A Change in the Weather

here had been a change in the weather overnight. A blizzard had whirled under the loose roof cap, sketching a thin line of snow across the hut from the fireplace to the bed. Stray flakes had settled on the cutlery and the cups, the chairs, the table – and on him: William. He awoke to find his mustache dotted with ice, and to see his shack glittering like some winter-wonderland.

He didn't jump for joy. Instead, he rubbed his eyes and cursed under his breath. How long had he been here? This snow was the first punctuation mark in a series of identical days.

For over a month he had repeated the same ritual. After breakfast he'd head down to the creek to collect water and on the way would stop to sit under a eucalypt. Mountain range after mountain range of gum trees hissing in the wind and nothing else. It was a respite from the pain. The snow had put an end to that for now.

He had buried his friend, before he came here. It had snowed then too. Flakes the size of twenty-cent pieces. Melting as they came to rest on the coffin. He touched the scar on his chest from the plane crash.

---

hat night William dreamt while the storm bullied his hut. He shouted in his sleep as the wind boomed against the corrugated iron walls; kicked at his blanket while it pried at his roof making the metal shriek. The embers in the fireplace flared red and orange.

“Dylan!” He shouted, “Dylan?” The plane had been tortured by the landing. People slouched, dead and broken in their chairs. But William was alive. The right side of his shirt was blood-soaked.

The whole seat where Dylan had been was missing. He looked around. His temples throbbed with the movement.

(The wind pushed harder, screaming under the door of the hut.)

He strained sideways in his seat and looked down the aisle. It was crowded with luggage that had fallen out of the overhead compartments. There were people everywhere. Some of them, perhaps, were unconscious, but most had been caught in the hard metal death of the plane. A few were still buckled in, their heads thrown to one side or the other - their seats in the upright position.

(A burst of air down the chimney sent live coals skipping across the floor.)

He unbuckled himself and staggered down the corridor, leaning heavily on the seats to avoid falling. He saw an arm sticking out from under several bags. He kicked them out of the way.

Here was his friend, twisted in his overturned seat, with blood pulsing out of a gash in his head. William took off his shirt and pressed it onto the wound.

BANG! The door slammed and William’s eyes opened to the hut. His mind was silent for a moment and he could hear the contortion of the shack in the storm, and the wind whistling through the cracks. He lay there waiting for a change in the weather.