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Description
      He thought they were snakes at first.  Every last one.  They looked so much like it.  His vision cloudy and whitish like water mixed with milk.  Like that of someone thrust from the bright day into blackness.  He dug at the roots with his spade until they were all gone and he could uproot the tree.  These old bones unable to simply pry it up any more.  He did what he could with a crowbar and attempted to drag the trunk.  It wouldn't budge.  He couldn't roll it.  That width in this dense forest.  Defeated, he used his machine.

      He came back to the house.  Small, white house.  Clapboard siding.  Pretty picture house.  Pretty picture girl on the front porch.  Twentysomething and hadn't found anyone yet.  He kept telling her to but she only hugged him and said I have you and he hugged her back.

      She smiled.  He liked that.  He liked when she smiled.  It made him happy.

      He turned off the machine.  Cut up the log with his axe.  It took years of his too-long life.  Chipped at the decades.  The smell of dirt on his hands.  Though he could smell it rich and strong in his hair and his fingernails he missed it somehow.  Like sitting on a wooden park ench waiting for an old friend who hasn't appeared yet.  Cut through the wood.

      He brought it all inside.  She helped.  She smiled.  He said nothing.  Raven hair whipping about in the wind.  He had heard in town that the horsemen were coming.  He didn't know what to think.  He hadn't told her but she always listened to the radio when he was gone.  He had a feeling she knew. He washed his hands and smelled like something else.

      They went inside and watched an old black-and-white movie on the television set.

      "Daddy."

      "What."

      "I don't understand bad people."

      "Neither do I."

      "How do they live?"

      "They don't."

      She was not talking about the film.

      She went to sleep but he lay awake for a while, watching the black screen.  Then he made his belabored climb upstairs and went inside his small room.  Walked across to the bed without turning the light on.

      Dreams of stained glass windows.  Catch the light.  He put out his hand and let the rainbow dance on his palm.  Dreamcatchers, ready to tear from their windows with beads of nightmares long since forgotten.  Help.  She came toward him wearing a white hat and speaking some strange, foreign tongue.  It terrified him not to understand her.  When he awoke he groped in the dark for a glass on his nightstand and filled it with tap water in the adjoining bathroom.  Cold linoleum at his feet.  The water was still good.  For how long he did not know.

      In the evenings they would sometimes chat about their days.  Invent stories of meeting the king and queen of Russia or Spain.  Heroes from those old films.  She put up with the mind that was slowly growing childish by being his child again.  He was grateful but he did not say.

      She cooked when he was too tired.  He cooked when she wanted an old favorite.  Not so different from before.  She liked stews.  Stews and bread.  They were all she could make.

      Over dinner he would say that she needed to get married.  She couldn't live her entire life with an old, balding man.  She said she'd think about it.  She never did.  Boss of a company throwing the slips of paper in his suggestion box unread into the dustbin.

      When he went to the store it was closed.  He wasn't sure what to do about that.  Maybe if he went to another town.  He should buy train tickets.  But everyone else probably had.  He walked to the train station.  The tickets were expensive.  In his wallet were forty dollars and a few odd cents.  Yellowed photographs which would break into four equal pieces if he unfolded them anymore.  He had long since stopped trying.  He emptied his wallet and saved the pictures.  It was all taken soundlessly and replaced with a sheet of paper.  Thank you, he said.

      She was waiting for him at home, reading some book for the umpteenth time.  She had made dinner but it was cold.  It sat untouched in two bowls, across from each other like two people about to duel.  They made some pleasant conversation.  He did not hear his answers.  His mind was elsewhere.  On the train out of here.

      She washed the dishes and sat on the couch.  She wanted to watch another movie.  He said that was okay.  He would like to watch another movie.  It was a good one, with that pretty lady.  She said she wanted to be like her.  He said she was like her.  She didn't believe him.  He said that was okay.  She would believe him someday.  Wouldn't she?  No, not someday.  Never.

      The radio had been turned off the moment she saw him walking toward the house.  Some expression passed over her face but he didn't see it.

      She put her head in his lap and said that she thought they should live here forever.  He didn't answer.

      The next day he awoke and cursed everything and ran to his daughter's room.  Rapraprap.

      "What?"

      He heard drawers opening, closing.  She was getting dressed.

      "You need to pack."

      "What?"

      "Pack.  Food.  Money.  Clothes.  Pack."

      "What?"

      "The war.  It's here.  Pack."

      It was a long time ago that he had built this house.  Distractions.  Can't afford to think about that right now.  Hurry, hurry.  She had packed what was essential into some shapeless bag.  They ran into the back room where there was some chest.  Keyhole rusted green.  He produced a brass key from somewhere and turned it in the lock.

      "Go down there."

      "What?"

      "Go down there.  When you come out you'll be about two miles from town.  You'll have to walk.  Be careful."  He stuffed the ticket into her hand.  "And get out of the country."

      "When did you build this?"

      "When the war started.  Now go."

      "What about you?"

      Nothing about him.  He wanted to climb down into that nothing with her, to walk until he could go no further, hold her until the lack of light finished him but he could not, no.

      "I'll be there later."

      He gave her a lamp.  She lowered herself down and he locked the chest behind her.

      When he heard the hoofbeats he turned the water on.  Slid out of his clothes with no difficulty.  Surprisingly.  He simply allowed himself to lie there in the bathwater for a moment.  Warm.  A bath but it wasn't a bath.  He closed his eyes.  Some bird was chirping.  Quiet, he whispered.  Quiet before they hear you.  He waited until the horsemen banged at the door.

