Albino Moose
Birch in the winter. Birch trees are long, old, skinny fingers reaching up from the white snow-covered ground. The have black speckles and stripes like the bark can’t decide between zebra or syphilis.
The trunks are thin. When there are many of them, it’s easy to get lost in the winter, even in broad daylight. If any type of tree could be said to haunt, birch would be it. They’re like the ghosts of trees.
And I was lost.
Surrounded by miles of birch and my footprints snowed to erasure, I was alone, cold, and kneeling in the wind.
I still don’t know if what happened next was a hallucination.
He came out from behind a few of the birch trees and looked at me with big gumball-pink eyes the size of Bombay grapefruits. The span of his antlers must have been wider than a settler’s wagon. A completely black catcher’s mitt of bone perched above an enormous charcoal-dusted snout.
This was the Ghost Moose. This was the legendary albino. This was the Great Pale Spirit. Most of his thick hide was as white as the new-fallen snow around him. His thin legs blended to black at the hooves like he’d been walking through soot. Just like his wide horns. Just like his nose.
The rest of his outline would have been almost invisible amongst the snow and birches if it wasn’t for his huge pink eyes.
And the woman riding him.
The Royal Canadian Mounted Police force had been formed by John A Macdonald in 1873 to bring law, order and Canadian authority to the North West Territories. They had met with some success. They had also met with some failure. Over the last four years, there had been some skirmishes with the local Natives.
We civilians kept the borders of our towns well protected during the winter and pretty much left the natives alone except for the occasional trade.
The woman on the back of the moose was wearing the bright red uniform of a Mountie. There was a ragged hole in the fabric over her heart and the uniform was a darker crusted crimson around the slash.
I assumed that was the wound that had killed the previous owner.
The large black hat of the Mountie had been festooned with crow feathers. The gold of the lapel braids were livid against the bright red of the jacket. The yellow of the stripes on her black uniform trousers stood out like lantern lights.
She did not wear the boots. She had black moccasins beaded to match the stripes of the uniform.
She was the witching woman of her tribe, I guessed. I could tell because only the magic women could dye their hair.
Her hair erupted out of her head in vibrant oranges and straw-like yellows before fading to a dark crimson black at the tips halfway down her back. She did not keep it in a braid like her brothers and sisters.
She stared at me from her obscenely high mount. Her eyes glinted in the darkness under the wide brim of the hat.
Aside from the deep steaming breaths of the moose, we made no sounds. I stared back and grew still. I could hear the snow fall softly. I lost track of time.
The intensity of the snow increased and soon I could see nothing but white.
I lost conciousness.
I woke up in the camp hospital tent. The doctors said that I had walked into the center of town with a smile on my face and collapsed. Pending a psychological evaluation, I was to be let go almost immediately.
They said I was damn lucky I didn’t lose any toes to frostbite considering how long I claimed to have been out there.
Now it’s a story I tell in the bar for drinks. People think it’s a lovely example of a drunk’s imagination and part of the local colour. It’s a tall tale for the miners and trappers breezing through.
It’s always winter in my dreams.
tags
The trunks are thin. When there are many of them, it’s easy to get lost in the winter, even in broad daylight. If any type of tree could be said to haunt, birch would be it. They’re like the ghosts of trees.
And I was lost.
Surrounded by miles of birch and my footprints snowed to erasure, I was alone, cold, and kneeling in the wind.
I still don’t know if what happened next was a hallucination.
He came out from behind a few of the birch trees and looked at me with big gumball-pink eyes the size of Bombay grapefruits. The span of his antlers must have been wider than a settler’s wagon. A completely black catcher’s mitt of bone perched above an enormous charcoal-dusted snout.
This was the Ghost Moose. This was the legendary albino. This was the Great Pale Spirit. Most of his thick hide was as white as the new-fallen snow around him. His thin legs blended to black at the hooves like he’d been walking through soot. Just like his wide horns. Just like his nose.
The rest of his outline would have been almost invisible amongst the snow and birches if it wasn’t for his huge pink eyes.
And the woman riding him.
The Royal Canadian Mounted Police force had been formed by John A Macdonald in 1873 to bring law, order and Canadian authority to the North West Territories. They had met with some success. They had also met with some failure. Over the last four years, there had been some skirmishes with the local Natives.
We civilians kept the borders of our towns well protected during the winter and pretty much left the natives alone except for the occasional trade.
The woman on the back of the moose was wearing the bright red uniform of a Mountie. There was a ragged hole in the fabric over her heart and the uniform was a darker crusted crimson around the slash.
I assumed that was the wound that had killed the previous owner.
The large black hat of the Mountie had been festooned with crow feathers. The gold of the lapel braids were livid against the bright red of the jacket. The yellow of the stripes on her black uniform trousers stood out like lantern lights.
She did not wear the boots. She had black moccasins beaded to match the stripes of the uniform.
She was the witching woman of her tribe, I guessed. I could tell because only the magic women could dye their hair.
Her hair erupted out of her head in vibrant oranges and straw-like yellows before fading to a dark crimson black at the tips halfway down her back. She did not keep it in a braid like her brothers and sisters.
She stared at me from her obscenely high mount. Her eyes glinted in the darkness under the wide brim of the hat.
Aside from the deep steaming breaths of the moose, we made no sounds. I stared back and grew still. I could hear the snow fall softly. I lost track of time.
The intensity of the snow increased and soon I could see nothing but white.
I lost conciousness.
I woke up in the camp hospital tent. The doctors said that I had walked into the center of town with a smile on my face and collapsed. Pending a psychological evaluation, I was to be let go almost immediately.
They said I was damn lucky I didn’t lose any toes to frostbite considering how long I claimed to have been out there.
Now it’s a story I tell in the bar for drinks. People think it’s a lovely example of a drunk’s imagination and part of the local colour. It’s a tall tale for the miners and trappers breezing through.
It’s always winter in my dreams.
tags