In the TV studio a warning bell sounded, and then the lights came up at Leon, blinding.
Kyle Jackson spoke first, as usual. “And now for all the latest nuts and bolts on this whopper of a storm, the man you have all been waiting for, our resident master meteorologist, Leon Metzlmann. Take it away, Leon!”
Leon couldn’t stand Kyle, but Leon smiled back anyway. “Well folks, we are looking at a rare event for us here in the southeast,” he said, turning his tall spindly body and staring directly into the camera to give his most earnest made-for-TV expression. “We have a low pressure system on the move.” Leon flapped his arms in front of a blank green wall like a street magician so the Chroma key would create for the viewers at home the illusion of a graceful arc waving across a computer-generated map of the United States. “This system’s bringing down some bitter cold from the north to meet up with a moist air mass from the south.” Leon traced the ominous image that he wanted to impress upon his fellow residents of his small hometown in the middle of North Carolina.
“I can’t say this enough. The roads tonight are very dangerous and getting worse. Stay off the roads. We could get accumulations of up to six inches or more. In fact, this storm is reminiscent the storm of 1979, forty-four years ago this week, the storm that caused the tragic death of Lillington High School senior Laura Jenkins…”
Kyle broke in, “Leon, you have a memory like a steel trap. Thanks for that report. And now for the latest school closings.”
Leon was used to being cut off by Kyle. Of course it had not always been Kyle Jackson. Over the years Leon endured a whole parade of square jaws like the virile Kyle bursting with his scripted enthusiasm and burning desire to escape. But Leon would never leave. He loved his town—especially on nights like this.
After the broadcast, Leon and Kyle walked backstage. Leon fumbled with the clip on his microphone, His hands were a little shaky, a side effect of the medicine the doctor had given him for his heart. He sent the device skittering across the floor.
“What’s the matter Leon, you’re nervous as a cat. Got a hot date?” Kyle chuckled, still using his pompous anchorman’s voice.
Leon was 61, but looked older. He had always refused TV makeup, and his wispy gray hair lay limp on his balding head like a tangle of daisy stems that had been trampled upon. “Very funny Kyle. Just trying to get out of here before it gets too bad. You should too.”
“Sure thing. Married guys like me have to get home on time, rain or shine. Just got to stop off and get something for the wife. Gifts. It’s what people in love do for each other, you know?”
Leon buttoned up his coat and went out to his rust-riddled car. It started om the third try. The snow continued falling. But Leon didn’t worry. He knew there would not be enough snow to cause any real problems.
Leon navigated the back roads towards the old high school at the edge of town. Memories flooded in from his days as a gangly kid loping along from class to class, hoping for just one day without some taunt or insult.
It was also where he had once snuck out behind the chorus building and first kissed the only girl he ever fell in love with: Laura Jenkins.
Leon turned into the parking lot. The cracked asphalt had turned into a bone-white lake. The expanse glistened under the lone streetlight with flecks of astral blue.
No one heard the door of his car slam shut.
He crossed the practice football fields, his feet brushing hushed steps through the ash-soft dusting of snow. He stopped half-way and stood facing the woods beyond the edge of the field.
He peered into the crisscrossing mass of black and gray branches and trunks. He looked for a long time. The snow spiraled down. It did not matter how long he stayed out here. There was no one to miss him.
Snowflakes pricked his nose and melted. Still he did not dare move. This was the eighteenth year since his promotion to head meteorologist at the station, the eighteenth year he had come. He knew that even the slightest sound could cause the entire scene to collapse.
As he stared into the tangled dark, with icy flakes pattering like a whispering soft breathing, Leon cast his hearing as far out as he could. He had done his part, using his staged exaggerated forecast to frighten away as many drivers as possible, silencing the din of traffic from the highway. Now he had to wait.
He waited a long time.
Then, a tiny glint of sound. From far far off. He listened, hunting. For it was only now, in the middle of the special quiet of a rare snowfall night, that one could even hope to hear it. But finally. The singing. Just the barest, most delicate diaphanous sound, fading in and out like winter breeze through swaying barren treetops. A lilting winsome sound, high and thin and curved as the wind, a woman singing, yet still too distant to make out words. But Leon felt in his heart of hearts the singing was for him alone.
He started again towards the woods. Each year the singing would stop well before he made it to the edge of the forest. This time he ventured as far as being able to touch the first trees and the singing did not stop, but became louder, clearer. Then out of the corner of his eye he caught a flicker of movement.
Leon turned. A crimson ribbon fluttered from a low branch. He untied the hasty half-knot, too silky to be a surveyor’s marker. More like what a young woman might wear in her hair. He opened his coat and with great care placed it into his left shirt pocket. The singing stopped. He gazed down a dark snowfall path that led into the woods.
Leon became very cold. His chest had a feeling inside like a sparrow trying to flutter its way out. He decided to enter the woods.
He did not return.
When not traveling to parallel universes, Paul Celmer is a
technical writer in Durham, North Carolina. His recently published flash
science fiction includes “Spooky Action At a Distance” in Daily Science Fiction, “The Last Rosy-Fingered Dawn” in Cosmic Roots and Eldritch Shores, and “Katafalka” in Stupefying Stories.
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