The Small Town of Evermore - Chapter 1

Snow - mass snow hurtles like a pod of whistling asteroids towards the ground, yet a lone spec of snow drifts and tarries, turns and hesitates, spins and swirls before it finally reaches the ground in a silent, soft caress.

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In winter, a horse-drawn cart would sound the same to a casual passer-by as a child’s footsteps. The thick snow that embraces the earth is equal to ten thick quilts filled with goose feathers, or something of the sort. The ferret that wanders makes no more noise than the legions of ants in summer. The deer that leaps is heard no more than the furtive cat. The guillotine that falls would sound like the thump of a boot.

The snow takes the sound into itself, like the spongy seats of the audience at a piano recital. The sound is absorbed and vanishes, leaving the ears of the listener to alert (sharpen?) itself in futile, and the mind to wonder if anything happened at all. No tree that falls in the winter is remembered for long - snow blurs the eyes of the most avid observer as if a misty dream.

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The sound of crushed snow, diffused by the thicket of birch trees, rippled the smooth silence of the forest. The snow which lay docilely at the feet of the forests twinkled, reflecting the faint golden sunlight of the sun that pierced the barricading tree crowns. The snorting of horses, the silvery, watery tinkling of a bell and the crunch of snow prophesied the coming of a carriage.

Peering out from the thicket of trees, the blotched rays of sunlight glided over the brown wooden frame of the carriage, here and there sparkling fiercely and suddenly because of the golden curls that wreathed the wood. The chestnut horses huffed and breathed white smoke, as the horseman silently watched on, huddled in his swamp of padded clothing, his cigar smoke mixing with the horses’ breaths.

The white curtain at the right-side window, nearer to the front of the carriage, rippled as it was gently tied back by a thin thread of white string, the owner of the pair of hands struggling to keep the curtains in place while tying the string. Another pair of hands, slenderer and more well-defined, took the white thread and made a delicate drooping knot on the curtain.

The carriage jolted softly across the snow, the horses snorting and trodding with high steps through the thick snow, until it passed a particularly thick patch of evergreens dabbed with snow, then broke into the winter sun, sparkling along with the snow.

Ahead of the travellers, there were uneven patches in the snow made by horses that had passed before, and these tracks merged and detoured. Occasionally one set of hoof prints would break out of line, curving toward a blade of grass like the handle of a purse, and hastily return to the zipper line. The chestnuts tied to our grand wood-and-gold carriage meekly trod the footsteps of their predecessors.

The right hand of the slender and well-defined pair reached out and tapped on the wood. The coachman looked back and asked, his voice briefly lighting up the space but then dissuading in the wind, “Oui?”

“Would you recommend us to detour into that plain of snow yonder? La neige?”

The coachman who barely understood English felt threatened by the two French words that seemingly had no connection with his occupation whatsoever. A finger pointed at the named patch of snow saved his career. “Oui, monsieur,” said he.

“S’il vous plait, merci.” The finger retreated.

The coachman understood that perfectly. He shook the reins, and the horses bobbed their heads, pointing their tracks now at a patch of untrodden snow to the left of the zipper line. The handbag gained two tassels.

The small door opened, but the steps were disregarded, and a pair of laced white boots met the snow. The shoes were round-headed, the body of the shoe sticking out after the heel ended. They were in the fashion of the newly popular Victorian style, having come from English ladies and adored by French mademoiselles. By comparison with the blinding whiteness, the leather boots were dimmed more to a milky, yellowish white.

Gloved hands extended the steps, which folded out of one another and clattered, rocking slightly to a stop.

“Thank you, my dear,” the same soft voice which had called to the coachman replied. A gloved hand and an ungloved one met, the ungloved, slender fingers softly dipping from above to the black glove below.

It was the period when court shoes still reigned at the feet of the French noblesse. The particular pair that descended the steps were barely arched with shallow heels, the tips rounded and curved to better accommodate the feet of the wearer. Black lace, an uncommon decoration, graced the surface of the shoes with irregular creases so that the flecks of snow stuck in the trough of those creases made snowy crests not unlike the ones surrounding the small town.

“Well, why did you ask the coachman to come here?” The first asked.

She was a tall young woman dressed in a khaki vest with the hint of a white shirt peeking above the neckline and thick pants darker than the vest.

“Don’t you think it’s a great view here?” The other replied.

This was a slim young man with wavy black hair that curled around his high coat collar. He wore a red leather knee-length full-skirted coat, a shade duller than the fresh blood. A black linen shirt paired with a white cravat was tucked into a red vest, the same shade as the coat. Unlike the stockings and knee breeches that were still in fashion, he wore long leather pants, still the colour of his coat.

His breath turned to white mist in the chilly air, like the horses that were fighting for the ownership of a dried daisy sticking out of the ground, where the snow was thin. The air was clean beyond imagination; the snow had brought down with it the dust and fog. Birds delighted at this; their joyous clear calls cut through the clean silence like glass shards shattering. The coachman rested and dozed.

Suddenly, the bang of a bell sounded a crescendo through the small town, its sound almost visible. A round, bulging sound it was at first as if it had been covered by a big cauldron, then expanded like a sphere as it from the mountains on the north to the mountains to the south, and while reverberating back and forth it gained a metallic note and finally broke down into the wrangled cry of the pallid ringing of a gong.

Thus, morning began.