Sarah St.Vincent - Ways to Hide in Winter

“No, I’m sorry. I mean the Civil War, although of course—” He broke off. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize—”

“That’s okay. It doesn’t really come up.” The road unspooled before us, through a stand of birches that had been charred in the fire.

He seemed to be pondering something. Eventually, he said, “What do you think of it?”

I glanced at him. “Of what?”

“Well, of—of the war. The one happening now.”

“There are two of them, technically. Or the same one, but in two different places. So they say, anyway.” I swerved around some black ice. “I’m not sure what there is to think, really. They’re happening, and I follow what’s going on as best I can. But…”

Hearing and disliking the edge of helplessness in my own voice, I tried to think of something else to discuss. But he persisted.

“Do you ever ask yourself if your country’s done the right thing?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean…going to war in those places.”

I was silent for a long moment, considering being offended. But, I realized, that wouldn’t be honest, and I didn’t feel like inventing a feeling I didn’t have. I looked at him, remembering the pauses that had sometimes formed in the gap between my twin bed and Beth’s, between a question and an answer, late at night, when we knew there was something we shouldn’t say but were turning over in our minds anyway.

He watched the forest pass by. The gray rocks that marked the bottom of the trail came into view, and I pressed the brake.

“All the time,” I said.

The smells of damp earth and cold water greeted us as we stepped out of the car, closing the doors with a sound that echoed and made the stranger wince. There was a short path leading down to the gully where the trail actually began, and we trod along it, weaving around the jagged outcroppings of quartz and granite that protruded from the soil. Within moments, we could hear the low, mumbling chorus of the stream. The clearing revealed itself abruptly, the way it always did, hidden behind a sharp curve in the path and a dark, dense patch of holly.

“It’s wonderful,” he murmured, standing before the stream with its fragile bridge of lashed-together branches, the water trickling down through the tree roots before forming the ice-edged pool at our feet.

“Yeah,” I said quietly as I looked around. “It is.”

We crossed the bridge, holding our arms out like winter scarecrows. The mud bank on the other side was steep, and I led the way, prodding roots and stones with my foot to make sure they would hold. The stranger clambered after me, grasping boulders and branches. The sound of water filled our ears, and we walked single file as the trail narrowed, ducking under fallen trees, the light shining down into our faces. The stream was partly frozen, the sunlight making the rolling arcs of ice look even whiter.

“Are you okay?” I asked, glancing over my shoulder. “You can do this?”

“Yes,” he said, breathing heavily. His shoes sank into the mixture of snow and mud. “Of course, it’s fine.”

Following the water, we made our way over patches of slippery dead leaves, loose rocks, thickets whose dried blackberry vines grabbed at our sleeves. I rubbed my hip to quiet the persistent note of pain that had begun to sound there, raising my feet to break branches and flatten undergrowth that stood in our way. It was something that made me feel more than a hint of pride, this knowledge of how to get through the difficult places. How to help us both make it to where we were going.

After what felt like an hour but was probably far less, we came to the waterfall that was halfway up, where a glacial cascade of boulders lay tumbled steeply, the tree roots growing around them and binding them in place. A cedar tree had fallen across the waterfall long ago, and there was a smooth spot where people would clamber across to sit on it, their legs dangling over the steep descending stretch of forest.

I pointed at it. “Do you need a rest?”

“Well, I—only if you—” He wiped sweat from his face. “I mean, yes, please.”

We laughed.

“Be careful not to slip,” I said, and sat down on the log, edging out over the empty space.

I made my way toward the middle and looked down at the water—melted snow from higher up—that glimmered back at me. The pang in my hip was becoming more insistent, and I shifted in place, trying to settle into a position that was more comfortable.

The stranger sat next to me, grasping the bark, seeming afraid to let go.

“I’ve never done anything like this,” he said, still trying to catch his breath. “To be honest, I never knew I could.”

“You don’t hike?”

“No, I’ve literally never done this. I’m an indoor guy.”

It was certainly much easier, I thought, to picture him hunched over a dozen books than slogging his way up a peak, even a modest one like this.

A thread of water trickled musically behind us.

“So,” I said, turning to him, “I’ve been wondering. Are you happy here?”

“Here?” He jumped slightly and rubbed at a splinter that must have pricked his finger. “You mean right here? Now?”

“No, I mean staying up here on the mountain.” I swung my feet, watching their reflections below. “You know, for someone like me, it’s no big deal—I grew up here, I’m used to it—but I thought for you it might be…” I didn’t want to use the word “lonely,” maybe because it felt like some kind of accusation whenever anyone applied it to me. “I guess I thought you might miss home.”

He looked surprised. “Well, yes, I do miss home. Unfortunately, home is a place I can’t go at the moment.”

“Oh.” I pulled my ankle up to rest on my thigh. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“It’s all right. There’s no reason for you to have guessed.”

We sat, listening to the quiet, glass-like sound of the stream.

“May I ask you a question?” he said finally.

“I believe you just did.”

He threw his head back and laughed appreciatively. “I’ve been meaning to ask about that sign, down on the road. Not the road we took today, but the one that crosses by your store. What is it?”

“You mean the Underground Railroad one?”

“I’m not sure. It’s blue, with flowers tied to it. I saw it when I first came here, but I never got a chance to read it.”

“Oh,” I said. “That.”

“You know it?”

“Yeah, I know it.” I leaned forward slightly, feeling the tug of gravity.

“What’s it about?”

I looked out over the tangled roots, the branches heavy with softening snow. Although the stranger kept glancing cautiously around us, he seemed to be in good spirits, and I found myself reluctant to bring him to earth. “Nothing, really.”

“I thought—since it had the flowers—”

“I mean nothing very cheerful.”

“Well,” he said after a moment, raising an eyebrow, “I’m rather used to hearing about things that aren’t very cheerful, I’m afraid. Uzbekistan, as you may know, isn’t an especially cheerful place. But of course there’s no need for you to tell me—I can see you don’t want to talk about it.”

I realized I still didn’t know a thing about Uzbekistan, although I silently resolved to find out. A hawk that had been circling above us settled into a tree, shifting its feet and folding its wings, turning its head to watch us. I looked back at it; like so many things in the woods, it was unsettlingly large when seen close up, its ferocity giving it the grandeur only dangerous things have.

“It’s okay,” I said slowly. “I understand why you’d be curious.”

I peeled a dead leaf from my shoe and dropped it into the water, watching it fall.