Young Writers Society

It was a cold November day in the rural town of Millhaven. The snow was falling in a vast quantity, which would have been at least tolerable if not for the wind, which mercilessly blew the snow at a diagonal distance to the ground, almost causing a whiteout. The branches of magnificent pine trees littered the ground, too weak to carry the heavy load bestowed upon them by the gray, foreboding clouds above. Everyone was safely indoors. Some dealing with leaks from their over-burdened roofs. Most were huddled close together, round-about the fireplace, sipping hot cocoa, swathed in layers and layers of blankets. The cold weather has a way of bringing families together, but not people. Everyone was indoors—everyone, that is, except Gareth.

Gareth was otherwise known as the Millhaven tramp. He came and went with an irregularity that fueled the gossip surrounding his name. Some said he was a drunkard who spent every penny he received on drowning his soul in liquor. Others said he was the rich bishop of the neighboring parish who disguised himself to see how the people of Millhaven treated the poor. Not that it affected their generosity. They were generally still as parsimonious as people could be.

Gareth pulled his rags tighter around his emaciated body. His homeland of Wales received annual snow, not that he ever had to stay out in the weather so ill-clad. Yet the Welsh people were a hale and hearty race. He would endure this snow till he got to his destination. Besides, he had been in tougher scrapes as a shepherd on those treacherously rugged hills before his flight for crimes he had opted to forget. Gareth glanced at his companion, Rosa. She was a beautifully built, sagacious Irish Wolfhound, the height of which was taller than her owner if she stood on her hind legs. He had received many an offer for her, yet he had turned down everyone. For this, many people thought him a fool. He couldn’t bear to give her up though, she had stuck with him through thick and thin, so he would stick by her. Thin, that’s all it seemed to be lately. Thin, like the layer of cardboard between his feet and the ground. Thin like the rags separating his dirt-layered skin from the stinging winds. He was still hoping for the winds of fortune to finally blow upon him, not that he banked on it; life had taught him better than that.

“Rosa, you foolish rabbit chaser, get over here before you get yourself lost,” Gareth said, speaking in the dying tongue of the welsh. “Brr, this weather is treacherous, get over here!”

Rosa yelped; she was stuck in the layers of snow, her feet not touching the frozen ground below. Gareth laboriously hauled her out of the snow, receiving licks from her hot tongue for his troubles. A frigid blast of wind swept his dusty gray bowler hat off his head and somewhere into the space behind him. His long white beard swirled behind him like coattails in the wind. Gareth grimaced at his freezing fingers. He needed to hurry to his destination.

The tramp fought doggedly against the swirling winds. The snow flew into his eyes, blurring his vision. Rosa sat curled in his arms. She would bark from time to time to encourage her master. Gareth kept his eyes on the ground to protect them from the stinging winds.

A little while later, Gareth sighted lights in front of him. They shone through the white wall of snow like lights on the sea through a curtain of fog. Gareth stumbled forward, falling face first, unceremoniously into the snow. He could see the door in front of him. Banging his numb fist on the door, Gareth sank wearily to the ground and waited.

* * * * *

Montavious Teal was having the time of his life. A large bottle of Port wine sat on the large coffee table in front of his plush velvet couch. Alexandra Mollish sat next to him on the couch, her legs crossed, with a purple satin dress accentuating her lovely form. A full glass of port was held between her thumb and forefinger. She was the richest heiress in the Millhaven area; her father owned a large steel contracting business. Montavious and Alexandra joked and laughed at nonsensical jokes. She was a woman of good taste, not prone to gossiping like most of her sex. That’s when he heard the knock at the door. Sobering instantly, Montavious straightened his bowtie and rose to answer the door.

* * * * *

Gareth stared expectantly at the man who answered the door. He looked like a pompous, socially climbing, young fellow. His face was red, the color of a beet or the wine he had been drinking in excess.

“I am needing shelter. Is there space here?” Gareth said, speaking in a halting manner. English was strange to his tongue—he was much used to speaking the sharp language of Wales. The disdainful look on the gentleman’s face was galling; he would have taken his chance with the weather if it wasn’t for his dog shivering against his chest. “Please, me and my dog need shelter.”

Montavious wrinkled his nose; the man in front of him smelled like wet leather. Glancing behind him, Montavious saw Alexandra take a sip from her wine. He couldn’t bring that tramp in here, not with that highborn lady.

“There is no space here, you must go to town.”

“Please, sir, you must help me. Town is 2 miles away, I cannot walk that distance in this weather.” Montavious turned his nose upwards.

“There is no space here,now leave before I call security.”

Gareth slowly turned and stepped off the steps. He turned around to say one more thing but received a door slamming in his face. Shaking his head, Gareth slowly turned and laboriously tromped through the snow.

* * * * *

Gareth and Rosa were found frozen stiff on the side of the road 3 days later. She lay there, cuddled to his breast, attempting to keep him warm. His body had been disturbed by wild animals, but the main reason for his death was hypothermia. Death from excessive cold. Whether from the cold weather or from the cold heart of man, you decide.