26
It is a clear night, crackling cold. The light of a full moon is increased by a sheet of snow on the ground. The mountains gleam pale in the northern distance. The eerie light exposes the whitened wastes of the south slope of Town across the river, the crouched masses of Frost’s Bridge and the rapid transit bridge and Fundy’s Bridge and the perfectly vertical bulk of the domicile. It reveals the empty fields and ruins and foundations of Frost’s Farm, the beams and hoppers of the industrial plant, the dozen silhouettes of half-dismantled frame houses in the burbs to the south and the few leafless trees scattered among them.
Near the domicile a small fire blazes, with people milling around it, whose shadows flutter against the base of the building. A substantial deposit of embers has formed, and around the fire there is a wide circle of trampled mud. Conversation flares up in a short loud burst and two or three ejaculations of laughter, and then it fades. In the resulting silence Frost hears children, far away from the fire, stomping the frozen surface of the one-inch snowfall to make it crunch, yelling from time to time. Frost and the other men hold plastic half-litre bottles of hooch.
There is now another sound, something being dragged across the frozen crust. Frost lifts his head to see what it is, and then Tyrell and his woman Emma, and Jessica and Zahra. Daniel Charlie stands there weaving, staring slack-jawed into the fire, but finally turns as the sound comes closer. He has a head of dense black hair, and a wispy black moustache, His daughter Star is holding his arm to keep him from pitching into the fire.
Joshua says “It’s Steveston.”
Brittany cries out in her voice of a nine-year-old “He’s got a board.”
There is cheering and waving of bottles. Steveston progresses from the chill moonlight into the light of the fire, dragging the board with one hand and holding his hooch with the other. “Merry Christmas” he says, and lets the end of the board fall onto the fire.
Spark fly up, and there are laughing exclamations of annoyance or approval, accompanied by jets of frosty breath. Even Daniel Charlie gives a start. His eyes grow wide and he decides to do a jig, but he loses his balance. He is rescued by Star as he leans over the flames, waving his free arm for balance. He spills a dollop of hooch that flares when it hits the embers. His braid hangs over the fire, with the eagle feather dangling. A finger’s length of barbs is missing at the fat end of the feather.
Jessica reaches and draws the black braid aside. “Jesus, don’t barbecue your feather.” There is laughter.
The end of the board catches and burns with strong yellow flames. Frost watches a spark land on his fur poncho and scorch a few hairs before it dies. The firelight dazzles on the scratched lenses of his wire-rim glasses. He is not wearing a hat. His greying hair is as unruly as the flames dancing near his feet. Frost has not cheered or laughed. He takes a sip from his bottle.
Tyrell says “You drug that all the way from the burbs.”
Steveston says “I wanted to walk. I might never get to see snow again. Probably never at night.”
Daniel Charlie snaps upright. “Huh? Snow?” He turns from the fire. “What the hell!” He stumbles away from the fire and the laughter, toward the white fields, muttering baffled exclamations, with Star still holding his arm.
They watch the board burn. Two protruding nails glow red. Zahra is holding Noor, wrapped in a small wool blanket. Steveston takes the baby from her, and Zahra takes his bottle and drinks from it and winces and shivers. She leans against Steveston and puts an arm around him.
Frost studies his daughter’s man. Steveston is as tall as Frost but much sturdier. Steveston kisses Zahra on her bare head, then glances with slight embarrassment at Frost, who manages a smile. For an instant he can see the difference in the colours of Steveston’s eyes, one green, the other blue. Steveston wobbles a little. Zahra takes the baby back, and Steveston takes his bottle back.
In the distance Daniel Charlie is heard, proclaiming “Snow! Holy Jesus!” and they all laugh, even Frost.
Soon the end of the board has burnt away. There is not much left of the fire. With the edge of his sandal Tyrell scrapes a few unburnt scraps onto the embers — bits of branches, lengths of blackberry vine, chunks of peat, clumps of cattail fluff. He is frowning, weaving a little. He takes a long drink, grasps Emma’s forearm for balance and squats. He and the others look up as the board slides forward into the new flames.
“I know what you’re up to. The spuds told me.” Having come forward to push the board, Fire now steps back. But as the board catches and flares she is coloured by the increased light. The wild reddish hair. Below her poncho the dress of multi-coloured rags, the shapely calves. She backs away into the moonlight. She says “The spuds say watch out for Christmas. Give me a drink, Frost.”
Frost says “You shouldn’t drink, Fire.”
“Give me a Christmas drink.”
Tyrell says, slurred “Go on, Frost, for Christ sake. It’s Christmas.”
Frost moves the few steps to where she is waiting. She takes a drink, waits a few seconds, takes another and returns the bottle to Frost, who comes back to his place among the others.
Steveston says “What else have the spuds got to say?”
Fire says nothing.
Steveston says “Come on Fire, tell us about our evil plans. We’re curious. Tell us what our evil plans are, and we’ll tell you if you’re right.”
There are chuckles.
Tyrell, who is squatting by the fire, says “Leave her alone.”
Brittany and Jessica and Joshua stare fixedly into the flames. Steveston and Tyrell glare at each other. Frost’s eyes tick between the two men. Zahra looks up at her man, says “Hey, don’t. It’s Christmas.” She secures her grip on the bundle of their sleeping child and lays her free hand against Steveston’s cheek and smiles. Emma squats beside Tyrell and tries gently to take his bottle, but he moves it away and elbows her aside and glowers at the flames.
Steveston shrugs and smiles and says “Never mind, Fire. Merry Christmas.” He lifts his bottle to salute her. Fire steps farther back into the moonlight.
The end of the board is blazing now. Suddenly Brittany spins and takes three strides away from the fire, counting “One. Two. Three.”
Someone calls “Go, Brittany!”
Brittany has a poncho and a wool kilt. Below the kilt her bare legs are as skinny as pencils. She has a head of tight brown curls, a sharply rectangular face and thin lips, which she compresses as she turns back to the fire. She is four and a half feet tall. On the opposite side of the fire Steveston and Zahra and Jessica move aside. Brittany darts forward and leaps over the fire, calling “Happy times!” Her girl’s voice cuts through the night. Around the fire there are cheers. From several points far out in the moonlight voices of children and men and women call back “Happy times!”
But Brittany’s charge has caused Tyrell to lose his balance. He flails, then sits in the mud. There is laughter, in which Tyrell does not join. Emma helps him to stand. Then she leaves his side and counts off three steps and turns. This time everyone except Frost and Fire and Tyrell shouts with her as she clears the flames. “Happy times!”
There is a continuous noise of frozen snow crunched under rapidly moving feet as children race in from the fields, laughing and shouting. The sound grows louder. Richmond and Newton jump the fire at full speed to the cheers and applause of the adults. “Happy times!” they cry in their little boy voices. “Happy times!” cry little Dawn and Night.