Back at the ranger station, Rick stood drinking coffee, looking out of the window facing the parking area. He saw the first tiny flakes. He started considering when it would be time to close the campground for the winter. Dexter and Hannah could stay, of course, but he figured they would rent a place somewhere else. There would be feet of snow before very long.
Now, a true Ozark Howler is not quite as weatherproof as Ralph or any of his kind. Maurice had grown up at a more temperate elevation, not the top of a mountain range. When the snow began to fall, he was just waking up in the old farmhouse. It was cold, but he welcomed the tiny sparkling flakes like a kid does. He ran out in front of the house and squinted up into the milky clouds. He tried to bite some of the flakes as they fell, like a silly canid would. He ran back into the house and laid his book on the kitchen counter and wrote a few words about the snow.
His stomach growled.
Coming back down to earth, he decided to catch something and take it to Suzy and Uncle Bob, so it would save Bob a hunting trip and Suzy might be agreeable with cooking for them all.
He went out behind the farmhouse to the forgotten, overgrown orchard and stood silently listening. The snow flakes were a little bigger now, but he resisted the urge to snap at them so that he didn’t alert the turkeys he was looking for.
Soon he heard small cautious steps among the dry leaves. Hesitant, irregular steps such as all have seen chickens do.
Maurice stood, gray and grizzled, and nearly invisible against the back of the old farmhouse. When the flock of turkey hens got close, he grabbed a couple of them by their legs. Then he loped off to the Stump House.
“Wake up, Bob! Hey, Suzy, look what I have!” sang Maurice as he neared their still silent home. “Wake up! It’s snowing!” he called loudly.
Suzy woke first, as was normal, and came out thinking about fire and food.
“Good morning, Maurice!” she said. “I see what you have!”
Bob came out blinking and yawning. “Oh, hi, Maurice! Thanks, man!”
“Do you need more firewood, Suzy?” asked Maurice. But a Firekeeper always needs more firewood, so she said yes. Therefore, Bob and Maurice went out to forage for fuel while Suzy got the turkeys ready to cook.
The snow continued to fall. It began to rest in little white clumps on leaves, and to settle on the ground between grass blades. The sky was opaque with it. The temperature dropped. Maurice was still tickled with the snow, but he was beginning to feel it in his feet, and down his back. He shivered.
They found a small maple and being content with that, they pushed it over, and Uncle Bob, who is still a Squatch after all, was able to drag it out of the ground. Then he pulled it all the way back to the Stump House. It was green wood, but as we all know, green wood is better than no wood. They broke it up and added it to the dry wood already there, it was fine. Soon Suzy was cooking the turkeys, all cut up in serving pieces in a big flat baking pan over the fire.
While they waited, Maurice played a few of their tunes, and Uncle Bob made up new comic rhymes to make Maurice and Suzy laugh.
Maurice was feeling the cold on his backside, but his front facing the fire was warm. He began to think about the feasibility of making a fire in the old iron stove in the farmhouse. He had no idea how to go about this, but he was thinking about it, because he knew he was going to have to go home again.
When they had eaten both turkeys, the snow was getting to be about three inches deep.
“I think I better go home now,” said Maurice. “Thanks for cooking, Suzy!”
"No, thank you, Maurice," said Suzy.
"Come back soon!" said Uncle Bob.
The first snowstorm is a magical thing. In fact, Maurice had never seen anything so cold, clear, and so beautiful. He was full of the wonder of it. And it just kept falling all around like some kind of a dream. “Shhhh,” the air seemed to say.
He felt that this called for a new kind of music. Snow music. Mystical, not really blue at all. He began experimenting with some new tunes. He tried to get the snow into the sound. Sometimes he closed his eyes, just feeling the snow fall on his face and tail. He stuck his tongue out to taste it too. His steps slowed as he concentrated on the notes.
Late afternoon began to drift toward evening. He looked around suddenly, noticing that it was beginning to get dark. Nothing looked familiar. Maurice wasn’t sure where he was. Even the familiar path to the farmhouse seemed to be utterly gone. Maurice began to suspect that he was lost, and he didn’t know how it had happened.
He began to play Going Home Alone, while he considered his next move.
