The Village

The first time he'd heard it he didn't know what it was. He thought back to that time, those years ago. Was it a cannon? He had never heard a cannon, but he sensed that that was not what he'd heard, and it was not a gunshot, though it could have been, he thought, to someone who had never heard a gunshot, it was that sharp. Like a whip, he thought, the world's biggest bullwhip. And he remembered how he'd stopped, deep in the woods, and waited and heard it again.

It was the trees popping in the cold. Like something wrenched from your soul, he thought and smiled. Just like it was torn out of there. And you were free.

He pushed on through the snow. Uphill or downhill, he thought, it doesn't matter. The skis do the work. He smiled at his false humility. No, I'm doing the work, he thought. Especially uphill. Who else would do it but me? There's no one here but me. My wife is not here. Nothing in my life is here except me. In the woods. A man in the woods. And if I'm strong enough to navigate in this snow, then I am. And there's no further analysis you need.

Quite simple, he thought.

He was following a deer track through the deep snow back in the woods. Blowdown I couldn't get over in the spring, now I glide over it, he thought. Everything changes.

He saw a tree up ahead and debated whether to take it on (continued on page 88) The Village (continued from page 78) the right or left. The left had thicker brush, and the right was somewhat steeper. As he came up to it he saw that the deer had hesitated, too. Its tracks started to the right and then veered left through the brush. He smiled.

Well, I guess we all got the same problem, he thought. And if you're taking your time, you've got the luxury of thought. He moved into the brush, going slowly, one ski, then the other, bending low sometimes. If the deer can do it, so can I, he thought.

Then he was through the brush, and it was a fairly clear run through a clearing, uphill for 50 or so yards. And the sun was making the shadows blue.

I could stop, he thought. Hell, I could stop and make tea. His body felt warm and good, powerful, all buttocks and shoulders. Warm, now, he thought. He looked up the hill and pushed off on his skis. They stuck a bit in the snow, as the wax was beginning to wear off. No wonder, the trash I've had them over today, he thought. No wonder at all. You can't ask equipment to do more than is in its nature. He pushed up the hill, not gliding now but using the poles, working with his arms. And the most useless tool, he thought, is an all-purpose tool. There's no such thing.

He continued up the hill and found himself getting winded. No point to stop here, he thought. You have to go in natural stages. And the natural stage, if you want to stop, is up top, at the top of the clearing. The snow was beginning again. He adjusted his belt and pulled his pants up. He took the red bandanna from his back pocket and mopped his brow and neck. Always the same, he thought. You go out, and however much you know that you aren't going to need it, you always dress too warm. He tied the sleeves of his hunting jacket tighter around his middle and pushed off, up the hill. I should have left it on a branch when I went into the woods, he thought. Pick it up on the way home.

Aren't humans funny? he thought. Make the same mistake once, twice, every time in our lives we are faced with the same dilemma. And then we make up rules about how, when faced with certain circumstances, we should act a certain way. And then, when those circumstances arise, we find that reason why the rules.... He got to the top of the rise, the top of the clearing, and stood panting. He maneuvered in a circle, to bring himself around, and looked back the way he had come...why the rules don't apply, he thought. He mopped his face and neck again. His arms and back were drenched in sweat and he found himself getting cold.

Of course it's cold, he thought. The sun is going down and I've been working. People in town wonder why they're out of shape. There is a use for everything, and our use....

And the knife, too, he thought. No all-purpose tool, no extra-sharp knife "never needs sharpening." What is that but idolatry? And another part of his brain said, "Get home," and he turned his skis, again in a half circle, and said to himself, "I am not frightened. Why should I be frightened?"

The deer track veered to his left, back deeper through the woods. Well, that's fine, he thought. And I was following you awhile because I chose to. And if I had chosen differently....

That is the problem, he thought. No, no. That's the problem. Situations change...isn't that just what I....

