text: >*“...He opens the door of his house* > >*On flames. The scholar of one candle sees* > >*An arctic effulgence flaring on the frame* > >*Of everything he is. And he feels afraid.”* > >*- Wallace Stevens, “The Auroras of Autumn”* &#x200B; *Whitney Siddall will feel a strong wind from the north while cleaning up his second tip-up. He used to have more, but they’ve all rotted from overuse. His second tip-up, in this spot, after what could’ve been hours, or days - who knew - will not catch anything. The flag will not raise. No flags have raised for Whitney in quite some time.* *Today, he will have taken the riskier route and gone out on the ice 8 inches thick. He used to teach his daughter a baseline of 12 inches. That was the thinnest one could safely drive the family truck across. Whitney will remember this, remember his daughter, the treks they took to the lake each winter.* *He’ll pick up the rig. He will recall his youth and regret the time wasted on the hole. What used to be easy was difficult, the auger he lifts will now be heavy. It will be difficult to dig another, and he’ll think himself dumb for leaving tools out on the ice, instead of picking up after* *himself once the hole’d been dug.* *“Making the bed” is what he used to tell Justine as he would place the tools back in the truck.* *...That flag would raise and they’d both get giddy at the thought of a large, delicious meal. That gold-yellow perch, mottled and striped like some kind of painting, would emerge squirming, and the fillet knife saddled at his side was all they’d need to actualize their hopes.* *He’ll recall that his excitement had been sparked by hers, at her seeing the color explode against the gray. He’ll recall, as he leans down to pick up the rig, that he’d chosen the color green for his truck sometime soon after his daughter turned four or five. He will remember he wanted it to appear to Justine that life could grow even in the harshest environments - as if the truck were some fragile flower.* *He’ll laugh at his younger, paternal stupidity...but the laugh will be silent, since he knows, deep down, that this recollection has occurred before. And he will have barely any time for amusement since he will be frustrated.* *The weather would have barely reached freezing the day before. But he will not think of his venture as a risk. Rather he’ll think in terms of time: all the times in which he’d ventured out on even thinner, even weaker ice.* *All he’ll want is one perch. And he’d sacrifice a million minnows just to give it to Justine. He’ll plan for the holiday season, for when she normally comes to visit, - though Whitney will wonder if she’ll even make it out this year.* *He will think of Justine’s new husband, of their marriage, of their indecision about* *having children, on their focus on travel and self-improvement, of their lives finally formed around each other. And Whitney will feel happy that she has found love. Then he will feel selfish for feeling anything but happy.* *Whitney will make the bed and feel alone.* *Whitney will enter the truck and turn the key, revving the engine - and he will see a small wolf cub hopping in his direction, aimless. Whitney will leave the truck, confused, and pick up the cub. He will be surprised at the wolf cub’s domesticity as it licks his face. Whitney will then see in the distance his first tip-up - he will see the flag raised...but it won’t be raised* up*, for it will be sideways, lying on the icy floor.* *Whitney will approach quickly, holding the cub who is panting heavily, and who, Whitney will realize, is very light, very thin. Whitney will see something in the distance, near the fallen flag. As Whitney will approach, he will slow, for he sees something that shakes him: he sees a young man (maybe in his mid-twenties), crouched, holding a yellow perch to his chest. The man will be shirtless, his skin will be navy and his posture animalistic. Certain parts of his body will be bruised, others scratched and maimed, frozen blood will paint his torso. And his eyes...his eyes will be indiscernible beneath the heavy scratch that will run across his face. And Whitney will realize this man’s wound has blinded him. Whitney will feel something he hasn’t in a while: pity. He will feel the need to help, and adrenaline will pulse within him. He will feel the need to help, but he will know, from age, to approach with caution...and he will ask, with caution and compassion, “You okay, buddy?”* \* \* \* He was a quiet man, the type to sit beside a fire for hours, puffing a rolled cigarette, silently enjoying the fruits of his labor. Though he was a quiet man, he was not altogether serious. He still found humor in vulgarity, and he’d laugh like a teenager. He had moments of outrage that expressed themselves in bombast and melodrama. He whined to himself about the capriciousness of life. And on the days he found himself particularly pleased, he sang loud against the crisp wind and playfully chased the lemmings and squirrels that crossed his path. -In mind and heart, A. Hugh Town was a child that never matured. Today he was tired and a little hungover. His walking stick had become an essential limb. Sleeping on cattails for months had taken its toll, and even the exhaustion after hours of sawing through the boughs of a lodgepole pine the night before hadn’t been enough to exhaust him to sleep. The nights had been short and the days long. When Town awoke, he wasn’t sure what time it was: the sun was hidden behind an overcast tapestry. The days of frolicking had been separated by an increasing number of lazy days, marked by a beige personality. But this wasn’t uncommon: Town had always been the silent type. \- - - - - His silence came from his inability to confront the shadows reaching through his past. And when those moments of silence overcame him, his face turned blank, and revealed neither torment nor depression. Instead he donned a Zen-like concentration, bent on purging his mind of all preoccupation by staring into the fire and drawing from a tight cigarette, as he’d done the night before, and the night before that. But - once life presented him with what he considered a long-deserving gift (such as a dumb easy-to-kill stag, or the soft wisp of clouds that meant the sun wouldn’t feel so bright) - the jump-for-joy child would bubble to the surface, and his only conscious thought would be to keep his giddiness from springing in his step too suddenly, as it might spook the wolfdogs that hung beside him. These most recent days, however, gave no gifts. The soft wisp of clouds had turned to a large smothering quilt that only hid the form of the sun. And even then, its shine still felt so bright and so reflective that Town would often walk with his eyes closed, hoping that he wouldn’t bump into any of the pine trees along the way. And, of course...he was starving. There hadn’t been any sign of food for a good month or so. Those lemmings and squirrels Town used to chase playfully were now chased predatorily. But these small bits of sustenance were not enough to keep his stomach at bay - and he could only imagine what it must be like for the four dogs...and that small cub... Because of all this, Town felt a void growing inside him, which he filled with whiskey. He took long sips from the large flask he kept in his inner jacket pocket. And this day was a day when the void had grown so large that his psyche had burst in excitement just to survive. As a consequence, it seeped through the stick he used to provoke one of those wolfdogs to a wrestle.