symmetry Jessica Roy

symmetry

jessica roy

Usually the old trapper wasn’t bothered by the piercing cold. But lately he felt every one of his 80 winters. The freezing air crept into his bones and settled. An unwanted guest.

Waking to another cold, pale dawn, the man decided he would collect his traps for the season. It was a week earlier than usual but due to the long cold winter, his energy was waning.

Wanting to get an early start, the trapper slung a burlap sack over one shoulder and picking up his rifle, left the cabin to begin the 10km round-trip of his trap line. Despite the calendar’s date, the wind still wormed its icy fingers beneath the trapper’s clothing.

Hours later, the air thick with fog, the exhausted trapper finally approached the last beaver lodge. By the sheer size of it, the man knew it housed a significant colony. More than likely a male and female, yearlings and kits. He had experienced success from this lodge on numerous occasions and was anxious to see today’s bounty and retrieve his final trap.

Thinking of the hot cup of coffee and warm fire that awaited him back at his tiny cabin, the old trapper quickly shuffled across the pond. Kneeling, he broke through the thin skin of ice that had formed at the mouth of the beaver run. His woolen gloves did not completely insulate him from the icy water and he hissed as the chill reached his fingertips. Grasping the chain that anchored the trap, the man tugged sharply. Feeling light resistance, he thought he may have caught a kit. Too small to be worth much. Disappointed, the man yanked harder until the trap popped out of the jagged hole. It took the man’s dulled mind a moment to understand what he was seeing. Instead of the firm, plump body of a young beaver, he stared down at a severed front paw. Ligaments and claws were still clutched in the angry, steel teeth of the trap. A grisly, dangling sacrifice. Catching his breath, the trapper crouched to get a closer look in the fading light. The mangled joint showed clearly where sharp teeth had gnawed through bone and gristle. It was then that the man noticed that the area around the hole was smeared with blood. Crimson against white. Peering into the water, the man imagined a big male pulling himself into the deep reaches of the lodge to lick his wounds in the comfort of the colony.

Marveling at the immense mental and physical strength of the beaver, the trapper released the foot and placed it in the burlap bag. Before removing the trap, the man looked thoughtfully at the lodge, an internal struggle taking place. As the sun slipped beneath the tree line, he impulsively reset the trap. Turning his back on the lodge, the man began the slow trek back to the cabin.

A spring storm swept in overnight and the snow was wet and heavy as the trapper struggled to make a fresh trail back to the lodge. Stumbling across the pond to the opening of the beaver run, the man wearily pulled on the chain and was relieved to feel that it was weighted down. With renewed energy, he grasped it with both hands and tugged firmly. The trapper was dismayed when he saw that the jaws of the trap were not closed around a beaver as he expected. Instead, the sharp teeth were sunken into a thick poplar branch. Irritated, the man released the branch, tossed it aside and quickly reset the trap.

Knowing he still had work ahead of him, the man took one last lingering look at the lodge and retreated to the cabin.

The rising sun offered a watery light and the old trapper’s head was wreathed in white steam as he completed his morning chores. The rhythmic swing of the hatchet warmed him and he sensed a softness in the air. Spring was loosening winter’s iron grip and he knew he would have to catch the beaver soon before the pond thawed.

Distracted with thoughts of his prey, the man did not at first register the sharp pain in his left hand. Looking down, his mind took a moment to comprehend what had happened. The tips of two fingers, cut neatly at the first knuckle, were resting on the chopping block. In shock, the trapper raised his hand and watched blood flowing freely, dripping onto the snow. Crimson against white. Clutching the injured hand to his chest, the man hurried to the cabin.

Kicking the cabin door closed behind him, the trapper pulled out his skinning knife and approached the wood stove. Grimacing in pain, he paused to take a long pull of rye whiskey from the bottle on the shelf above him. Gritting his teeth, he poured the remaining whiskey over his injured fingers. Feeling the burn of the whiskey, the man opened the front door of the stove and, wrapping his right hand to insulate it from the heat, held the blade over the flames until it glowed red. Bracing himself for the ordeal to come, the man collapsed onto a chair and spread his injured fingers wide. Before he lost his nerve, the trapper pressed the glowing edge of the knife against the bleeding stumps.

The man woke with his head on the table, sweat staining the wood grain and the smell of burnt flesh lingering in the air. The knife had grown a dull grey. Raising his hand, the trapper was relieved to see that the blood had slowed to a trickle. Forcing himself to his feet, he lumbered to the water basin and rinsed his hand with melted snow. Eyes watering, mouth tight against the pain, the man bound his fingers tightly. Instinctively seeking the comfort of his family, he abandoned the cabin to make the long, arduous drive to the village. For a fleeting moment, he considered retrieving the severed digits, but knew it was too late. They would have to be sacrificed.

The village nurse could do little except clean the wounds and provide the old man with antibiotics and pain killers. He was fussed over by his daughter, and his grandchildren filled his days with chatter. Feeling at peace in the presence of his family, the trapper’s hand started to heal.

A week passed before the trapper was able to return to the cabin. Glancing at the chopping block, he saw that his fingers tips were gone. Small enough to be picked up by a raven or rodent. Impulsively, he walked around the to the back of the cabin and studied the beaver gut pile. The beaver foot was gone.

The man approached the lodge for what he knew would be the final time that season and from several feet away, he could see movement near the opening of the run. With a sense of urgency, he hurried across the pond’s thinning ice. Nearing the lodge, the man felt an adrenalin surge when he discovered a large beaver caught in the trap. The animal had been strong enough to drag the trap out of the hole onto the ice.

Sensing the shifting ice, the beaver stilled and turned its head to stare directly at the old trapper. Intelligent