"You have to go home," the voice said. Well, there's no shame in that, he thought. I'm cold. I'm cold, for God's sake. Why shouldn't I be? Hard as I've been working, and the sun.... He looked back over his shoulder, as the woods before him had gone quickly dark. He couldn't see the sun above the trees.

It doesn't matter if I can, he thought, I'm going home. And home is just to my right, he thought. Just on my right hand. He found the words comforting and old-fashioned. Well, that's where it is, he thought. And North Road is north-northeast, no better than half a mile, wherever I am in these woods. North-northeast, and I have to hit it. Hell, if I didn't have a compass I could wait till night and see the Dipper, pick out the polestar and walk straight north. Whatever is there to it? Nothing to it. Hell, I could follow my tracks back, he thought, though it's going dark. He untied his hunting coat and pulled it on. It didn't make him warm. He buttoned it to the neck and clapped his arms against his body several times, but he felt no warmer.

Then I had better get home, he thought. He turned away from the path the deer had taken and pushed off into the woods. There was a thicket before him. Well, he thought, if a man did not have an objective.... He went into it, vines whipping his face. But I do, he thought, which is to get home, which is only common sense, for the Lord's sake. The jacket hindered him, and his belt felt heavy. He pushed through the thicket.

Well, fine, he thought. Well, fine. He came out and found himself in deep woods that he did not recognize.

It makes no difference, he thought, and thought at the same time, Woods are woods, and, I have never seen this land before.

There was a small deer run or path that went through the woods down and to his left.

My way is straight ahead, he thought, but I can make better time down the hill. I should do it and correct afterward. Down the hill is east, he thought. East. And even east I'm getting back to the road. Certainly. He bit his right glove to get it off, and it came off his hand, lodged in the strap of the ski pole. He let the pole and glove drop to the snow and dug in his pants pocket for the compass.

Down the hill, he thought and looked up at the small path, which was darker now and difficult to distinguish. Down the hill. East. Ninety degrees. He held the compass in his palm, waiting for the needle to steady. Come on, he thought. He looked down at it. Yes. I'm supposed to put it down somewhere flat. Where could I put it down? he thought. You tell me. You tell me. What the hell, he thought, looking wide-eyed at the compass. And then he thought that it wouldn't steady, as he was holding it too close to metal. What metal? he thought, then remembered the gun on his belt and held the compass out at half arm's length. And then how can I see it? he thought. But where should I put it down? He stuck it back in his pocket and stopped to pick up the ski pole and glove. He tried to get his hand into the glove and was hindered by the strap. I've done this hundreds of times, he thought. But if there is some reason that I cannot get my hand into the glove while it is in the strap, then.... He tried to work the glove out of the strap, holding the ski pole in his hand and pulling the glove with his teeth.

This is...this is...he thought. He looked back at the woods behind him, which looked back.

Well, no. I'm going home, he (continued on page 148) The Village (continued from page 88) thought, and picked up the glove and tried to jam his hand through the strap, twisted in the fabric, and threw it down on the snow and shot his hand into his pocket for the compass, and he couldn't find it there.

No. It is there, he thought. It may be that I cannot find, I cannot find it. But it is there, because it was there, and it must be there, or.... He looked down and saw nothing on the snow except his ski pole and glove. He picked them up. I will circle as slowly as necessary, he thought, then I must see the.... He began to make a circle in the snow. I must see the compass, he thought.

He made his circle and didn't see the compass.

It doesn't matter, he thought, because I.... He looked up, at the end of his circle, and recognized nothing.

This is ridiculous, he thought. He moved to his right, then to his left, and recognized, at no point, anything he had ever seen before. He started to cough and felt cold. No, I have matches, and I, even if I didn't, I have my gun and could open a cartridge case and pour powder on paper, then fire another cartridge into it to ignite.... As he thought, he hunted in his pocket and found, by touch, bills and coins and a folded book of checks and, below them, the compass.

He took a deep breath and held the compass in his hand. I am so steady, he thought. He maneuvered on his skis. There always is a feeling, he thought, and I feel that this is north. He looked down at the compass needle, which was swinging between east and west, between northeast and northwest, and which was slowly moving in smaller arcs to indicate north was behind him, exactly opposite to his intuition.

