"M. Rickert - Cold Fires" - читать интересную книгу автора (Rickert Mary)

Cold Fires
M. Rickert
It was so cold tat daggered ice hung from the eaves with dangerous points that broke off and speared the
snow in the afternoon Sun, only to be formed again the next morning. Snowmobile shops and ski rental
stores, filled with brightly polished snowmobiles and helmets and skis and poles and wool knitted caps
and mittens with stars stitched on them and down jackets and bright-colored boots stood frozen at the
point of expectation when that first great snow fell on Christmas night and everyone thought that all that
was needed for a good winter season was a good winter snow, until the cold reality set in and the
employees munched popcorn or played cards in the back room because it was so cold that no one even
wanted to go shopping, much less ride a snowmobile. Cars didn't start but heaved and ticked and
remained solidly immobile, stalagmites of ice holding them firm. Motorists called Triple A and Triple A's
phone lines became so crowded they routed the calls to a trucking company in Pennsylvania where a
woman with a very stressed voice answered the calls with the curt suggestion that the caller hang up and
dial again.

It was so cold dogs barked to go outside, and immediately barked to come back in, and then barked to
go back out again; frustrated dog owners leashed their pets and stood shivering in the snow as shivering
dogs lifted icy paws, walking in a kind of Irish dance, spinning in that dog circle thing, trying to find the
perfect spot to relieve themselves while dancing high paws to keep from freezing to the ground.

It was so cold birds fell from the sky like tossed rocks, frozen except for their tiny eyes which focused on
the Sun as if trying to understand its betrayal.

That night the ice hung so heavy from the power lines that they could no longer maintain the electric arc
and the whole state went black, followed within the hour by the breakdown of the phone lines. Many
people would have a miserable night but the couple had a wood-burning stove. It crackled with flame
that bit the dry and brittle birch and consumed the chill air where even in the house they had been wearing
coats and scarves that they removed as the hot aura expanded. It was a good night for soup, heated on
the cast iron stove and scenting the whole house with rosemary and onion; a good night for wine, the
bottle of red they bought on their honeymoon and had been saving for a special occasion, and it was a
good night to sit by the stove on the floor, their backs resting against the couch pillows, watching the
candles flicker in the waves of heat while the house cracked and heaved beneath its thick iced roof. They
decided to tell stories, the sort of stories that only the cold and the fire, the wind and the silent dark
combined could make them tell.

"I grew up on an island,├втВмтАв she said, ├втВм┼Уwell, you know that. I've already told you about the smell of
salt and how it still brings the sea to my breath, how the sound of bathwater can make me weep, how
before the birds fell from the sky like thrown rocks, the dark arc of their wings, in certain light, turned
white and how certain tones of metal, a chain being dragged by a car, a heavy pan that clangs against its
lid become the sound of ships and boats leaving the harbor. I've already told you all that, but I think you
should know that my family is descended from pirates, we are not decent people, everything we own has
been stolen, even who we are, my hair for instance, these blonde curls can be traced not to any relatives
for they are all dark and swarthy but to the young woman my great-great-grandfather brought home to
his wife, intended as a sort of help-mate but apparently quite worthless in the kitchen, though she
displayed a certain fondness for anything to do with strawberries, you understand the same fruit I
embrace for its short season, oh how they taste of summer, and my youth!

"Now that I have told you this, I may as well tell you the rest. This blonde maid of my
great-great-grandfather's house, who could not sew, or cook, or even garden well but who loved
strawberries as if they gave her life, became quite adept at rejecting any slightly imperfect fruit. She