The Heart of Winter

Chapter 1

    Tall columns of smoke drifted lazily into the cool morning air as John Brodie started up his old and battered tractor. The skies hung drearily above the clear expanse of farmland that was his home.

    "Hopefully the snow won’t be coming in today," thought John as a small sheet of water fell from above.

      The tractor now roared to a start, sending the fenced in cattle rushing off nervously in a hurry, quiet bellows paling in comparison with the roaring engine that had woken them. John put the old tractor into gear, and headed towards the hay fields, where he would invest the majority of his time gathering bales for storage, and perhaps for sale as well.

    The morning waned and the yellow disk of the sun emerged from behind a thicket of clouds, relieving very little of the oppression and dreariness that the sky had cast upon the landscape. During his work, John was plagued with a sense of empty desperation, though he had now grown accustomed to it throughout his life. However, this time the desperation was much stronger than it had been, perhaps a result of the overcast skies, or perhaps as a means of expressing his soul’s last plea for true salvation.

    Winter had always been a depressing time of year for John. He recalled times past when the antique farmhouse was over run with excitement and energy. He recalled waking up in the morning to the sounds of little voices laughing in merry unison at the family dog, now the only individual left of the past that had stayed with the old farmer. The thought of the dark and dreary chamber that awaited him when he returned to the farmhouse brought a tear to John’s eyes as he continued loading the small wagon with hay from the field.

    Noon came and went, with each passing moment more and more of the field lay clear of hay. In his old age, John felt the wear of the work on his body. Leaning against the old tractor, John wiped his brow with the sleeve of his dirty and torn jacket, leaving a trail of dirt and dust on his face. As he scanned the land that surrounded him, heavy drops of rain started to pound down on the bleak and level plain. John, not being foolish enough to get caught in the rain during early winter, headed back to his farm by foot, leaving his tractor in the fields.

    The rain started falling even heavier as he neared the narrow dirt driveway that led up to the dismal house at the top of what seemed to be the only hill on the land. A slight breeze slapped the raindrops against John's face, biting into his wrinkled skin with such force that it seemed the gust wished to skin him alive. Finding solace from the malevolent rain, John entered the screen door that led into the house from the side. Wiping the mud from his worn boots, John entered the dark living room. Lying lazily on the couch, Bogie, a large German Shepherd who had definitely seen better days, looked up idly at the familiar silhouette in the doorway.

    "Hey there Bogs. The rain seems to want to keep us from accomplishing anything this winter." The German Shepherd slowly rolled off the beaten old couch and waddled towards the farmer, licking his hand in sympathy.

    "I just don’t know Bogs. Three days of rain and it doesn’t even seem to be close to giving up any time soon. The winter harvest will be ruined if this rain keeps up for much longer. How am I supposed to maintain the farm if we don’t have anything to sell?" The old man, out of habit, wiped his forehead, even though it was bare of any perspiration.
    The dog looked into its master's eyes with pure sympathy, and then staggered its way back to the couch.

    The farmer’s thoughts were interrupted as a bright pair of headlights glared through the window of the living room. John walked over to the door and opened it nervously. Peering out of the doorway, John saw a large white truck pull up next to the house and stop. Out of it stepped a large, pot-bellied man wearing a long black trench coat. The man’s chubby face was laced with a thin brown beard. John turned back and looked at the dog, with a fearful look on his face.
    “It’s the landlord, Bogs,” the farmer said hesitantly. John hurriedly ran about the house, straightening up the grand mess as best he could, until a loud knock sounded out at the front door. John walked as calmly as he could back into the living room to get the door.

    “It’s been a while since we’ve heard from you, John,” a loud and sarcastic voice said from the doorway. John looked up to see the landlord standing right inside the door, wiping his feet on the mat as he looked around the living room. David Cartwright was a man well renowned in the area as not only a cunning entrepreneur, but also as a vicious business man who would take any chance he could get to squeeze the money out of whoever he could get his hands on. He was also the owner of the farm that John and Bogs had lived on for so many years.

