Lilian Braun - The Cat Who Knew Shakespeare

Now he could feel something solid underfoot — the roadbed — but already there was an accumulation of five, ten, or fifteen inches, depending on the drifting. He moved forward, blinded by the snow, one thoughtful step at a time. He had a plan! If he found himself slipping down a slope to the right, he would be off the roadbed; he would veer to the left. If he slipped to the left, he would be headed for the opposite ditch.

In this way he zigzagged ahead, not daring to hope that a car would come along. Would he see the fog lights? Would he hear the motor above the howling wind? It was shrieking now, shrieking through trees that he couldn't see.

Though his coat collar and storm hat were snug, and though his trousers were stuffed into his boots, the relentless wetness found its way into every crevice. He banged the snow off his mittens and brushed the buildup from his face. It was no use; in another few seconds he was coated with freezing wet.

He had been walking for what seemed like an hour. Could he be traveling in a circle? If he had inadvertently done a right-about-face, thinking the right ditch was the left ditch, he would now be headed for the main highway, three miles back.

The blind groping was discouraging, frightening. He was totally disoriented. He held his mittened hands in front of him like a sleepwalker, but there was nothing to feel. He could hardly keep his eyes open. His eyelids were raw. Were they freezing shut? His cheeks and forehead were numb from the vicious wind and wet. He shouted, "Hello!" He shouted, "Help!" He was shouting into a void and swallowing snow.

What do I do now? he asked himself — not in panic but in defeat. He had an overwhelming desire to sink to his knees, roll up in a ball, and call it quits. Keep going, he told himself. Keep going!

He remembered the mailboxes. He had to bump into them, or he'd miss them entirely. He inched along, not seeing, not feeling, not knowing. The snow was getting deeper underfoot and piling inches thick on his clothing. He stood still and tried to breathe normally, but he was being smothered by the wind and drowned by the snow.

Suddenly, without warning, something rose up in front of him and he fell over two mailboxes, close together, with a foot of snow on top of each. He threw his arms around them like a drowning sailor clutching at floating debris. He bent over them, trying to catch his breath.

A few feet beyond would be the driveway. But how many feet beyond? It was trial and error. When he banged a knee on a concrete culvert, he knew he was there. He remembered a hedge that bordered the drive. He would follow the hedge, feeling his way. It worked until the hedge came to an abrupt end. The brick farmhouse would be on the left. The cottage should be straight ahead.

Once again he was stumbling blindly on what he hoped would be a straight course. It was dark now, and he realized that snow is not white in the black of night. Yet, he thought he detected a glow in the space ahead. He followed it, reaching for it, until he fell over steps buried in a drift. He scrambled up on hands and knees. There was a door directly in front of him. He leaned against it, pounding with both fists. The door opened, and he fell into a kitchen.

"Oh my God! Qwill! What happened? Are you hurt?"

He was on his hands and knees in an avalanche of snow jolted from his clothing when he fell. Polly was tugging at his arm. He crawled farther into the room and heard the door slam behind him, cutting off the noise of the storm. It was bright and quiet indoors.

"Are you all right? Can you get up? I didn't think you were coming. What happened to your car?"

He wanted to stay on the floor, but he allowed her to help him to his feet.

"Let me brush you off. Stand still."

He stood, silent and motionless, while she pulled off his hat and mittens and threw them on the kitchen table. With towels she removed the snow and ice from his moustache and eyebrows. She brushed a bushel of snow from his coat, pants, and boots. And still he stood, dumbly and numbly, in a flood of melting snow and ice.

Now she was untoggling his car coat. "Let's get you out of these wet clothes, and I'll get you a hot drink. Sit down. Let me pull your boots off."

She led him to a chair, and he sat obediently. "Your socks are dry. Do your feet feel all right? They're not numb, are they? Your shirt is wet around the collar. I'll put it in the dryer. Your pants, too. They're soaking wet. Thank the Lord you wore long johns. I'll bring you some blankets."

And still he could say nothing. She wrapped him in blankets and led him to a sofa, convinced him to lie down, tucked him in, stuck a thermometer in his mouth.

"I'm going to make some hot tea and call the doctor to see if I'm doing the right thing."

Qwilleran closed his eyes and thought of nothing but warmth and dryness and safety. Vaguely he heard a teakettle whistling, a telephone being jiggled, water being sponged into a pail.

When Polly returned with a mug of hot tea on a tray, she said, "The phone's dead. The lines must be down. I wonder if I should bring you a warm footbath. How do you feel? Do you want to sit up and drink some tea?" She took the thermometer from his mouth and studied it.

Qwilleran was beginning to feel like himself. He rose to a sitting position without assistance. He accepted the mug of tea with a grateful glance at Polly. He sipped it and uttered a long, deep sigh. Then he spoke his first words.

“For this relief, much thanks, for it is bitter cold."

"Thank God!" She laughed and cried. "You're alive! What a fright you gave me! But you're all right. When you quote Shakespeare, I know you're all right."

She threw her arms around his blanketed shoulders and nestled her head on his chest. At that moment the power failed. Half of Moose County blacked out, and the cottage was thrown into darkness.

Friday, November twenty-second. Qwilleran opened his eyes in a bedroom filled with dazzling light.

“Wake, up, Qwill! Wake up! Come and see what’s happened!” Someone in a blue robe was standing at the window, gazing rapturously at the scene outdoors. “We’ve had an ice storm!”

He was slow to wake. Groggily he remembered the night before: Polly ... her tiny cottage ... the blizzard.

“Don’t lie there, Qwill. Come and see. It’s beautiful!”

“You’re beautiful,” he said. “Life is beautiful!”

It was cool in the bedroom, although a comforting rumble and roar somewhere in the cottage indicated that the space heater was operating. Dragging himself out of bed, he wrapped himself in a blanket, and joined Polly at the window.

What he saw was an enchanted landscape, dazzlingly bright in a cold, hard November sun. The wind was still. There was a hush over the countryside, now glazed with a thin film of sparkling ice. Fields were acres of silver. Every tree branch, every twig was coated with crystal. Power lines and wire fences were transformed into strings of diamonds.

“I can’t believe we had a howling blizzard last night,” he said. “I can’t believe I was wandering around in a white-out.”

“Did you sleep well?” she asked.

“Very well. And not because of tramping through the snow or eating too much roast beef ... I smell something good.”

“Coffee,” she said, “and scones in the oven.”

The scones were dotted with currants and served with cream cheese and gooseberry jam.

“The hedge you followed in the blizzard,” Polly said, “is a row of berry bushes, planted by the MacGregors years ago. He lets the people on the next farm pick them, and then they supply us with preserves ... Is something bothering you, Qwill?”

“Mrs. Cobb will be worried. Is the phone working?”

“Not yet. The power came on half an hour ago.”