The Chill Wind - Akha.org

The Chill Wind

He ran his fingers over the smooth worn boards of the bench that he sat on and thought to himself how many times he had fit himself thus so comfortably to a wooden bench. And in such fond places as he caressed each one in his mind. Why in parks and with lovers dear, alone watching children play or pigeons eat seeds next to some old brass fountain. Ah yes the benches were an integral part of life. As a child when reprimanded he had been made to sit on a bench in the hall. In church they called them pews but he supposed that to be the fault of the Puritans who insisted on putting some hard name or impression to everything which by right was pleasant in itself.

He had even made a bench of his own a time or two. Hewn of planks or some such heavy wood. He felt there some connection between the stoutness of the wood and the depth of the reflections one could ponder as one sat there on. Probably burl wood was the best for his way of thinking because as the twist and turns of the brain it reflected the fabric of his thoughts.

But now he heard a rattle in the hall which caused him to come back to the location of this particular bench on which he sat and the impressive place it held in his life at this very moment. He heard the muffled voices of shoes and a key rattled in a heavy brass lock. The next bench he would have the opportunity of seeing would be before the judgment seat of God, for today, here, in a few moments he was to be hung. Hung by the neck until dead as the more poetic were apt to put it.

A kindly and portly man with a dark brown coat and cap summoned him to come and without the ceremony of one who had been locked up for years, growing weak with time, he solemnly moved to the door. This was a process which would not have been difficult had it not been for the fact that he was in heavy shackles. Just the same he knew it was not for long. He did not have to suffer many seasons of cold in these quarters and so he carried the iron links with some dignity and pose as he stepped out into the hallway.

Yes, in everything there could be found some respite, even if it were only to glimpse an ant on its way to work as one swung dying. The quiet man led him down the passage which he had mapped out so well in his mind as to what it should be, even though he had not gone this way before. Simple stones. Wooden walls and ceiling.

Once he came outside into the prison yard the brisk, lung reviving chill of the fall air hit his lungs once again, telling praises of a winter to come which he would have to leave as a story unread, a love unfinished, to another.

So often he had been lucky enough to see the red maple leaves skittering on their crisp finger tips, as they ran from the chill breeze, across the paving stones.

There were times when he had been in love to the tune of such God sent little experiences in life. This kind of love was best lived in the country where the winter air brings a chill to the skin, giving all the more cause to find oneself driven into the arms of his lover. Winter snows cast a red upon the cheeks peering out from beneath the covers, jesting about who will jump up to light the fire in the pot belly stove for heating the house and bath water. Or to smell that familiar smell of ones own blankets as they snuggled in the bed, so joyful to hear the singing of the wind among the nearby trees as it bent them to changing tunes much like a piece of cat gut in the hands of some old hillbilly at a mountain jig. Then the wind would come and move the trees not as one instrument but as a great brush of swaying sound like some wonderful symphony of nature, too difficult to describe, so close was it woven into the pattern of the human heart.

He couldn’t say that he had a good life but he was thankful for what he did live. But too soon the sorrows had overtaken him. The pleasant years of youth, between the time one hopes to escape from childhood restraints and before the burdens of older age, had been but a moment, a flash of time before his eyes. And then his difficulties had risen like an ocean and the only escape from one was the different feel of the next two. He had been so disappointed in himself, in the results of his own decisions which he had tried to make as best he could. He hadn’t enough to work with and so often the other man was more clever and the time was too short for one to get two chances at everything.

And water. How he was going to miss water. Resting upon it in a wooden boat. Drifting. Listening as it moved on its way and spoke kind words to the pains of the human heart. He would surely miss water. A warm afternoon, the sun already behind the hill and the edges of the dark lake lapping gently at smooth stones near to his feet as though polishing the favored ones which it wished him to pick up and skip into a dance upon the glassy surface.

Or meadows. He would miss making love to a woman body deep in buttercups, their dainty yellow blossoms heralds of passion to the stilled forest. Lit up by the sun’s rays filtering down through the leaves of the canopy of aspen’s branches over head.