Description
      He thought they were snakes at first.  Every last one.  They looked so much like it.  His vision cloudy and whitish like water mixed with milk.  Like that of someone thrust from the bright day into blackness.  He dug at the roots with his spade until they were all gone and he could uproot the tree.  These old bones unable to simply pry it up any more.  He did what he could with a crowbar and attempted to drag the trunk.  It wouldn't budge.  He couldn't roll it.  That width in this dense forest.  Defeated, he used his machine.

      He came back to the house.  Small, white house.  Clapboard siding.  Pretty picture house.  Pretty picture girl on the front porch.  Twentysomething and hadn't found anyone yet.  He kept telling her to but she only hugged him and said I have you and he hugged her back.

      She smiled.  He liked that.  He liked when she smiled.  It made him happy.

      He turned off the machine.  Cut up the log with his axe.  It took years of his too-long life.  Chipped at the decades.  The smell of dirt on his hands.  Though he could smell it rich and strong in his hair and his fingernails he missed it somehow.  Like sitting on a wooden park ench waiting for an old friend who hasn't appeared yet.  Cut through the wood.

      He brought it all inside.  She helped.  She smiled.  He said nothing.  Raven hair whipping about in the wind.  He had heard in town that the horsemen were coming.  He didn't know what to think.  He hadn't told her but she always listened to the radio when he was gone.  He had a feeling she knew. He washed his hands and smelled like something else.

      They went inside and watched an old black-and-white movie on the television set.

      "Daddy."

      "What."

      "I don't understand bad people."

      "Neither do I."

      "How do they live?"

      "They don't."

      She was not talking about the film.

      She went to sleep but he lay awake for a while, watching the black screen.  Then he made his belabored climb upstairs and went inside his small room.  Walked across to the bed without turning the light on.

      Dreams of stained glass windows.  Catch the light.  He put out his hand and let the rainbow dance on his palm.  Dreamcatchers, ready to tear from their windows with beads of nightmares long since forgotten.  Help.  She came toward him wearing a white hat and speaking some strange, foreign tongue.  It terrified him not to understand her.  When he awoke he groped in the dark for a glass on his nightstand and filled it with tap water in the adjoining bathroom.  Cold linoleum at his feet.  The water was still good.  For how long he did not know.

      In the evenings they would sometimes chat about their days.  Invent stories of meeting the king and queen of Russia or Spain.  Heroes from those old films.  She put up with the mind that was slowly growing childish by being his child again.  He was grateful but he did not say.

      She cooked when he was too tired.  He cooked when she wanted an old favorite.  Not so different from before.  She liked stews.  Stews and bread.  They were all she could make.

      Over dinner he would say that she needed to get married.  She couldn't live her entire life with an old, balding man.  She said she'd think about it.  She never did.  Boss of a company throwing the slips of paper in his suggestion box unread into the dustbin.

      When he went to the store it was closed.  He wasn't sure what to do about that.  Maybe if he went to another town.  He should buy train tickets.  But everyone else probably had.  He walked to the train station.  The tickets were expensive.  In his wallet were forty dollars and a few odd cents.  Yellowed photographs which would break into four equal pieces if he unfolded them anymore.  He had long since stopped trying.  He emptied his wallet and saved the pictures.  It was all taken soundlessly and replaced with a sheet of paper.  Thank you, he said.

      She was waiting for him at home, reading some book for the umpteenth time.  She had made dinner but it was cold.  It sat untouched in two bowls, across from each other like two people about to duel.  They made some pleasant conversation.  He did not hear his answers.  His mind was elsewhere.  On the train out of here.

      She washed the dishes and sat on the couch.  She wanted to watch another movie.  He said that was okay.  He would like to watch another movie.  It was a good one, with that pretty lady.  She said she wanted to be like her.  He said she was like her.  She didn't believe him.  He said that was okay.  She would believe him someday.  Wouldn't she?  No, not someday.  Never.

      The radio had been turned off the moment she saw him walking toward the house.  Some expression passed over her face but he didn't see it.

      She put her head in his lap and said that she thought they should live here forever.  He didn't answer.

      The next day he awoke and cursed everything and ran to his daughter's room.  Rapraprap.

      "What?"

      He heard drawers opening, closing.  She was getting dressed.

      "You need to pack."

      "What?"

      "Pack.  Food.  Money.  Clothes.  Pack."

      "What?"

      "The war.  It's here.  Pack."

      It was a long time ago that he had built this house.  Distractions.  Can't afford to think about that right now.  Hurry, hurry.  She had packed what was essential into some shapeless bag.  They ran into the back room where there was some chest.  Keyhole rusted green.  He produced a brass key from somewhere and turned it in the lock.

      "Go down there."

      "What?"

      "Go down there.  When you come out you'll be about two miles from town.  You'll have to walk.  Be careful."  He stuffed the ticket into her hand.  "And get out of the country."

      "When did you build this?"

      "When the war started.  Now go."

      "What about you?"

      Nothing about him.  He wanted to climb down into that nothing with her, to walk until he could go no further, hold her until the lack of light finished him but he could not, no.

      "I'll be there later."

      He gave her a lamp.  She lowered herself down and he locked the chest behind her.

      When he heard the hoofbeats he turned the water on.  Slid out of his clothes with no difficulty.  Surprisingly.  He simply allowed himself to lie there in the bathwater for a moment.  Warm.  A bath but it wasn't a bath.  He closed his eyes.  Some bird was chirping.  Quiet, he whispered.  Quiet before they hear you.  He waited until the horsemen banged at the door.