by James Callan
I had just come out from the long haul of settling my kid down to bed. At age seven, Teddy still required reassurance in the dark. I was patient most nights, an understanding father. Tonight, it grated on my nerves. Took two damn hours.
My wife, Renee, was sipping wine, laying out cards on the table. She was doing a tarot reading. Normally, I couldn’t care less, even if the scented candles did give me a headache. But this time, it was different—it was the night before our transglobal trip.
“Don’t do that,” I pleaded. “Not right now. Not tonight. Not before two straight days of flying.” The trip to England from New Zealand does, in fact, take two days (including layovers). It was an epic journey, made harder with Teddy in tow, and I was terrified of flying. The last thing I needed was a tarot reading foretelling my doom. The last thing I wanted to see was the death card drawn from the deck.
“Come on!” Renee complained. “It’s just a bit of fun.”
“Like the Air India crash? Was that a bit of fun? 260 people might disagree—if they were still alive. How about the crash in DC? The one with the helicopter over the Potomac. Just a bit of fun, eh?” Aviation disasters had headlined the news in recent months. It didn’t convince me that my fears were irrational.
“It’s tarot, babe. Pictures and paper.”
“Air travel, babe. 35,000 feet is a long way down.”
Renee shook her head, laughing, packing away the cards. “Great, now I’m bored.”
“Better bored than afraid,” I said. “You think I like being scared every time we travel? The bundle of nerves in my gut that I carry for 48 hours? Or the nervous diarrhea—it’s a blast, but not the kind you want, believe me.”
Renee shrugged, rolled her eyes. I could tell she was annoyed, even if she had put away her cards.
“Look,” I offered, “why don’t you do a reading with the other deck? The cards with the animals. There’s no death card in that one. Just fuzzy, cute things. Use those cards.”
“Not a bad idea,” Renee conceded, leaving the room before coming back with her Animal Wisdom deck, a gentler alternative to the Rider-Waite classic.
I was reading a book—not not a very good one—which I put down to watch Renee fan out the cards, face down. They were lavender, just like the candles, bordered in frilly, mystic symbols. I smiled, watching my wife take it all so fucking seriously.
“This is a past, present, future spread,” she told me. “Pick three cards.”
So I did.
I don’t recall the first two cards, specifically, but I remember rolling my eyes at the overt positivity and hippie bullshit that came with their messaging. The third card, however, I remember quite well. This was the card designated to my future. I had drawn the moth, which offered keynotes such as “end,” “transition,” “metamorphosis,” and “change.” The artwork showed the dark image of a moth flying between dead, winter branches and a full moon. Eerily, a human skull centered its thorax. The card’s concluding message: release the old, embrace the new.
“Sounds a lot like death to me.”
“Pictures and paper, babe.”
“Pictures and paper,” I agreed. Technically she was right.
Later that night, when we were both lying in bed, hoping to cash in on three or four hours of sleep ahead of our 4 AM rise, I listened to Renee gently snore in the dark. I was thinking of moths and skulls. I was thinking about Teddy, alone in the dark in the bedroom next door. Eventually, I slept. I dreamed of crashing planes.
***
48 hours later, we landed in New Castle Airport. We avoided becoming the next aviation tragedy to headline the news.
Like zombies, Renee and I led Teddy, who had slept most of the final 7-hour flight, to baggage claim. Together, we tag-teamed managing our son’s boredom and high energy. Bags took fucking forever, which didn’t help, and the frigid air coming through the automatic doors was a brisk reminder we had left the balmy heights of summer for the cold depths of winter.
A £6 hot chocolate bought five minutes of Teddy’s patience before his sugar high settled in. But the bags had finally arrived, and the rental car area was only a two minute walk away. We threw our bags in the back of the vehicle and pumped up the heat. As soon as the condensation cleared off the windshield, we headed for Durham, our final destination.
***
Durham is the gem of northeast England, as far as I’m concerned. There are loads of nice towns in the region—York, Alnwick, Whitby—each with their own charms and reasons to crown them king. But Durham speaks to me. It sparks my soul. And not just because Renee grew up there; I don’t play favorites.
It’s a medieval town, so there’s that. Plenty of history, which comes out in its architecture, its character, its narrow vennels, each crack between every cobble. Durham Cathedral is 1000 years old! Its Norman architecture is remarkably grand, open to the public, and empty in the early hours (not a single security guard to taint the sanctity that even I, a staunch atheist, feel is undoubtedly present, palpable under its vaulting heights).
Living in New Zealand, 200-year-old structures are among the oldest I’d hope to encounter, and they are few and far between besides. Towns and structures exuding history are common throughout England, the whole of the UK, Europe, and beyond. I’m not a history buff, but it’s impressive, and flirts with my typically guarded spirituality. I guess Durham isn’t special in this regard, not unique, anyways. But, like I said, it speaks to me.
Okay, so maybe I do play favorites.