Then there were the grasses on some hill, moving as though by themselves each time they were bent by some subtle breeze pushing gently against them and then springing back as in some rhythmic cadence.

He was consoled that at least the gallows were wooden. That allowed him to imagine that in more dignified days the boards had been a host tree in which possibly some grand scolding wood pecker had hewn its home, little able to fathom what its towering mansion was going to be converted to later on in such a solemn change of events.

He padded softly in elk skin boots with fur linings. He had made them himself and there were none warmer. He must now take them off because the guard who led him along had kindly brought him bread from his wife’s fire as the food in the stockade was not so pleasant. He could not hang in them and he wished to give them to this kind man who somehow seemed ill fit to carry out such a hard job.

He thought of the daughter he was leaving behind, and a tear crept to the corner of his eye when he remembered the love he had felt for her mother with that first touch in what seemed now like so many years ago and worlds away.

The guard nodded when he handed him the boots, soft to the touch as a baby’s skin, the man’s puffy faced choking up with a stifled smile of gratitude mixed with a plea for forgiveness. From his pocket the big man pulled a pouch and drew out a plug of sweet tobacco. In what appeared to be a carefully rehearsed ceremony he accepted it and chewed on it thoughtfully, allowing its sweet flavor to seep into his bones in one last toast to both the joys and cruelties of life. Reverently he spit over the side of the platform onto the frost darkened grass. The sun was just now cracking through the tips of the nearby fir trees, the shadows slowly giving way to another day.

The wooden door creaked below his weight. He felt like he was standing still in the woods trying to spot that evasive bird which he suspected to be a thrush, crying out its enchanting, undulating warble from within the shadows. He had eaten slowly of some huckleberries growing on a small leafed bush on a nearby stump. He could not see well enough and would never know the lone soloist who he had so often heard.

Now he himself must take flight to that shadow land.