He saw movement up ahead. He couldn’t make out what it was up there, but it was tall and seemed to be of a color with the falling snow. Maybe this was a hint of some kind.
So, in his puzzled state, it occurred to Maurice to approach the movement. Ah, but it moved then, further away. Maurice followed. He didn’t know where he was going, but he was intrigued and it was a magical evening.
As he followed, he played Going Home Alone again. Then he played the snow tune. He remembered the words he had heard sung back to him the first time he went home after the incident. He played Going Home Alone again. A voice began to sing.
You’re not alone.
Not alone.
In the night, in the dark.
Your heart is heard,
loudly, clearly.
His heart beat faster. The snow was up to his ankles, and he kicked it up in little puffs as he loped along following. He knew he would follow this voice anywhere it led. And follow he did, until things began to look familiar. First, he saw the old apple tree, bare, against the snow. Then he saw the door of his old abandoned farmhouse. Someone was standing on the steps, and she was smiling at him. At Maurice!
Oh! What a beauty she was! She was icy white, she was tall, she was fantastical, impossible and yet, there she was. Her ears were pointed, her tail was curled. Her eyes, though he didn’t know this yet, were icy blue. Her Howler snout was long, and her teeth were very shiny indeed.
“How?” whispered Maurice, frozen there to his spot in wonder.
The snow fell down around them, growing deeper by the moment.
“Come in, Pilgrim,” she said, “and be at rest.”
So, he followed her into the farmhouse. Inside it was warm. A fire burnt, crackling in the old iron stove. There was a glow in the room. He could smell something good cooking. His steps were slow, and he could barely breathe.
“Mable?” said Maurice. “How?”
“You’re not alone,” she said.
The first snowstorm is a magical thing. In fact, Maurice had never seen anything so cold, clear, and so beautiful. He was full of the wonder of it. And it just kept falling all around like some kind of a dream. “Shhhh,” the air seemed to say.
He felt that this called for a new kind of music. Snow music. Mystical, not really blue at all. He began experimenting with some new tunes. He tried to get the snow into the sound. Sometimes he closed his eyes, just feeling the snow fall on his face and tail. He stuck his tongue out to taste it too. His steps slowed as he concentrated on the notes.
Late afternoon began to drift toward evening. He looked around suddenly, noticing that it was beginning to get dark. Nothing looked familiar. Maurice wasn’t sure where he was. Even the familiar path to the farmhouse seemed to be utterly gone. Maurice began to suspect that he was lost, and he didn’t know how it had happened.
He began to play Going Home Alone, while he considered his next move.
He saw movement up ahead. He couldn’t make out what it was up there, but it was tall and seemed to be of a color with the falling snow. Maybe this was a hint of some kind.
So, in his puzzled state, it occurred to Maurice to approach the movement. Ah, but it moved then, further away. Maurice followed. He didn’t know where he was going, but he was intrigued and it was a magical evening.
As he followed, he played Going Home Alone again. Then he played the snow tune. He remembered the words he had heard sung back to him the first time he went home after the incident. He played Going Home Alone again. A voice began to sing.
Not alone.
In the night, in the dark.
Your heart is heard,
loudly, clearly.
His heart beat faster. The snow was up to his ankles, and he kicked it up in little puffs as he loped along following. He knew he would follow this voice anywhere it led. And follow he did, until things began to look familiar. First, he saw the old apple tree, bare, against the snow. Then he saw the door of his old abandoned farmhouse. Someone was standing on the steps, and she was smiling at him. At Maurice!
Oh! What a beauty she was! She was icy white, she was tall, she was fantastical, impossible and yet, there she was. Her ears were pointed, her tail was curled. Her eyes, though he didn’t know this yet, were icy blue. Her Howler snout was long, and her teeth were very shiny indeed.
“How?” whispered Maurice, frozen there to his spot in wonder.
The snow fell down around them, growing deeper by the moment.
“Come in, Pilgrim,” she said, “and be at rest.”
So, he followed her into the farmhouse. Inside it was warm. A fire burnt, crackling in the old iron stove. There was a glow in the room. He could smell something good cooking. His steps were slow, and he could barely breathe.
“Mable?” said Maurice. “How?”
“You’re not alone,” she said.
❄️💙❄️
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