against the rough surface of the tree trunk – clumsy eejit! I had thought about taking my teenage daughter, Charlotte, with me and decided she was better helping her mum about the house. They were probably starting dinner as I sat there, surrounded by the fresh pine and holly that always decorated our home at Christmas.
My stomach twisted at the thought of their worried faces, looking for me out the window, wondering why I hadn’t come home. My wife was already fragile; another loss to the snows would shatter what was left.
The snow piled down around me, building like soil in a grave. I crawled on the ground and gathered branches. My body moved in slow motion but I was able to fashion a splint, which I fastened around my knee, before falling to the ground, pain sucking the air from my lungs. I had two walking sticks tied to my pack, and I hoped they would be strong enough to support me.
In the distance, I heard dogs howling – their calls reverberated through the trees, chilling my bones even further. I thought better of abandoning my shelter and the slight protection it offered. I pulled out hand warmers, cracked the surface, and shoved them in the back of my gloves. I wrapped an insulated blanket around the body that had failed me. It was a risk, sitting still in the cold, but so was trying to walk in a whiteout.
There was a rustle of movement nearby, and my hand went to the knife holstered at my ankle. The dogs bayed again, but this time there was a low yowl back, mere meters from where I sat.
She was big. Bigger than the wolves that used to roam these hills. One of the wild dogs, gone feral years ago, hunting any humans who crossed their path. Her mottled grey and brown fur rippled as she moved with muscular precision, her long snout sniffing the air. I kept my body still, but I knew she would find me soon enough.
Deep brown eyes turned to look in my direction. She lowered her ears, flashed white canines. From the distant calls of her pack, I could tell that we both were alone – severed from our loved ones by the merciless weather. She stepped forward, and I noticed a limp in her rear leg, an injury that mirrored my own.
Instead of going for my knife, I reached into a pocket and unwrapped the ham I had bought at the market. A low growl formed in her throat, and she crept closer. There were patches of bare skin on her face and shoulders, marked with angry scars. Trying to mask my fear, I tossed some ham in her direction. It landed in the snow near her paws: a paltry meal when she could feast on me, but she would have to fight for that prize. She sniffed at it, eyes darting up to look at me, snout furrowed. I held up my own share and took an exaggerated bite but kept the other hand near my knife.
I could see the indecision. We were both alone, both injured, and neither could be sure of the outcome if it came to deciding a victor. After a moment that stretched to eternity, she dipped her head down, tongue coming out to help her swallow the meal. She scoffed it in a few bites then lowered herself to lie on the ground, watching me.
The snow continued to lay siege on our world, and it began to coat the dog’s fur. I had settled under one of the larger trees, and I could see she was tempted to move closer. I don’t know how long we sat there, measuring each other up, but eventually, she inched forward, head lowered to show she meant no harm, but eyes still watching for a sign that I did. Even if we agreed on a truce, how long would it last? Would she turn on me if her pack drew closer? Would I turn on her out of fear?
She settled herself an arm’s length away, head propped against a twisted root reaching above the soil. I still remembered the days of man and his best friend, but that friendship was fractured long ago for the wild dogs of the woods. I started to hum a tune, soothing myself as my parents once did when I was small, when gas and electricity still kept the cold at bay. She tilted her head to listen, then her tongue lolled out in canine amusement.
It was the melody of an old folk song that a band used to play in Dad’s local pub. I would sit beside the fireplace as a teenager, tapping my foot to the rhythm, while Dad’s German Shepherd licked at my hand. At this time of year, a tamed cousin of these towering conifers would be nestled in the corner, multi-coloured lights blinking to their own tune. When the band finished for the night, Jenny the bartender always stuck on Christmas music and we’d sing along to Wizzard and Wham and Slade, before wrapping up for the journey home.
Back then, I often woke to the old giant asleep at the foot of my bed, his great mass trapping my legs under the blanket. At dinner time he sat beside me, his warm nose snuffling at my arm, and I would sneak scraps of food off my plate for him to snack on.
The old days. Well before my scarred companion’s time.
The snow didn’t let up all night. I didn’t dare light a fire in case something else came to join us. I tried to stay awake, but the pain sapped my strength. My eyes drifted closed, and I woke with a start several times before succumbing. I half-remembered feeling fur brush my face, the warm weight of her body pressing against my own, but I soon slept again.
