It was something out of a Jack London novel. The world had suddenly turned white; and Russell now had no clue where he was going.
He’d been snowshoeing right behind his girlfriend. They’d seen the cottage at the far end of the open field, just a few kilometers away. But now – he was alone as he could be.
“Joan!” he called. “Joan?!”
No answer. “What a figurative and literal analogy for this relationship,” he thought. She was always one step ahead of him, and somehow, he knew she was fine.
He couldn’t see more than a foot away in any direction, with or without his protective visor. He felt a mix of anger and panic rising in him… and then… for some reason, he remembered something about the wise man knowing when the right thing to do is absolutely nothing.
So he stopped moving and just stood. And he breathed.
A Toronto Transit Streetcar suddenly bombed past him. One of the articulated ones from Queen Street. The wind shear nearly blasted him off his feet as it dopplered into the curtains of snow, but he could have sworn it was full of timberwolves wearing parkas, glaring at him.
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The word “hallucinating” flitted about the periphery of his conscious mind, failing to gain the attention of his rational mind, which was engrossed in the call of the humpback whale that swam lazily over him, the echo of its song muted by curtains of snow but no less melancholy as it faded in the distance.
He was weeping, and he fell first to his knees, then to his face. He saw flashes of light. And then he saw nothing.
He didn’t see the hundred white stoats who scurried out of the snow and dug under him, hoisting him up on their shoulders and then delivering him to the cabin like a wailing furry thin ambulance.
Joan opened the door and bid the stoats to put him by the fire before they disappeared, wraithlike, into the wind. Then she sat by him, disappointed, as he regained consciousness.
She’d really hoped that he was the one.