    “It seems you have let the place go, John. What a mess!” the landlord said as he kicked over a pile of carefully stacked magazines. The dog, disturbed from his nap on the couch, shot up onto its feet and growled at the man who was wrecking his house.

    “You better keep that dog on a leash, John. We don’t want to have any more trouble than we need to, right?” the landlord’s words trailed off in a grin. John motioned for the dog to lie back down, which it reluctantly did, however the dog maintained a level gaze on the landlord.

    “What’s seems to be the problem, David? I thought I sent the money in-“ the old man’s words were cut off by the landlord’s malicious gaze.

    “You and me both know that you never sent any money in, John, and that is what I am here to collect. So would you so kindly hand me what I have come for?”

    “I… I don’t have any money… none that I can spare,” The farmer’s words came to him in a shaky and unsure voice.

    “Then we have a problem, John. Tell me, what have you been doing in the year that you have not paid any rent?”   

    “I have been trying to live!” John said, finding the resolve to stand up to the landlord’s intimidating presence, “I had to spend my entire life’s savings trying to care for my wife while she lay on her deathbed from some sickness not even the damn doctors from the city could cure…” John winced in pain at the memory. All of the trips to the hospitals, carrying his love from place to place, trying to save her life, yet none of the places could help. Tears streamed out of John’s eyes as he remembered the long hours spent praying in the church sanctuary for his wife’s life, and yet even then, the woman whom he had loved so dearly died in his arms.

    “John. I am afraid that those excuses will work no longer. It has been 10 years since her death, and you have managed since then. I wonder; do you have even a penny to pay me?” the landlord asked, interrupting the farmer’s thoughts.

    “No… I don’t. Without my sons’ help, I haven’t been able to work the land as I did before,” another memory that brought John to tears.

    John leaned haphazardly against one of the dirty walls, cradling his face with his hands, moaning in pain at the thought of his lost sons. Michael and Adam Brodie had lived on the farm for their entire lives. John had cared for them with all of his heart and soul. However, when his wife came down with the devastating illness, John had to leave the two boys on the farm by themselves for days at a time, while he and his wife were at the various hospitals. His sons grew distant from him. When John was at the house, the boys would leave for hours at a time hiking through the vast surrounding forests. Eventually, the boys went for a hike, and never came back, leaving John alone to care for his wife. Every chance he got, John searched the forest looking for his two lost sons, but to no avail. John even had the police searching for the boys, but no one ever found a trace of them in the woods.

    John looked up from his hands at the man who was standing over him now, staring into his eyes.

    “John, I am losing patience. I will come back in exactly one week for the money. If you do not have it, then I am kicking you out of this house with that dirty dog. Do not tempt me John. It would be advisable for you to make damn sure you have my money next time,” The landlord directed to the old farmer, with an evil grin. With that, the landlord turned and walked out of the door with a flourish.

    As the white truck pulled out of the driveway, John walked over to the stack of papers that the landlord had knocked over. At the bottom of the stack lay a postcard depicting the Empire State Building, a postcard that John had received just after his wife’s death. Picking up the card, John stumbled wearily over to his chair and sat down. Reading the card aloud to himself, nearly choking on his tears, John slowly fell into a restless sleep, the last line of the card barely escaping his lips:

    “Dad, we’re sorry.”


Chapter 2

    The rain lasted well into the night, with John sleeping quietly in his chair, dreaming of his wife and his lost sons, which were still lost to him at heart. The dreams caused the old man to twitch periodically and tremble nervously in his sleep. In a final swelling of remembrance of all that he had lost, John awoke from his troubled sleep. Panting, with sweat streaking down his face, John eyed the living room that surrounded him, like he had done so many times before.

    The living room was filled with an air of antiquity, however many years of neglect had led it into a state of dreary clutter and disorder. Photos of the house's former inhabitants lined the faded brown wallpaper, resting in silent memory on the wall. The fireplace was the only part of the chamber that had obviously been maintained. Sitting inside the brick enclosure was a small pail that John had used for many years to store away the ash from the fireplace.

