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He walked along the shore, stooping down to pick up stones. He would mull them between his fingers. If they were too round, he would let them fall back to the ground. But if they were smooth and flat he would adjust them in his hands and then, with a quick flick of his arm, send them skipping across the black-glass surface of the lake. Their skipping ignited a trail of expanding circles that glistened in the moonlight.
He heard their voices on the far shore. He couldn’t make out the words exactly; instead the sounds came as imperfect, jumbled packets of energy over the water: the soft patter of distant conversation, an excited shriek that echoed, a gaggle of voices around a bonfire, celebrating.
He stood still listening to those voices, wanting to be among them.
He stared at the water. Below the gleaming surface it was inscutable. He wondered how deep it went; the rumor was that it was bottomless, though he had trouble believing that to be true. Still, expeditions had gone out to plumb the depth but they had always run out of line before reaching bottom.
A gust of wind swept down from the glacier over the lake. He hugged his jacket closer to his flesh as he gazed at the glint of light dancing on the far shore.
He went back to his cabin. On the porch he stamped his feet, as if the cold were a dusting he could shake off. Inside, he leaned his body against the door to force it shut. There were two windows and he went around pulling the wooden shutters to and latching them. He drew the heavy curtains across them. When everything was battened down, he slipped into bed under a heavy pile of blankets. It was the sort of mountain bed where you felt not just the warmth but the weight of the blankets pressing down upon you. He did not mind; it felt like an effusive but not unwanted hug.
He fell deeply asleep but it was not restful. His mind careened around, darting among the shadows. From the other side of the lake, the voices taunted him. He heard them as if they were in his head. They were a rowdy bunch. They’ve had too much to drink, he thought, as they mocked him for all the things he hadn’t dared to do.
And then, suddenly, he was awake.
Sun is streaming in through the open windows. The front door has blown open and the wind is crisp and bright and new. It carries voices too but they are kind voices and they beckon to him. They are close, waiting just outside his door. He gets dressed as quickly as he can, grabbing whatever is at hand from the heap on the floor.
And he makes for the door and stumbles blithly out into the light.
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