In The Nick of Time

Josh MacLeod

His glass was empty, and he knew he would be courting disaster to fill it again. Still, he knew that the extra . . . strength would be required if he was to face "her" again. With a soft curse that he hoped went unheard, the elderly man picked up the bottle and, instead of filling the glass, placed the bottle to his lips and drained it dry. Taking a deep, fortifying breath, he slowly stood up and walked in a vague imitation of a straight line out into the howling storm.

Squinting at the plentiful neon lights, he slowly began the long trek home. Normally he would have said something disarming but the cold and his mood combined to allow him to ignore the look of surprise on the locals faces (few went north from Resolute in the North West Territories). He nurtured the vague hope she had forgotten this year. Maybe the bloody beasts had died and she had cooked them for dinner. Sure, and maybe they had run out of boxes and the workers had formed a union and decided to go on strike. Right. And maybe she had phoned Weight Watchers.

The jangling bells cut through the fog clouding his mind and then they were there. Regally ignoring his protests, they took him across the snowy wastes . . . and to her.

"Welcome home, dear," she said softly, yet her voice had more ice than the north wind itself. "You have to go out tonight. They depend on you."

Why should I help the unbelieving, the ungrateful, the brats? What am I, that fools scurry like ants at the mention of my name? He felt like screaming but the argument was oh, so old. With a grim nod, he walked slowly towards the sleigh and pulled his weary, ancient body into it, hoping the tears of rage wouldn't blind him to his duty this time.

Making a clucking sound and, striving not to give into nausea, he rose into the cold night sky on December 24th.

- Josh MacLeod (1995?)