The Darkest Days of December- i.

The lawless situation of an instantaneous un-civilization now gave them plenty of opportunity to feast. Any illumination at night was necessary to dissuade whatever was out there. The hopeful supernal beauty of starlight was rarely seen. The anticipation of soothing moonlight was often also obscured by leaden, gray clouds. At first, he tried to imagine what might be going down with kin in distant towns. Once he had returned home, this concern did not trouble him for long. Accumulating an extensive library, he had always liked to read and live his own life. He soon completely dismissed any thinking about elsewhere. It was best to focus on the here and now. The darkest hours of December's days and nights are longer in the north than elsewhere, however he knew that which was seemingly endless would eventually progress; ironically it would begin, second by second and minute by minute, after the first day of winter.

The farmhouse was situated on a hillside and surrounded by hundreds of foreboding acres of virile boreal woodlands, he didn't have a neighbor for miles nor had he seen another human being for weeks. Fortunately, the September harvest had been bountiful, so he would survive. From the secure vantage point of the parlor, the lonesome wind wailed as snow devils swept across the open fields and logs crackled as they settled in the stoves and fireplace. Nevertheless, he knew something else was near. Little by little, his livestock had been drained of their essence of life. It would only be a matter of time before one of them coveted the sound of a mortal's strong heartbeat and the flow of blood through richer veins. He assumed they might also be drawn by the smell of smoke from any chimney. Although unforeseen snow and these worrisome thoughts would sometimes occur at dusk, he had no trepidation himself for he was wise.

He had taken to the vigil of staying up all night until well after dawn then sleeping through the sunlit morning hours past noon. With every what he called "sunrise afternoon," he prepared himself for a brief outside excursion. There was always an eerie shroud of cloudy darkness above and silence all around. The tracks of deer or wolves in the crisp, thawing snow could no longer he seen nor could be heard the rustle of winging crows disturbed from treetops by his presence.  Crossing the earthen bridge, chunks of snow splattered from tall limbs overhead, inky currents of air snaked and spread their way under thin sheets of ice on the creeks. Although he had plenty of cords of winter wood, he would continue to walk his central trails and gather up warmth wherever twigs or dry branches could be found. The way things were now, living with daily uncertainty, the idea of a calendar seemed meaningless, and at the end of each busy and satisfying hike, he would move the hands of the mantle's silent ebony clock and set them on the next hour to mark the passing of days.



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