"No," he said. "No, no. That's impossible. I could be slightly off, but...." He remembered the other compass, sewn underneath the fish patch on his jacket. Well, fine, he thought, what is the point of having spares, or having thought ahead to have spares, if you cannot use them in situations just like.... He started to put his compass back in the pocket of his pants, then stopped.

No. No, he thought. I lost you once in there, I will be damned if I...I know which way is home....

He felt the cold from the snow seeping through his socks and making has feet cold. He reached down and picked up the ski pole. He put his hand through the strap so it was bunched up with the glove, stuck in there. But he could not grasp the ski pole while holding the compass. He took his cap off his head and put the compass in it and put it back on his head. He looked around the woods, to the left and to the right. He pushed off on his skis.

He came to a low place and found his right ski tangled in vines. He tried to wrench it loose and could not, and he backed it out. He crouched low to work himself through the overhanging vines and pushed himself forward on his hands. Low branches whipped his eyes. He pushed through and found himself on a bank, gliding and then falling down. It was dark and he was wet, and he was cold.

I have my gun, he thought. I can fire for help. Any time. If they were looking for me. Three shots. He reached into his pocket for his compass, then he felt on his head and found his hat gone.

He got to his feet. He began to tear at the patch on the hunting coat to get to the compass underneath. He found his ears and his hand beginning to tingle with the early burn of frostbite.

He shook off the ski pole from his right hand and tried to open the buttons on his hunting coat. He found he could not do so, and he wrenched the coat up to feel for the belt knife in its sheath in back. He found the clasp and worked to get the knife out, but the heavy coat, bunched at his back, made it impossible. He levered the sheath down, parallel to his belt, and tore the knife out of it, feeling it cut the coat as it came.

He bit his left glove off and tossed it and the ski pole down. He put the knife handle in his teeth and rubbed his hands together to warm them. He looked down and, like a surgeon, concentrating so that the stitches stood out like cords, he cut the patch from the jacket, and the little cheap red compass fell into the snow. He flung the knife away from him and sank to his knees in the dark, but he could not see the compass. He dug in the snow with his hands till they were too cold to feel, then stood and started forward. He stopped and knelt. He beat his hands against each other, and on his thighs, till he had some feeling, then worked each release, and stood, and shook his skis off.

He lurched forward through the snow and found himself stuck to his knees.

No, no. It's not all that deep, he thought, just here. He trudged, picking his legs up and moving forward quickly, fitfully, away from the bank, deeper into the woods.

The snow, except where it drifted, was only calf-deep, and he moved through the woods. He came across his ski trail and looked at it with the half-animal thought that it was tainted. He moved on, his breath coming quickly, in pants.

In the dark he fell into the small logging clearing and saw the ruts of the logging truck, now filled with snow. He followed them, half at a run. He stuck his hands into his pants pockets for warmth and ran unbalanced. He fell and levered himself up onto his knees, and up onto his feet, and on. And there was a place where he met another logging road.

No, he thought. Well. One way must lead to North Road. He turned to the left and ran, stumbling down the road for 50 yards, then turned and ran back, past the road he'd come out on. That is still there, he thought and ran on, determined to run till he died. He found himself, in 20 seconds, out on North Road. The sides were plowed and the snow banked up high. The road was gritty with the salt and dirt spread by the town, and it was punctuated by the regular herringbone of the chains on the tires of the snowplow.

I'm above it, he thought. My house is down there. He turned to his right. I was so close to it.

He felt his whole face burning with the cold, and his legs felt like sticks. He had no feeling in his hands. He walked on and, in a while, came over the hill.

Down below, far below, he saw the bend, and around the bend he saw his house, and the yellow light in the kitchen, and the shadow, which was his wife, moving down there, cooking and talking on the telephone.

"Hell, if I didn't have a compass I could wait till night and see the Dipper. Nothing to it."