    John rose from his chair and walked quietly over to the fireplace, stooping over to kindle the flame that would keep the house warm for the night. Forming a tent of the pine wood kindling that had been set aside next to the fireplace, John started a small fire. Once this tent caught aflame, John began the tedious process of building and nurturing this flame into a strong and self-sustaining fire. Adding a large poplar log to the flame, John rose and grabbed the tin pail, walking tiredly outside to dump the ashes.

    Outside, the cold night air blew through the trees, freeing a faint rustling sound which echoed throughout the valley. The moon had risen above the clouds and shone an eerie silver light over the fields and forest. John stepped out onto the porch, pail in hand, and started dumping the ashes into one of the large holly bushes that grew near the house. As the ashes sifted through the prickly leaves of the bush, John looked up into the sky. His eyes opened wide in astonishment as he came to focus on the heavens.

    Above him, the sky was filled with bright glowing stars, casting their light on the land as if emitted from the halos of angels.

    "Bogs! Come quick! The clouds are gone!" John shouted into the house, gazing at the mass of gloomy clouds slowly floating away to the south. John waited a few minutes, then called for the dog again.

    "Bogs! here boy!" A sense of panic over came his body and he rushed into the house to search for the dog. The living room lay empty and silent, except for the occasional pop from the fireplace. John's panic turned into near hysteria as he continued calling for the dog.

    Hours passed, and the farmer's search found nothing more than an old and neglected house. Choking back tears, John again walked outside, into the cool and unforgiving night.

    The moon hung high in the sky now, shining its surreal light over all, seemingly more brilliant than even the sun. John sat staring into the sky, cursing god for all of the troubles he has endured throughout his life.

    "Oh malevolent being... why do you plague my life so. How is it you punish a man who merely sought to support his family? How is it you first take my wife, then my sons? And now the only friend I have left in the world, Bogs? Are my transgressions so severe that you would force this on me? God why! why! Tell me!" The farmer's screams reverberated throughout the valley like the wail of a thousand dying bulls, far past their youths.

    Tears running freely down his face, John fell to his knees and clutched at the moist soil that he had tread upon so many times before. His mind was aflame with hate and regret. He had lost so much, and now all he had left was his land, and even that was in peril.

    "God... why?" The farmer's words slipped from his lips as the petals of a delicate flower falling away.

    Suddenly, as if in response, John heard a slight rustling in the leaves coming from the woods that stood near the house.

    "Bogs? Bogs!" John staggered to his feet and began pursuing the sound, hope swelling up in his heart. The sound seemed to be moving away, and John followed determinedly, aware that the chances of the creature being Bogs were very slim. However, the farmer held onto his hope, and followed the quiet rustling of the leaves.

    All through the night, John hurried through the forest after the sound. He had to find its source! The vast expanse of forest stood eerily still as he stumbled over fallen trees and limbs, ever intent on the sound that had already drawn him so far into the wood. Dew had set in on top of the depressing rain, adding a glossy, yet calming, shine to the leaves of the trees, bringing a sort of peace of mind to John that he had not experienced since his childhood. Here he was, running through the woods during the middle of the night, following an insubstantial sound.

    “I really must’ve lost it this time,” John said the thought aloud; awkwardly breaking the silence of the forest. John paused for a moment and looked up into the night sky through the tops of the towering trees.

    The view was more beautiful than anything he had ever seen in his life. The tops of the trees swaying gently against the slight breeze, bright starlight glinting off the crisp leaves, and the moon! The moon, full and bright, putting forth a soothing, almost reassuring light that caused the old farmer to gasp in awe.

    In so much awe was John that he did not even notice the sound falling away in the distance. John, in silence, let out a sigh and, glancing in the direction he had been traveling, decided to rest his weary body.

    "I suppose Bogs knows the woods better than I do. It was silly of me to get so worried," John spoke to himself with a laugh.

    Smiling contentedly, John leaned against a large oak tree, resting on a pile of invitingly dry leaves. John Brodie closed his eyes and slept... the first untroubled sleep he had had in years, the cold breeze carrying away years of worry and torment.

Chapter 3