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	Document You may copy and save this document for later reading. Please remember to do a site search for other related documents which may not be shown here. The Chill Wind He ran his fingers over the smooth worn boards of the bench that he sat on and thought to himself how many times he had fit himself thus so comfortably to a wooden bench. And in such fond places as he caressed each one in his mind. Why in parks and with lovers dear, alone watching children play or pigeons eat seeds next to some old brass fountain. Ah yes the benches were an integral part of life. As a child when reprimanded he had been made to sit on a bench in the hall. In church they called them pews but he supposed that to be the fault of the Puritans who insisted on putting some hard name or impression to everything which by right was pleasant in itself. He had even made a bench of his own a time or two. Hewn of planks or some such heavy wood. He felt there some connection between the stoutness of the wood and the depth of the reflections one could ponder as one sat there on. Probably burl wood was the best for his way of thinking because as the twist and turns of the brain it reflected the fabric of his thoughts. But now he heard a rattle in the hall which caused him to come back to the location of this particular bench on which he sat and the impressive place it held in his life at this very moment. He heard the muffled voices of shoes and a key rattled in a heavy brass lock. The next bench he would have the opportunity of seeing would be before the judgment seat of God, for today, here, in a few moments he was to be hung. Hung by the neck until dead as the more poetic were apt to put it. A kindly and portly man with a dark brown coat and cap summoned him to come and without the ceremony of one who had been locked up for years, growing weak with time, he solemnly moved to the door. This was a process which would not have been difficult had it not been for the fact that he was in heavy shackles. Just the same he knew it was not for long. He did not have to suffer many seasons of cold in these quarters and so he carried the iron links with some dignity and pose as he stepped out into the hallway. Yes, in everything there could be found some respite, even if it were only to glimpse an ant on its way to work as one swung dying. The quiet man led him down the passage which he had mapped out so well in his mind as to what it should be, even though he had not gone this way before. Simple stones. Wooden walls and ceiling. Once he came outside into the prison yard the brisk, lung reviving chill of the fall air hit his lungs once again, telling praises of a winter to come which he would have to leave as a story unread, a love unfinished, to another. So often he had been lucky enough to see the red maple leaves skittering on their crisp finger tips, as they ran from the chill breeze, across the paving stones. There were times when he had been in love to the tune of such God sent little experiences in life. This kind of love was best lived in the country where the winter air brings a chill to the skin, giving all the more cause to find oneself driven into the arms of his lover. Winter snows cast a red upon the cheeks peering out from beneath the covers, jesting about who will jump up to light the fire in the pot belly stove for heating the house and bath water. Or to smell that familiar smell of ones own blankets as they snuggled in the bed, so joyful to hear the singing of the wind among the nearby trees as it bent them to changing tunes much like a piece of cat gut in the hands of some old hillbilly at a mountain jig. Then the wind would come and move the trees not as one instrument but as a great brush of swaying sound like some wonderful symphony of nature, too difficult to describe, so close was it woven into the pattern of the human heart. He couldn’t say that he had a good life but he was thankful for what he did live. But too soon the sorrows had overtaken him. The pleasant years of youth, between the time one hopes to escape from childhood restraints and before the burdens of older age, had been but a moment, a flash of time before his eyes. And then his difficulties had risen like an ocean and the only escape from one was the different feel of the next two. He had been so disappointed in himself, in the results of his own decisions which he had tried to make as best he could. He hadn’t enough to work with and so often the other man was more clever and the time was too short for one to get two chances at everything. And water. How he was going to miss water. Resting upon it in a wooden boat. Drifting. Listening as it moved on its way and spoke kind words to the pains of the human heart. He would surely miss water. A warm afternoon, the sun already behind the hill and the edges of the dark lake lapping gently at smooth stones near to his feet as though polishing the favored ones which it wished him to pick up and skip into a dance upon the glassy surface. Or meadows. He would miss making love to a woman body deep in buttercups, their dainty yellow blossoms heralds of passion to the stilled forest. Lit up by the sun’s rays filtering down through the leaves of the canopy of aspen’s branches over head. Then there were the grasses on some hill, moving as though by themselves each time they were bent by some subtle breeze pushing gently against them and then springing back as in some rhythmic cadence. He was consoled that at least the gallows were wooden. That allowed him to imagine that in more dignified days the boards had been a host tree in which possibly some grand scolding wood pecker had hewn its home, little able to fathom what its towering mansion was going to be converted to later on in such a solemn change of events. He padded softly in elk skin boots with fur linings. He had made them himself and there were none warmer. He must now take them off because the guard who led him along had kindly brought him bread from his wife’s fire as the food in the stockade was not so pleasant. He could not hang in them and he wished to give them to this kind man who somehow seemed ill fit to carry out such a hard job. He thought of the daughter he was leaving behind, and a tear crept to the corner of his eye when he remembered the love he had felt for her mother with that first touch in what seemed now like so many years ago and worlds away. The guard nodded when he handed him the boots, soft to the touch as a baby’s skin, the man’s puffy faced choking up with a stifled smile of gratitude mixed with a plea for forgiveness. From his pocket the big man pulled a pouch and drew out a plug of sweet tobacco. In what appeared to be a carefully rehearsed ceremony he accepted it and chewed on it thoughtfully, allowing its sweet flavor to seep into his bones in one last toast to both the joys and cruelties of life. Reverently he spit over the side of the platform onto the frost darkened grass. The sun was just now cracking through the tips of the nearby fir trees, the shadows slowly giving way to another day. The wooden door creaked below his weight. He felt like he was standing still in the woods trying to spot that evasive bird which he suspected to be a thrush, crying out its enchanting, undulating warble from within the shadows. He had eaten slowly of some huckleberries growing on a small leafed bush on a nearby stump. He could not see well enough and would never know the lone soloist who he had so often heard. Now he himself must take flight to that shadow land. Copyright 1991 The Akha Heritage Foundation