I dreamt of unwrapped presents and a German Shepherd rolling in abandoned paper, tail sweeping back and forth with joy.
When I awoke, the snow had halted its advance but what remained lay heavy on the ground. The white surface reflected every ray of light, leaving no sense of the passage of time. The dog had curled up beside me in the night, her body against my chest and tail draped across my legs.
As I stirred, our eyes connected. She stood up, stepping backward to watch me, muscles tense and lip twitching with the hint of a growl.
It was time to start moving. If any more snow fell, I wouldn’t make it home.
Grasping my walking sticks, eyes lowered in deference, I used them to take the weight that my leg couldn’t carry, leaning against the tree trunk for extra balance. I placed the slightest pressure on my knee and remained standing against the torturous onslaught, but barely.
I’m going to die here.
I hobbled away from the dog, and she did the same with me, both trying to gauge if it was safe to turn our back. Eventually, we accepted that it was time to take the risk – out of the corner of my eye, I saw her tail disappear into the bushes, a flash of brown and black.
I hobbled back toward the road, but the snow lay so thick that I couldn’t raise my foot high enough. My injured limb trailed through the frozen surface, the snow’s grasp pulling me downward. My arms burned, muscles straining to carry my weight. I groaned through gritted teeth as my good leg began to tremble. Losing balance, I fell forward, reaching out to protect myself from the snow.
A moment later, her snout was prodding my face, warm tongue licking my ear. I tried to bat her nose away, just as I did with Dad’s old dog. She whined and tapped her paw against my arm.
A part of me wanted just to lie there, allow myself to be engulfed by the snow rather than fight against it. But my wife and daughter were waiting for me.
I pushed myself up.
The dog sat back on her haunches, watching me with inscrutable dark eyes.
I pulled more paracetamol from my pack, swallowed them and forced myself to stand again. I took in a deep breath, the cold air like sandpaper against my lungs. People didn’t travel on the roads once the snow started, unless they were desperate. They holed up for winter and waited for it to pass, bringing in the new year from the safety of their homes. The chance of rescue was slim to none. If I didn’t make it myself, I wouldn’t make it at all.
“I can do this,” I said.
I took another faltering step forward, sweeping a stick in front of me to forge a path. My companion watched for the first few steps then she moved forward, tail brushing my thigh. She cut a path through the snow, heading towards the road, then padded back to check on me, tongue lolling out, still limping herself. She turned along the path again, and I started to follow. Tears of gratitude welled in my eyes and nearly froze to my face.
When we arrived at the road, she paused expectantly. I lifted an arm to point homeward, and she continued to cut the path for me. A few times I fell to the ground, my brain shutting down from fatigue, pain, and hunger. She would nuzzle my face with her warm nose, snuffling at my ear until I worked up the strength to stand again. It felt like we followed this routine forever, surrounded by snow and trees for miles. It became my entire life. I could hardly remember a time before; could hardly picture a time after.
The clouds stayed above us, offering no respite from on high, and eventually snow started to fall again. I wouldn’t survive another whiteout, but exhaustion had numbed both body and mind. I stood and watched the flakes fall, felt them melting against my skin, then closed my eyes, trying to picture my wife and daughter one last time.
Charlotte as a child, lifted by her mother to set Santa’s snack upon the mantelpiece, her features bright with expectation. The light from the fireplace flickering across their faces last year, on Christmas day, as we raised a toast, thankful for another year together. My last toast. Soon, I would just be another story of someone taken by the snows.
But my companion growled, forcing me to return to reality. She was looking ahead to where a figure approached us in the distance. It took time to focus, to recognise any details.
“Charlotte,” I breathed. I fell backward to sit on the ground, gazing up at the infinite sky in relief. The dog continued to growl. “It’s okay. She’s here to help.”
The animal watched me, tilting her head. She must have understood my body language because her muscles relaxed, and her ears lifted upward. As Charlotte drew closer, my companion ran for the sanctuary of her own territory.
Before being enveloped in the dark embrace of the woods, she cast a look in my direction, one that said we owed each other nothing; that I hadn’t tamed her.
“Thank you,” I said softly. “Merry Christmas.”
She tilted her head, let out a huff of breath and then disappeared into the undergrowth. I hummed a tune under my breath as I waited for Charlotte to reach me. The fireside memories warmed my limbs against the unrelenting cold.
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