Twice Does the Winter Strike

Montanta’s Heartbeat – Luke Jones

Twice Does the Winter Strike

John Richter

Twice does the winter strike upon the autumn; once when the leaves crinkle, sour up and rot as fruit a grocer has long known is impure, second when the trees and sun all ache of cold, sodden tides wipe away the blaze that is the Fall. Trees set alight by time, peripherals crowded by a forest on fire; the ash, the white clouds above. The smells do not come across the same on such a day, the streets and alleyways are cloaked in hickory, walnut, caramel. The mood is pleasant on these days; reminiscent of the good times we never knew we had, the days where all was at peace, the largest predicaments became objects of fantasy and fail. Finally, in the late November and early December months, the wind turns old and angry, pushing and grasping on the Sun; usurping the tranquil air away from its rest. The streets become dark, the candles in the shops and trolleys late at night are the stars, and the snowfall is the autumn leaves reincarnate, covering the horses and hats and houses and homesteads until they all turn the shade of effortless white. The hair of the populace turns shocked and blank from the snow, turning the men and women in the streets into ghosts.

A carpenter, a banker, a beggar all walk the streets with the same dignity and happiness that Christmas is near. The carpenter will give his young wife a beautiful ornate cabinet; the banker will gift his mother a new cottage, and the beggar will present to the rats in the street a great feast, and they will be grateful and enjoy it and all will be well.

That is what I like most about the winter, the cold and aging does not deafen the beat of hearts, muffle the laughter of a baby; trotting of horses no longer becomes a nuisance of the ear but a pleasant satisfaction each time the snow crunches. I watch and smile as my thoughts all go over myself, and jump from man to man on the crowded sidewalk.

Continuing pace, I walk and watch as I go. A mother takes her son in her arms; two men both holding newspapers, speaking with each other happily and systematically. My black hair and scarf both sweep away the snow from my eyelashes at once, the unkempt patches bounce back and forth, leaving a large crevice in the patch of snow that stuck to my brow, creating a large valley between my right and left
eyebrows. I appreciate how evil and sadness seem to be hidden by the snowy storm; the wicked find shelter and seek bodily warmth, while the soul drifts unsatisfied by the burning logs. The homeless and the beggars all run from the cold streets; somewhat shamefully I admit I pity them, but never have the courage to help, so the yearly retreat is a cruel relief to my head.

My walk turns to an aimless trot now; past the stores and markets, finally arriving at the docks, under the
cool eye of a translucent singed winter moon. The water leaps upon the mossy cobblestone retainer; the only barrier between two vividly distant worlds, the moonlight reflecting off the waves and onto the stained rope and plank constructions of a nearby fishing yacht. Faith drifts atop the waves, distraction always tempts me when I am at the edge of dry land. Throw myself in, I am urged to do; I must see where the waves and shapes drag me, rocky shores teem with mystery.

Terror leaps up with these thoughts, loyalty fades and I am forced back to the church at city square night after night. The old chaplain is lonely, and I am alone; more so in the winter than the summer seasons, for then the squirrels are there to knock branches onto me, the birds to fill the stagnant air with their songs of adventure and warm spirit, and the snakes and crawlers to keep me on my toes. Fog and winter smog descend upon the city; my restless eyes burned by the emulsions which now float about, hiding and smearing across the brick canvas my past, present and future ambitions. Cobblestone streets devolve during these times, the grocers and wholesalers are abandoned; perhaps because no one is waking to buy groceries at hours past midnight, but I blame ghosts, the ghosts of those men who have not resisted the pull of the sea, a great tyrant straining the sanity of the human mind. Splish-splash, wish-wash, it goes; the sound grows fainter as I walk further into the distance.

Finally, the tall awnings and mossed brick towers of the steeple come into view. It has made a fool of me to resort to this every time I feel despicable; the old chaplain understands that I am a man of morals, not morale. I pray for the bells to consume me as I enter the graveyard that surrounds the chapel. An eerie vineyard, it looks upon first arrival, the garden has been thrown around the courtyard and dragged across the church; all the plants look destroyed and dead, dirt stains many of the walls. Protruding from the ground are the rows of gravestones, stained by the winter snow; each one with its own morbid distinctness, seeming to fit the noble who was buried there. The glass here used to be stained, but to pay the costs of maintaining such a lonely muck of a place they were scrapped and melted down to make bottles for the brewer next door. Temptation and piety have always sat arm in arm; I have never drank frequently because I find that the drunkenness does not help my headache, after all. There is a depressing feeling to the church, it is the only truly dark spot that year-round stains the city.

Doors clang open, and I enter. I mutter and go on about myself to the flickering shadows, the screaming faces that bounce around the walls. I laugh at my own stupid ramblings, madness consumes me for a brief second; the laughter is thrown around the pews and windows, occupying a large swath of the room, I finally am not alone. Yell for the chaplain, I do, no small crippled footsteps resound from the darkness of the back rooms.

What? He has to be here, I have never heard of a chaplain not taking his own duty to heart! It is, once again, my brief madness that overtakes me; the winter always turns me this way, perhaps it is because the only thing I have to tend for is the fire in my apartment down by the bridge that connects the wealthy and the poor, I, of course, am on the poorer side of the moat. A shrug fills my lungs and explodes out into the empty void that is the surrounding walls. I wander, I waltz through the aisle, arriving by the cross and by the lectern; it is not much to pay one’s respects if he is not near his God. The snow which once collared my eyes is now gone, I have almost appeared to have aged 45 years for the past three hours, the strike of the clock finally ending my ordeal as an old man and taking me back to my former body. Water drips from my eyes, not salty but fresh, the tears are only meant for the ocean waters; the only place where my sorrow feels small and the tears that I cry will never amount to the constant jarring of the waves. I stay an eternity, a period of time forever boundless yet bound by a clock’s outer limits; it is pleasurable to see the pain go by quickly.

After minutes, I leave the sanctuary disappointed and crestfallen. It was not my intent for the night to go this way; I wanted to leave my heart inside the chapel, so somebody else may come and whisk it away, and with it my burdens relieved. I crack the doors open once again, the cold air once again pinches and twists my nose and lungs; no wince comes from the discomfort this time. Trotting back down upon the street, it is the gloom of the environment that I finally notice. The joy of the air has evaporated, the crunch of the snow no longer satisfies me; the smells of hickory and maple do not linger any longer. I have begun to realize why the wicked run from the winter, why I am so forsaken to be cast away all my life. As I summarize my life into words, the beast of snow that now devours the city streets absorbs my thoughts and I. The dawn and blank white of the snow conjoin; I am lost in the storm, I have become one with the snow.