For Thursday, December 9, 1999 Drummer Column, Gibbs, 745 words

A harvester's tale

Cyrus Husking tore another strip from his shrinking blanket and used it to plug another drafty gap between the wall of his hut and the bitter winter storm raging outside. The icy breeze and infernal whistling diminished enough that Cyrus could again hear the wheezing of his ailing boy, little Billy, huddled in the corner on a plank bed inside four burlap bags.

Before returning to bed, Cyrus walked across the cold wooden floor to feel Billy's forehead. It was still as hot and damp as it had been for the past four days. Billy groaned a bit, and Cyrus sat at the bedside and stroked his boy's hair. He wished he could do more. His failed crops had left him without harvest.

"Daddy, I can't sleep," whispered Bess, his frail daughter, lying between her twin brother, Billy, and the wall. She was buried up to her neck in coats and towels. Her head looked small and delicate against the huge pillow. Her mousy ears stuck out like cup handles. "I'm so hungry, Daddy."

Cyrus went to his own pillow and returned with a heel of bread, his portion of the family's evening meal. He tore off a piece. Bess held her mouth open weakly and Cyrus tenderly pressed the bread to her lips.

Scamp, their beagle terrier, smelled the bread and came over to sit dutifully and hopefully at Cyrus's feet. Cyrus looked from the dog to the Christmas candle flickering on the mantle above the cold hearth. The candle had been used down to the very bottom of the wax, deep in a fruit jar, but it continued to burn as brightly as when it was new. Cyrus smiled at that. He tore off a piece of bread for the dog.

Now, Scamp wanted out. He walked to the door and waited. The wind blew hard, making the rafters rattle. Pinches of dust trickled down. Scamp didn't seem to mind.

Cyrus gave the remainder of the bread to Bess. He put it in her hand and tucked her hand under her pillow, as if to subtly say, "Try and save it."

He stepped to the door and braced himself by clutching his open collar closed against his throat. He opened the door and a wall of snow poured in, burying Scamp and pushing him down, covering him up to his waist.

Inside the snow, he felt with his feet, was a body. It was not Scamp, who was digging himself out from under it. Some traveler had been struggling to reach his door and failed only a foot away. Cyrus sat up and dug the snow away until he found a head. Quickly, he stood and pulled an unconscious man out of the snow.

The man lay sprawled out across the floor, frost in his beard and icicles on his eyebrows. He wore a fine woven coat and heavy boots. Clutched in his hand was a monogrammed leather satchel. It read, "Dr. M." A large pack was strapped to his back.

Cyrus tossed the remainder of his blanket over the man. He peeled away the frozen hat and removed the man's boots. He shoveled the snow back into the yard and pushed the door shut. Scamp licked the unconscious man's frozen feet.

Bess got up and made hot tea. The effort and the smell of it warmed the house. The traveler came to. He raised his head, took a quick look around, and dropped it again. "Thank you," he said, staring up at the rafters. "To whom do I owe my life?"

Scamp licked the man's face. "T'was the dog that wanted out," said Cyrus.

The man sat up. "I'm Dr. Montgomery," he said. "I was out here delivering a baby. I was driving my son's SUV and it got stuck in a drift on the way back to town. I figured it was walk or die. Then I got lost in the whiteout."

"My Billy's sick, Doc. Can you help him?" Cyrus pointed to the boy, still sleeping.

"I'll do my best," he said. Bess handed him a mug of hot tea. He opened his satchel full of medicines. "Here, Missy," he said to Bess and handed her the backpack. "Unload this. My son was packing for snow camping. It's full of blankets and two-weeks worth of food."

Cyrus sat scratching his head. "How did you find us?" he asked.

Dr. Montgomery shrugged and sipped his tea. "I saw your light," he said.