White.
Everything was white.
The
children collected what they needed from their mothers’ kitchens. Up they
trooped to the top of the road that overlooked the valley. Here, beneath the
shelter of the Hanging Tree, they got to work.
It was
here, the previous Christmas, the father of one of the children had been found
dead.
They
compacted the soft snow into three parts. With these they formed his legs, his
torso and his head. Two black olives they inserted as his eyes, for his mouth a
half-moon of coffee beans, and for his nose, a carrot. His arms they fashioned
from long twigs, on whose ends they put a pair of mittens. And lastly, upon his
head they placed a ring of holly with red berries. This was Joshua’s idea. The
youngest of the pals. It was Joshua’s father’s lifeless body that had been
found hanging from the tree the previous Christmas. Buster Blizzard, the name
they always gave him, was complete.
Around their creation they danced and laughed
until creeping darkness scared them and they ran home. All except Josh, who stayed
with Buster Blizzard so the snowman wouldn’t be alone in the scary darkness.
Besides, Josh’s mom was still in work, and he didn’t like being by himself
since his daddy left them. He moved in close to the tree for shelter.
Daylight, pure and bright, slunk off at the approach
of her shadowy stalker the Night. The realization that the kingdom of Snowtopia
would soon awake came to Buster Blizzard as a fuzzy feeling. The previous year,
Snowtopia, like Buster Blizzard, had lain dormant.
The
snowman, the king of Snowtopia, trembled at the consequences of his absence.
Without their yearly period of respite in Snowtopia, the world of mortals would
have forgotten its humanity. And the birds and animals, too, would have been
corrupted. Perhaps he was already too late.
Silence, no
sound save for the far-off whispering of a million tiny voices told the snowman
king his loyal army was on its way.
From the
skies they fell, a myriad of snowflakes. Into his ears they whispered
confirmation of his fears. Mortal mothers and fathers, they told him, had
neglected their parental duties. Instead of bonding with their children last
Christmas, they’d abandoned them, left them with nannies and child-minders so
that they were free to make merry in public houses.
The king lowered
his head, his dark-eyed gaze locked to his own blue shadow. But he looked up
quickly when a robin landed on his outstretched arm.
“Ah, my little friend. Good to see you’re
still thriving.”
About the author:
Steve Wade is a prize nominee for the PEN/O’Henry
Award, 2011, and the Pushcart Prize, 2013. His fiction has won awards and been
placed in prestigious writing competitions. His novel, ‘On Hikers’ Hill’ was
awarded First Prize in the UK abook2read Literary Competition, December 2010 –
the British lyricist sir Tim Rice was the top judge. www.stephenwade.ie
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