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Short stories from The Vicious Circle

The Bend in the Road

The Whistler Writers Group, also known as The Vicious Circle, will be presenting the Whistler Writers Festival Nov. 3-14, 2004. The festival is designed for writers and readers, with a smorgasbord of creative events, including: discussions with and readings by award-winning West Coast authors; a workshop to inspire new writers; and an intensive workshop for emerging writers on craft and the publishing industry. A schedule of events is available through Stella Harvey at Stella25@telus.net or by calling her at 604-932-4518.

The Bend in the Road is the third of four short stories written by members of the Vicious Circle that will run in Pique Newsmagazine from Oct. 15 to Nov. Nov. 5. These stories are part of a collection of stories by local writers that will be released at the festival. The journal, appropriately called The Vicious Circle, will be available for sale at the festival for $5. Enjoy the stories! And check out the various events open to the public at the Whistler Writers Festival.

The Bend in the Road

By Brandi Higgins

The alarm goes off and sleepy eyes try to open. A wet nose touches a hand, and a paw comes on the bed. A whine imploring that they go now. Rising to the chill and semi-darkness of the early winter morning, the woman puts on warm clothes and grabs a pair of woollies. The puppy at her side is insistent and grabs the side of her jogging pants trying to hurry her downstairs. She pauses. The sleepy cats, who have spent all night playing amongst the plants and furniture, now sleep wearily in their chairs by the fire. She pets them, then moves onto the hallway and puts on a warm coat, toque, mitts and heavy winter boots. The puppy, knowing now that they are really going, waits quietly by the door for the bright blue leash and collar that stand out against the soft black velvet of his thick puppy fur.

The door opens and they are out in crisp winter air. It feels cold on their warm sleepy morning skin, but the woman knows that it will get much colder than this, and that they will be thinking of these mornings as warm in a few months time. The ground is covered with snow, but yesterday’s warming and then last night’s freezing has compacted the fluffy powder and formed a thick crust of ice atop it. The two stamp the ground and walk down the drive. They are met by the sound and smell of cars warming up while their owners sit inside trying to get one last drink of coffee before heading off to work. They walk quickly to the road that is called Sandy Beach and turn down it. It is a road that leads to a river, and a small piece of sandy land that the teenagers use for parties on warm summer nights. There are no houses near it, and there are no parties now that winter has come.

Walking in the track of some earlier cross country skier, the woman leads the way down the winding road. The trees, bare poplar, are stark against the snowy ground and greying sky. The whole world is a black and white photograph. Even the woman and the puppy are shades of grey and black and white. No life disturbs this tableau of neutrals except their movement through the cracking crusts of snow.

The puppy whines and lags behind. He is not enjoying this walk as usual, but the woman does not understand. He is trying to tell her that she should not continue, that they do not belong in this place. The woman ignores him and walks on, so he must follow.

They come around a bend in the road, and there is what she has come to see. The Nechako River lies sleepily in front of them. A great mass of water, seeming to move so slowly, yet filled with such strength. In its life it had moved mountains and fueled cities. Now, its shimmering greatness acts as a giant mirror, framed in by branches of dark wood.

Standing on the edge of the water the woman takes in the double image of stark scratching fingers clawing at the misty sky and river’s edge. And then, as she stands there, admiring nature’s etching, the sun begins to rise. A great lusty ball of red and orange creep over the hill on the opposite side of the river. Suddenly, it rises over the crest of the hill and kisses the cool face below. The good morning kiss leaves a rosy blush on the land’s icy cheek. Admiring itself in the mirror of the river, the sun banishes the stark colourless predawn back drop and frames itself in a bright blue winter sky.

Taken in by the wonder of the sunrise, the woman does not notice the cold until she turns from the scene. Shivering, she stamps her feet and calls to the puppy who sits close by her side. And then she sees it.

It is small, and mottled brown and grey, and looks nothing like the bright cartoon characters that prowl around Disney movies. Only the tail, almost bigger than the animal itself, reminds her of those creatures. The fox, with its dark brown mask and dappled fur, sitting in the middle of the road way watching the trespassers in silence, is not a ruddy jolly caricature, but a being who belongs in the desolate landscape in which they stand.

Slowly she replaces the lead on the puppy’s collar, having removed it earlier so he could roam at will, then she walks toward the animal barring her way home.

With her movement he stands, and then lightly, on the surface of the crusty snow, he trots to a small rise by the side of the road. She comes closer and he disappears behind it. Its gone, she thinks and continues to walk, retracing her footsteps through the snow. The puppy is anxious to lead, afraid of the unknown, straining towards the familiar.

The woman stops and glances behind her to catch a last look at the river. Frozen in the middle of the road way, watching, stands the fox. And as they make their way back, glancing behind them occasionally, they see frozen snapshots of the fox – sometimes silent amongst the barren bushes on the side of the road, sometimes trapped in the sunlight and still in the open. Each time it is always the same distance behind, never further, never nearer, always following, yet seeming to have been frozen in each place for a long time past. And with each glance back, the puppy and the woman’s steps forward quicken, until they round the bend of the road.

Civilization spreads out before them, with its cars and houses and people rushing to work and school, and dogs barking and snow being shoveled. Glancing behind her, she wonders if the fox will follow them home, or if their escort will instead stop at some invisible boundary, waiting and guarding his wilderness. But he is gone. Back into the silence and the snow, and the hunger and the cold and the wildness of the land beyond the bend in the road.

Brandi Higgins is a writer by day and swim coach by night. She has lived in Whistler for the past seven years and still loves it.