Meringue clouds billow across an endless sky as they march like foot soldiers up towards the mountain peak. Still early yet, the sun too begins its climb snaking above the timberline, its thin beams razor sharp like cat’s claws. The temperature catches them unprepared. Like nomads, they shuffle together to keep warm. Eleven weeks and the days keep coming, the laminated map guiding their way; encrusted now, viewed as if through grainy mustard. Clusters of Indian paintbrush speckle the alpine meadow before them in swaths of orange, crimson, and fuchsia. It is an impressionist painting to die for, but no one notices the brilliance, their gaze always much farther afield. At noon they pause briefly along the tree line, to refresh and get their bearings. A quick bite of cubed cheese and shaved beef jerky, they drain their flask and press on, quiet, like dead men walking. With the atomic glow nipping at their heels, they scramble atop the glade, loose shale underfoot, blister beads wasting away tender raw feet. Stopping to swaddle wounds in fresh socks is out of the question. They are a ramshackle group formed in haste. They pray they are not all that is left. Bear, timber wolf, and coyote used to roam this region, but they seem to have perished; if not from the blast, from the dust. A sudden whiff of scat stops them in their tracks. Their nose registers the odour as fresh. It is the first good sign. Excited murmurs break out. Like the needle pulling north on a metal compass, they feel they are close, within range. A red-tailed hawk, its pale underbelly sharply visible, soars aloft in the distance, pointing the way. They pick up their pace. Ahead, the safe zone to the north, strong and free: Canada. (296 words) Published in Credo Espoir p. 39. January 7, 2019 Published in The Quilliad (in print), October 30, 2019. Toronto.
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