WHS - Andrew Szepesy 1957

THE TREES WERE stretching crooked arms towards the sky. Small, black trees, stunted and crippled by the cold. The sky itself was a glowering grey, dappled here and there by hurrying clouds. All around was the snow, thick and white and silent. The vast whiteness was broken only here and there by the black figures of the trees. Nothing moved but the clouds and the rising wind.

They had hunted a long way that day. But they found nothing. The winter was hard and cold and the game was gone. There was little food left and they needed the game. There was really only food for one, but they were brothers and they shared it. Both of them were hungry, and the cold and the snow were all around them. He carried the gun, there was only one. He was the better shot, and anyway they were brothers. They were tired and hungry and there was so little food. The snow was wide and empty. He had the gun. But then they were brothers. The harsh sky was looming over them and the wind was chasing the clouds. His bones were aching and he stumbled in the snow. The gun slipped on his back. But they were brothers. The cold was poking its fingers through his furs and his eyes ached from the snow. His brother moved ahead of him. He was stronger and moved more quickly. There was little food and his brother would live longer than he would. He tripped on his snow-shoes and his brother moved further ahead of him.

Then he slipped the gun off his shoulder and killed his brother. The report skittered out over the snow and was lost in the scurrying sky.

His brother was lying on his stomach. He was small and thin and the heels of his snow-shoes were touching. His arms were stretched out in front of him in the snow. He didn't move. He was dead.

The man with the gun turned and started back through the snow. He moved quickly and looked every so often at the sky, He carried his gun across his back and moved leaning forward on the wind.

There were clouds and the wind was rising. The gun was heavy on his back and the cold was nibbling at his toes. He looked at the racing clouds and then back at the snow. He had a long way to go and he was hungry.

Fine snow was beginning to trickle from the clouds and was carried along on the wind. He looked at the sky and the clouds and moved on more quickly.

He had come a long way and his legs were aching. The snow, falling faster now and thicker, was blotting out their footprints. The flakes were growing and the wind was harrying the formless clouds. His gun was flapping on his back and the sweat trickled down his legs.

He couldn't see the trail and the sky was gone. White shafts of snow were falling all around him and the wind was throwing it, in his eyes. His legs were moving more slowly now and his head was lolling on his shoulders. But he moved on for a long time. His feet were slipping in the snow and the wind was catching him off balance. All around him a moving whiteness. He was staggering and his feet were sinking further in the snow. The sweat was icing up on his legs and he couldn't see. He was alone in a vast, white blindness.

His snow-shoe caught on something soft and he fell on his face, in the snow. The wind was screaming and the quiet snow covered the brothers in a shroud of white.