12 December 20XX+1
My
Dear Lucilius:
We
had two surprises today.
The
first – both a surprise as a blessing – is that Young Xerxes
showed up at our house this morning. In snowshoes – garnered from
the pairs that Pompeia Paulina had at her house. He brought a day
that was both sunny and snowfall free with him, along with a second
pair for me.
The
second surprise – less welcome – was the news he brought. There
was a body in the snow. A body no-one recognized.
Walking
in snowshoes is a trick I had largely lost the talent for; at one
time, Winter hikes were an occasional thing and having snowshoes was
far superior to tramping through snow (to gain wet shoes) with the
risk of postholing (sinking up to your knee or thigh) a risk. The
picking up of my feet was not so bad after I got going; the fact I
continue to look like a duck undoubtedly made
for high comedy.
By
the time I made it to the Post Office, there was a crowd of about a
dozen or so – including, somewhat to my surprise, some of our
erstwhile neighbors – gathered around an object leaned up against
the building. Folks kindly cleared as I waddled my way forward.
Sure
enough, it was a body.
It
was a man – a very thin looking man, if the gauntness of his face
was any indicator. His was curled up into a ball, lightly dusted
with snow. He had what I would have considered “Summer gear” in
these parts: jeans (cotton, become wet and damp easily), a long
sleeve shirt with perhaps a layer or two beneath poking out, tennis
shoes, and a beanie, and for some reason a beautiful gray cashmere
scarf. No jacket, no gloves.
His
extremities – fingers, nose, ears – were black with frostbite.
His eyes – pale blue – were staring off into a distance that he
could no longer see.
Someone
pointed out that down the main road into town from the West,
there were half covered footprints leading in. He had come then,
sometime in the night before the snow had completely fallen, taking
refuge against the post office (it is a large enough building in
these parts and would have been fairly discernible – and died.
I
scanned the crowd with raised eyebrows. People shook their heads all
around: no-one recognized him.
There
were two concerns in my mind at the moment. The first was any sort
of transmissible disease that he might be carrying with him. The
second was equally as pragmatic: with a huge dump of new snow, what
were we going to do with the body?
I
spoke sotto voce
to Young Xerxes and off he went like a shot (well, really a
snow-shoed shot) as the rest of us stood around. To keep people
busy, I sent some
of the younger folk
down the road where his prints had come from to see how far they
went. The rest of us waited, low mutterings around the circle
punctuated by frosty clouds of breath.
Young
Xerxes returned, bearing what I had asked for: Latex gloves. No
sense in taking any risks. I put some on as he did and then, we
pulled the body forward.
Only
once have a touched a body in rigor
mortis; it was as if I was moving a
relatively solid piece of wood, not a body. The same was true here,
with the caveat that in point of fact this was frozen wood. The
sensation, even through the gloves, was not pleasant.
Keeping
as much distance as we could manage, we “flipped” him over on the
other side, like a fish in a pan that we were frying. This side was
much colder and snow bound, of course. But nothing else was
revealed.
His
face and hands (from what I could see) bore no signs of obvious
outbreak of sores or other skin outbreaks. I say “From what I could
see”; I had no intention on bending closer to an unknown death.
Gingerly
we felt around his pants and coat pockets. In one front pocket we
found a Swiss Army knife stripped of its outer plastic siding, the
metal parts exposed. There was a cell phone – probably dead now –
with one of those wallet casing attachments on the back with some
cards that I could not make out. Other than that, nothing: no
rings, no jewelry, no weapons, no food.
An
enigma.
Those
I had sent off down the road came back; they said the trail had run
straight down what was the old state highway from the West. Not a
surprise, really – it was flat and one could relatively tell if one
had gone off it.
Which,
of course, left the body.
Three
feet plus of snow and frozen ground does not lend itself a burial and
just leaving a body around here might attract predators now looking
for a meal or other sorts of predators later. It needed to move. I
looked again to my energetic young friends: There was an oak about a
half mile down the road; could they get the body there and place it?
A discussion, 15 minutes later and a sled, and they were ready.
Young Xerxes and I lifted the body up, instructed them to shovel a
hole in the snow, and dump it in without touching it.
The
crowd began to disperse, and even our Erstwhile former neighbors gave
me a nod as they left. Young Xerxes and I waited until the burial
party returned. It was easily 30 minutes; standing on the snow in
snowshoes instead of in it mad for a better experience and after a
week more or less inside, it was good to just stand outside.
Our
young friends returned, reporting a successful mission. I suggested
to Young Xerxes that we might go up there in a few days; given the
nature of the Winter and animals about, I was of half a mind that the
body would no longer be there.
I
do not like mysteries, Lucilius. Especially the dead without
explanation.
Your
Obedient Servant, Seneca
