Coffin

Sushruta Chandramouli

The silence was only broken intermittently by the cracking and popping of wood shrinking to the
impenetrable cold. The edifice itself had held to hundreds of years of the same, blistering
temperatures, so he was not concerned that the roof would cave in at the mass of snow blocking
the stained glass windows. Perhaps forty or fifty feet of snow had accumulated since the last time
he checked. He hadnt kept track of the days, because there was no point. The days and nights
were indiscernible, as both night and day were light, and he indulged in the fact that he was
nearly at the top of the world, geographically.
Though the aged pews could serve as perfect firewood, there were no means of starting a fire, no
matches, and besides, exposing himself to the frigidity of the air even for a few seconds would
cause him unbearable pain. Food was scarce, and he had made a scant stockpile of canned foods
next to him, although he had to thaw the food with his body warmth in order to eat it.
There was his dog, too, although it barely noticed him anymore, hardly moving more than a
twitch to recognize its name.
He had nothing to do, such that he could only blanket himself with memories, warm in the past.
His childhood, for the most part had been centered about his parents, though he had enjoyed
trekking dangerous path to a destination unknown and unplanned. And now he was forced to
conclude that mans natural habitat was within his own walls and roof, abandoning his reverence
of nature, hanging on to the precious life he loved too much to lose.
Scarcely any food left, save the next few meals, he began to fall into an apathetic sentiment, not
realizing the true extent of the danger he faced.
This complacency was not new to him; at any times of danger, he was accustomed to falling into
ignorance fueled by time.
Waves of sleep often washed over him, relieving him from the daily stresses of thinking and
sitting. Sleep was a salve to the boredom he constantly fended off. However, he often fell into a
regressive dream state, propelled into a thick fog blending fictional reality and actuality in a
continuum, leaving him unable to discern one from the other.
The snow pounds against him in a fluent barrage. He finds himself entrenched in the ice and
snow. Flailing and screaming, desperate for the hope that another soul will hear him, he is
drowned by nature. Exhausted, he imagines what it would be like to lie in a snow coffin; whether
it would be softer or harder than plush cushions. In reality, the boards are being nailed shut one
by one with each snowflake.
Awaking from his pontifications, he moved about his limbs, cracking the joints as though he
were breaking matchsticks.

He began to feel colder, as he rationed his food to stretch over a longer period of time. It must be
spring, he thought, feasting his thoughts on the thaw that would, as he supposed, come very
soon. Till then, he could support himself on the remaining cans.
At this time, minutes felt like days, extended by the fact that the clocks gears were slowed by
the cold and ice. Time really did not matter; he liked to think that time was just existent, but had
no effect on him.
The fire is roaring, men huddled around the meager warmth before it is claimed by wind. They
hardly speak, silence broken by the intermittent grunting and mumblings of chewing roasted
meat, a rare delicacy in this season. While some muse on the next hunt, others think of family,
and companions lost to nature.
He thought about what others would think of his death. Nature is out there to kill you; he knew
that, and yet he had continued with his journey. And now he was cold and alone. Would they
even know that he was dead? Out here in the wilderness even planes went down without notice.
And he, a small human, would surely not be missed.
What did he really want? He was not seeking isolation from society, and he was not seeking
fame from his journey. It was clear to him: he had come to experience the beauty of nature,
which he had found, was a bogus pursuit.
Interrupting his despondent reverie, a thunderous sound brought one of the churchs columns
crashing down. Where there was a wall between him and raw untamed nature, now there was
none. He was used to having control, the upper hand against nature, and now he was fighting a
losing battle.
He trudges along the snow, struggling to keep aloft, snow still soft and uncompressed, and
emotions raw, free from mans interference. His thoughts are empty, mirroring the white
blankness surrounding him. Stumbling step by step, vision narrowing, focusing on each and
every foot gained. His feet get heavier, numbed by the cold through his snow-boots, hands
through gloves, body through coat, soul through skin.
He falls.
The snow circled around the church, settled like dust mounds, unwelcome visitors. He felt the
effect of the chilling winds, encircling within the confined space, howling in the corners,
instilling fear and hatred of nature. Wings flutter, dark angels in the bright white light, their eerie
shadows deepening the cold. How could she be so cruel?
Trudging up the steep embankment of avalanched snow, he climbs without the edifice, muscles
protesting the undue strain, emanating warmth, singing like grass twisted in fire. He is
immediately awed by the landscape. The snow stretches for as long as he can see, unfallen snow
merging with falling snow and fallen snow. He resists the urge to lie down in the soft bed of
uncrushed snow. He must find camp, hoping that his former companions have not moved from
their previous location.

He crumbles from exhaustion, crippled by the cold, limbs numb and unable to move. Nature is
merciless, but there is still hope, he thinks. Perhaps his companions will find him. Fire! He sees a
fire glowing warm before his eyes, warming his body. Sleep. The snow swirls around him, his
fate circling like a vulture.