Ex Nihilo

By Matthew Walpole

The man led the boy child through the drifting ash of a wasted world. Black, ashen snow stretched from horizon to horizon. Somewhere, the man said, there was a city.

They’d been walking forever. Forever under the scorched sky. Forever in the darkness; it was all the boy knew. He was born from the dust of a world he’d never know and dust he was; caught in a stray wind, drifting over the tundra. Soon the wind would weaken, let him fall...

                

The man stopped, bent on his stick, heaving each bitter breath. The boy looked back; he could still see the place they’d last had to stop. He touched the man’s arm.

                Let me help.

                The man grunted and the boy moved his hand to his backpack.

    I’ll carry some o’ the weight.

    The man brushed him off.

    I’m fine.

    The child’s eye’s glittered. You’re not.

    They dragged on in silence.

The horizon was lost in fog when the man next stopped: night was closing in. Nights here were darker than the starless wildernesses of outer space. Nights here were colder. The man stuck his stick in the snow like an explorer marking an alien landscape.

                We need shelter.

    The boy gazed up at the man. What’re we goin’t do?

    You tell me. Look around.

He looked: a desert, sketched in charcoal. Fog gathering. He began to cry.

                The man knelt and touched his fragile hand. It’s goin’t be okay.

                No.

    We’re goin’t get through this, together.

    The boy lifted his wretched eyes. There’s nothing but snow.

    Precisely.

    We’re goin’t bury ourselves?

            The man’s eyes twinkled with laughter.

    We’re goin’t build’n igloo.

    An ee-glow?

    I’ll show you.

               

                

The man knelt and pressed the snow.

     It’s gotta be made o’ the right stuff. Tha’s important.

     He turned to the boy.

     Strong foundations are essential. If the snow don’t hold together y’have no igloo. You with me?

     The boy nodded.

     Good.

The man drew a circle in the snow with his stick, marking the base of the dome; he then took a rusty carving knife from his backpack and gave it to the boy.

    What’s this for?

                You’ll see.                                     

                The man got down on his hands and knees and beckoned the boy to do the same.

                Now, cut deep - that’s it - now slice through, slowly!

                He guided the boy’s hand and together they created a large snow block.

                There y’see - soon you’ll be able t’do all this without me.

                The boy looked away.

    No I won’t. He couldn’t help a small smile twisting his lips. 

Block by block, they raised their structure from the snow. The boy suggested that they’d work quicker with individual roles. He became the wall-builder; the man - the block-cutter.

By the time the blocks stood at the boy’s chest the man was exhausted. He lay in the snow, his breath steaming and drifting with the wind. The boy stepped back from the wall and grinned.

     It’s good.

                The man nodded. Uh huh.

                The boy sat with him. 

                Who taught you?

                Mm?

                The boy gestured to their work.

                Oh. My dad.

                When?

                The man gazed into the dark emptiness.

                A long time ago.

                The boy gazed too.

                He laid his hand on the man’s.

    We’ll find it.

The man nodded and gripped his hand.

They sat like that in the silence.

The boy started and sprang to his feet: Com’on!

                Jus’ a moment.

                Now!

                He scooped a ball of snow and hurled it at the man.

                Hey!

               The boy’s glee echoed across the expanse as the man staggered to his feet and returned fire. They played. They played recklessly, urgently; until the thickening darkness could no longer be ignored. The man dropped a snowball from his readied hand and his glowing cheeks paled.

                We have to hurry.

Those last blocks nearly broke them. The man was trembling with exhaustion; the darkness was intense.

                So cold.

                He kept having to rest. The boy struggled on.

Eventually, there was only one block left to do: the block that sealed the dome. The man said: Mess up the final block an’ the whole igloo’ll collapse. He was securing it in the space above when his back gave. They were standing inside.

His scream ripped through the night. The boy screamed too, brittle with terror. The man’s frame buckled, the boy rushed over, helped him stand; helped sustain the roof: the blocks were sliding – all supported by that one point. The moment held, quivering: the man supporting the roof, the boy supporting the man. It held. The roof held. The pair collapsed. Their shelter held.

With the sunrise they crawled out and stood together, watching the horizon. The fog had cleared. They could see lights.

                What are they?

                It’s hard to tell.

                What d’you think?

                I think...buildings.

                Buildings?

                The man took his son’s hand.

                I’m goin’t need your help getting there.

                But what are they?

                Come on, I’ll show you.

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I'm delighted to present this piece of guest work from Matt Walpole - my old writing course buddy! Ah, good times. Matt informs me he's currently stuck with writer's block; luckily, positive comments, either left here or addressed to him, are the best cure for that!