***
“Daddy, do you think it’ll snow?” We were sitting in the living room in the B&B, a house we have rented before, stayed in each time we visited Durham.
Below freezing, it had been cold enough for snow the last few nights. Cloudy, too. Just needed precipitation. “I sure hope so, buddy. It would be great for you to see your first snow.”
“Will it snow enough for me to build a snowman?”
I took a gamble, told my kid that it would.
“Will it snow tonight?” Teddy stared out the window, as if he could will the weather to respond to his bidding.
“One can hope, little guy. But only after you brush your teeth and fall asleep.” I ushered Teddy upstairs to the bathroom, then the bedroom. Outside, the moon was nearly full.
***
We woke to snow. Well, sort of—we woke to Teddy climbing into our bed and telling us, rather loudly, that outside everything was covered in white. It was about 5 AM, but we were jet-lagged, so any time of day, all day, feels like 5 AM. I got out of bed and looked out the window.
Sure enough, the lawn, our car, the rooftops and street were covered in snow. The old wrought-iron lampposts looked like something out of The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, highlighting a cascade of orange confetti, the thick, falling snow.
“Is there enough to make a snowman?” Teddy was already dressed, a miracle by most morning standards.
“There’s enough for a snowman,” I assured my son. “And a snowball fight for the ages!” I decided to get in the spirit of things. After all, this was my child’s first snow.
“Race you to the door!” Teddy was already outside by the time I could meet his challenge.
Tired beyond belief, jet-lagged, and in dire need of some coffee, I slipped on my boots, and walked outside amid the snow. It was cold as all hell, but it was goddamn beautiful. Teddy was smiling, laughing. And so was I.
***
After we built our snowman, and exchanged 100 volleys of snowballs between us, we warmed up by the fire inside and I finally got that coffee that had become a clinical need.
We were wet, cold, and tired, but elated, too. Teddy was full of energy. Renee was beaming on the couch, showing us the pictures she had covertly taken from the window, the images of raucous father-son fun, the snowman with a pencil for a nose (we didn’t have a carrot).
After breakfast, another coffee, we suited up for the cold once again, having decided to walk around Durham in the predawn amid the beautiful winter magic. It was only 6 AM, still dark. It was Saturday, so everyone was still in bed. We had the medieval town to ourselves.
Before we left, I threw on my coat which I had brought from New Zealand, a heavy wool garment that warded well against the cold. It smelled stale from disuse, having hung, unworn, in a closet for several years. As I wormed my arms into its sleeves, little moths flew out at the wrists. The dust from their wings was smeared on the collar. The wool smelled like mold, like the BO of an ancient mummy.
Outside, the cold crisp air alleviated the stale smell of my coat, and the caffeine in my system masked my jet-lag just enough to feel alive. Teddy was walking ahead with his mom, his little bare hand held in Renee’s red mitten. I watched the two of them from behind; mother and son amid the winter-wonderland. I felt content while looking at them. I felt love, and pride.
I caught up to Renee and Teddy, and together we climbed the cobbled rise leading to the cathedral towering ahead. The snow kept falling. Durham City was empty, pure, and white.
***
Teddy built another snowman on the lawns outside of Durham Cathedral. It was bigger than the first, and had an icicle for a nose. It was an oversight of ours not to pack gloves for Teddy. We didn’t think it would actually snow; it’s not common so close to the sea. Teddy’s hands were getting numb from packing the snow, throwing snowballs at me as I ran away from the dreaded winter monster. Renee had taken off her mittens for ease of taking pictures with her camera. I held them for her, but gave them to Teddy, who needed them more.
“These are way too big!” Teddy complained. “I can’t make snowballs as easily while wearing them.”
“If you don’t wear them, Teddy, your hands might fall off.”
“Really?”
“No, not really.” I mussed up his hair beneath his hat. “But wear them anyways, okay? Wear them for me, alright?”
“Okay, Daddy,” he consented.
“Good boy,” I told him, before the next snowball hit me from behind, right on the back of my neck. Teddy laughed, and Renee laughed harder. Together, they ran into the empty cathedral, which was golden and glorious against the rose-hued sky.
I shook the snow off my collar, and more of those little moths flew past my neck. They’d die in the cold within minutes, but against the cathedral lights and the glow of dawn, they looked like soaring angels.
***
The cathedral didn’t offer much in the way of warmth. Its lofty cavernous excellence was hardly warmer than outside—yet it lent a certain fire in our souls. Instinctively, we became quiet within its holy interior. Even Teddy did not venture to whisper. Collectively, we held our breaths.
Through the back exit, we wandered across snow-covered lawns, past headstones that were older than anything in New Zealand. We continued down to the River Wear below, whose windy, serpentine path was a black snake scurrying on white snow. Along the waterway was a footpath we had walked many times before, walked in all seasons, but never among the snow. It was stunning in summer (lush and green), and in autumn (fragrant and gold), but that winter morning—white and fresh, purity itself—was the most gorgeous I had ever beheld the Wear and its woods.
