Beautiful Snow
“Hey, Eira,” Ben greets. “Long time, no see, eh?”
Dead leaves crunch and flutter out as a crow takes flight, cawing mournfully. Wind whistles
through the naked trees, their stripped branches clawing at one another. The world tries
desperately to recover, to rid itself of the poison that is bound to it like ivy to a tree. Burnt black.
Charred and ugly.
“So,” Ben continues when he receives no reply. “I came here for a reason, you know. I kind of
have a confession to make.” He gives her a pointed look as he crouches down, evening out their
heights. Blushing profusely, he blurts out, “You see, Eira. I really admire you. M-more than
admire… I—“ he pauses, closes his eyes, and takes a deep breath “I love you.”
An anxious crease appears between his eyebrows; his cracked lips purse. Because for all the
reaction Ben gets, he might not have said anything at all. Eira maintains a firm, stony silence. Ben
sighs loudly, sits back, and rakes his trembling fingers through his unkempt mop of hair.
“So…” he repeats awkwardly as he reaches into the pocket of his scarlet jumper and pulls out an
envelope, crisp, white and scented lightly with lavender. Ben places the letter on the ground
before Eira. “I can’t really explain it, but—but I tried,” he says with wide, beseeching eyes. “Just
read it, will you? I’m not a good writer. I can’t write sentimental things. You were always the one
who read those romance novels, and I would just stand back and let you do all the talking
without actually listening, you know. I’m… I’m sorry.”
Ben’s apology is so sweet, so genuine and sorrowful, with just the right amount of nervousness
that it should touch Eira; spark some kind of emotion within her.
It doesn’t.
Ben shrugs like it doesn’t matter; like he’s not wounded and dying inside when he is, and gets to
his feet, dusting off his filthy pants.
“I’ve gotta go now. Goodbye,” he calls back as he trudges away.
He meant goodbye forever, but Ben just doesn’t have that kind of self-control. The next day,
drawn by some irresistible force, he finds himself back with Eira.
“Eira, you’re my best friend, yeah? So I get why this might be hard for you to swallow. You didn’t
read your last letter. It’s still on the ground. But read this one, please.”
The letter floats to the ground and causes a cloud of black ash to billow up in the air.
Ben returns the next day.
“I—you and I, we—“ he stammers through heavy sobs. “This is why I write a letter every time,”
Ben says with a watery laugh. “I d-don’t want you t-to see me c-c-cry. Why, why will you not ttalk to m-me? Are you m-m-mad at me?”
Eira doesn’t reply. She doesn’t reward him with a soft smile or a tender hug or a gentle murmur
of forgiveness. In fact, she doesn’t respond at all.
*
“Eira, I love you! I just thought you should know. Anyway, guess whose team won regional soccer
championships! Here, I wrote all about it in the letter. Oh, and I finally remembered to give you
my grandma’s lemon meringue pie recipe. I remember how you once said the meringue looks like
snowy mountains, or… or whatever…” The silence that follows is confused and disorientated.
*
“Eira, I hate you. You hate me too, don’t you? I ran. I was scared. The whole village was on fire.
Eira… Eira… I can’t believe I let—I let you—oh, God, I let you die...” The last word rings strangely
in the cold, still air. It causes a deep, hollow ache in his chest, radiating agony to the rest of his
body. Ben pauses briefly to wipe his streaming eyes on the grimy sleeve of his jumper. “I
remember how your name means snow. How much y-you hated f-f-fire. How you recoiled when I
lighted the stove the first time you c-came to my house. And I laughed! I can’t believe… Dead,
gone, dead…” His voice fades in the howling gale that carries the envelope with it in a swirl of
black cinders.
*
“Ugh, Eira you idiot. Why the heck are you blaming me? You should have known. You should
have realised. It was a fire. People were screaming for you to get to out of your house! You
should have got your stuff together and sprinted, for God’s sake! What were you doing? Waiting
for me to come save you? You disgust me. Don’t even think about reading my letter.”
*
“I’m sorry, Eira. I know it wasn’t you fault. You know, I just wish that I didn’t waste my time. I wish
that I told you while I still could… What would I do for another chance? I swear, I swear that if
you would just come back to me for one moment, I would take your place in a heartbeat. You
know, I don’t know, you might think it’s a little creepy, but sometimes I imagine you’re still here,
and… and… I’m not even sure if it helps dull the pain,” he chokes, “I don’t even know if it makes it
like you’re here for real. I don’t even… I don’t even know…”
Ben draws his knees to his chin and wraps his arms around his shins. For a long time, he stays in
the same foetal position, trying to empty his mind of emotion. To block out the flow of nostalgia
that only becomes a cascade as he tries to silence it. So he gives up.
The contents of Ben’s pocket consist of two things: a gold pen Eira got him for his twelfth
birthday and a soiled handkerchief. From the latter, he withdraws a carefully folded piece of paper,
sallow with age and smeared with sooty fingerprints. Opened, it reveals a picture of Eira. Thin and
pale, yes, but not fragile, or plain. Strong and beautiful.
With his dirt-caked thumb, Ben caresses her face in places that he wouldn’t have dared before,
imagining they are in the flesh. The lining of her jaw, and the arch of her eyebrow, tracing his
finger faintly from her chin, around her face, and eventually, resting on her lips. Ben recalls those
same lips to have kissed him on the cheek once, a long time ago, making him burn crimson.
He closes his eyes and pictures the landscape before him, just as he saw it a split second ago.
Except she’s there.
Eira.
Suddenly, it hits Ben out of nowhere. A dull blow of comprehension registers. She is gone. She is
not coming back. The reality of it hits Ben with a force hitherto unknown to him. He shakes his
head to clear it, telling himself that childish imagination won’t induce the amnesia he yearns.
A strangled sob escapes his lips.
But is this imagination? She looks so real. So beautiful.
The breeze plays through Eira’s fair hair, making it swirl, dream-like. How out of place she looks
with her white hair and clothes and skin, against the canvas of a smouldering, destroyed world;
the very image of… well, not health, or grace, but something else, something striking...
Something Ben fell in love with.
Eira smiles sadly. While her face almost glows with pallor, the curl of her lip is natural and
appealing. Ben’s lulled mind vaguely registers the fragrance of jasmine.
“Take me with you,” he whispers hoarsely. Eira just closes her eyes peacefully and places a slender
finger to her lips.
Ben doesn’t see it coming. But he feels it. And anyway, it’s too late by then. Gradually, Eira begins
to fade, her weight lifting off his body until he is clutching nothing but the air.
“No!” Ben moans. “Come back!”
An icy draught replies, blowing dust into his gushing eyes, chilling the very marrow of his bones.
Gusts of wind force him to the ground and snatch the picture of Eira from Ben’s fingers, and as
he lunges to seize it, carry it into oblivion. Rain begins to fall, beating down mercilessly, trailing
down his neck, biting into his flesh.
By the time calm has been restored to the weather, Ben is cowering behind Eira’s grave, weeping.
He tastes the salt bitterly, and shrieks with frustration, wiping his eyes savagely.
“Why am I so weak?”
But then he catches sight of the landscape and, in spite of himself, beams.
Because snow has begun to drift down in soft flakes, swirling and dancing before him. Snow
blankets the world in white, hiding some of its charred black ugliness.
Crisp, white, and beautiful snow.
Ben hears her voice in his ear; her warm breath grazing the side of his neck.
“Take the time to look at the simple things around you, and some day, you’ll come to realise how
beautiful they really are.”
“Well, Eira,” Ben whispers, “you really are a beautiful, beautiful thing.”
***