There are three stone arch bridges in Durham, the oldest dating back to the 12th century. The one that we crossed on that glorious, snow-covered morning was much newer, the Preends Bridge, constructed in the 1800s. Newer, yes, but no less magnificent while rising out of the cold, black Wear in three mighty arches. To see it in the snow, at dawn, and the thousand-year-old cathedral peaking over the bare, winter branches running up the river’s eastern bank; it made a lifelong atheist second-guess his old ways.
“Oh my god, this is so beautiful,” Renee whispered at my side, her words escaping on spectral mist. “Can you watch Teddy for a bit while I run ahead? I won’t be long, but I’ve got to get a picture while the lighting lasts.”
“Go for it,” I urged. “It’ll be worth it to capture this moment. Teddy and I will be waiting right here.”
Renee ran across the bridge to the far bank, almost slipping on the ice and losing her camera. She turned around and laughed, then kept running. Teddy was rolling snowballs and throwing them over the side of the bridge. I watched them fall, splashing into the cold, dark water flowing below us.
***
Could the scene be any more idyllic? I thought not, until the moment a pair of swans arrived, flying overhead. They landed in the water on the other side of the bridge.
“Teddy, come see this.”
“No thanks, Daddy. I’m shooting cannons at pirates.” He threw another snowball over the edge. I heard its gentle splash a couple seconds later.
I noticed he had taken off Renee’s big red mittens, which were sitting on the snow by his feet. “Okay, Teddy. You defend the swans from the pirates. But put on Mommy’s mittens while you do, okay?”
“Do I have to, Daddy?”
“Yes, Teddy. You do.”
“Okay…”
I waited until he put the mittens back on, then watched for a minute as he continued bunching up snowballs, throwing them over the side of the bridge, making explosion sounds with his mouth and speaking under his breath, playing the role of a naval admiral.
The kid had quite the imagination, like his mother, even if he was the spitting image of his father—me, in miniature.
I walked to the other side of the bridge and spotted the swans, immaculate and white like the snow covering the riverbank, blanketing all of Durham. The beauty of it was ridiculous, almost unreal. The swans arced their necks to form a heart. It crossed my mind: had I been sent to heaven?
Teddy was talking to me from the other side of the bridge, rolling more snowballs, throwing them, and every half minute I’d hear another soft splash in the water below. “Get those pirates, my boy!” I shouted, still admiring the swans and the majesty of the river on my side of the bridge.
Teddy was getting excited. He was going on and on about “the big one,” spending extra time on a snowball that was large enough to give him trouble lifting over the side of the bridge. “Come help me, Daddy!”he called out to me. “It’s the big one! The really big one!” he kept repeating.
“Just a minute, buddy! I’ll be right there.” I was watching the swans, the calendar-photo perfection of the morning and the river, when I suddenly remembered my tarot reading from the night before, one of the cards I had forgotten shortly after Renee had put away the deck. I had drawn the swan, which was my present-day card. Renee had gone on and on about what the swan might represent, but the one keyword I recalled was harmony; to live fully, authentically, and feel at peace.
Taking in the serenity of that moment, I thought Yes, this is life at its fullest. Yes, I am at peace. Absolutely, this is harmony.
I heard the big splash behind me and knew that Teddy had managed to lift the mighty snowball over the edge of the bridge. Before I turned to congratulate him, more moths flew out from beneath my collar, many more than before. Damn, musty coat—when we returned from our walk, I planned to wash it. The moths had to go.
“Take care of those pirates, Teddy?” I turned around, but Teddy was gone. I looked down both lengths of the bridge. I saw nothing, no one. My instinct was kidnapping, and I panicked, trying to decide which way to run. But when I looked for footsteps in the snow, none were there to be seen—only Renee’s, leading west, and our own, from the east.
Then I saw the big snowball. It was sitting right there where Teddy had been standing a minute before. It was way too big for my son to lift over the side of the bridge.
And I remembered the splash, bigger than all the others. And I knew. I knew, but I had to look.
I rushed to the railing on the other side of the bridge, though I was far too late. Below, in the black River Wear, there was nothing but water, two swans that rode its swift current, and a pair of large red mittens, floating on its surface.
Just then, Renee returned. Her cheeks were red and her bare hands were blue. She was beautiful, and she was smiling.
“You won’t believe the pictures I got!” She held out her camera. “You and Teddy should come and see!” She looked all around, looked at the empty shell of her husband, the snow all around him. “You look awful, are you okay?”
Her smile faded; one more thing I’ll never see again.
She looked around some more, saw me crying.
“Dan?” She dropped her camera. “Where’s Teddy?”
______
James Callan lives and writes in Aotearoa (New Zealand). His fiction has appeared in Apocalypse Confidential, BULL, X-R-A-Y, Reckon Review, Mystery Tribune, and elsewhere. His collection, Those Who Remain Quiet, is available from Anxiety Press.
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