Sharing The Warmth

A short fiction by HrryNrmn. 

 

All characters herein are copyrighted by HrryNrmn and may not be used without his express, written permission.  All Rights Reserved 2007.

 

 

The leaves were crunching underfoot as Shale walked through the deserted streets.  A soft white mist was oozing up from the ground: a foggy miasma that sank into Shale’s short coat, simultaneously wetting and chilling him.  The brisk wind had long since blown out the candles in even the hardiest of the jack-o-lanterns on the front porches of the houses along the street.  It was only sometime after 10 P.M. but to Shale, it could have been the middle of the night, since the chilly, damp weather had driven all the trick-or-treaters off the streets over an hour ago.  The streets were as empty as the mountains of the moon and Shale felt as though he were likely the last living thing on the face of the earth. The moon poked coldly between thick scuds of clouds, shining brightly down through the bare limbs that seemed to claw at the sky.  He crossed the street, stopping briefly in the middle of the road to determine where it was he should go.

 

            Lights like the eyes of some great beast of prey zoomed up out of the darkness, piercing through the mist.  Shale’s heart gave a lurch and he shot out of the way and under a hedge.  The howling of teenage voices blared from the car and Shale caught snatches of songs being played at least three levels too loud.  The car barely slowed as it careened around a corner.  Shale, shivering with fear and cold, peered out from under the bushes. When he was sure it was safe, he slunk forward, his belly brushing the ground.  The branches of the evergreen bush held water on its needles, and, in climbing out, Shale managed to both soak his back and head while getting both dirt and pine needles on himself.  He shook himself, and most of the needles fell off onto the ground. Shale, feeling utterly miserable now and shivering so that he could hardly stand, continued on down the road without any real destination in mind.  All he knew what that he had to find some way to get out of the cold. By now, a slow and chilling rain was falling, creating small puddles on the sidewalk.  Shale made sure to sidestep them, trying to keep his paws as dry as possible.

           

            He continued walking until he came to a bridge that crossed a deep culvert.  At one time there had been a river in the bottom, but now it was mostly weeds and garbage.  There was flickering light coming from underneath the bridge, and Shale could hear a warbling song floating up to his ears.

 

“In Dublin’s fair city

Where the girls are so pretty,

I first set me eyes on sweet Molly Malone

As she pushed her wheelbarrow

Through streets broad and narrow,

Crying ‘cockles and muscles, alive, alive-o’”

 

            The song was frequently punctuated with muffled hiccups. As the singer sang the second verse, the lyrics seemed to escape him, and he simply mumbled along until he got back to the refrain.  Shale crept quietly down the embankment, picking his way among various beer cans and old newspaper advertising circulars, and peered through some tall grass to investigate.  The flickering turned out to be a small bonfire and the singer was a tall, thin, and exceedingly filthy man, dressed in rags and seated on the ground.  Shale felt a sudden tickle in his nose, and before he could help himself, he sneezed!

 

            “Here, now!” the man said, wheeling unsteadily towards the sound.  “Come on outta there.  Jacob knows you’re in there, he does.”  With the obstinate pride of a veteran of the lower class he continued, “It’s not respectable to be spyin’ on a man when he’s alone, you know.  Even the likes of me knows that!”

 

            Shale, forever cautious, decided to scope out the scene from in the bushes for a few more moments before exposing himself. He peered out of the weeds, fancying himself camouflaged very well.  The hobo, for this is precisely what the man was, was setting Indian style next to a small fire, which had he built primarily using a combination of old charcoal briquettes, a variety of trash, and some small branches he’d found under the bridge.  He was holding a bottle in one hand and taking liberal sips from it every thirty seconds or so.  His shirt was a tattered affair that read “Havenwood Bobcats” on it.  It was obviously a hand-me-down.  His pants were a pair of filthy corduroys that were held up with a piece of baling twine. His shoes were Vans, held together with electrical tape.  On his head was an amorphous, gray blob that at one time had probably been a hat.  His face was a pockmarked affair, with the telltale broken veins of a veteran alcoholic. His eyes had a yellow-ish cast to them, and in them you could see incipient liver damage.  Even though the man appeared very rough, Shale couldn’t think of any earthly reason why he shouldn’t approach the man.  Gradually, he exited his hiding spot and, with infinite caution, went over by the fire.

           

            “Here, now!” said the man, using what would turn out to be his favorite phrase, “what’s a fine lookin’ dog like you doin’ out on a night like this’n’?”  He stuck one grimy hand out for Shale to sniff.  Shale, although he could think of probably one hundred things he’d rather sniff, took a cursory whiff of the hand offered to him.  Then, much to his dismay, the bum began to stroke him, from the top of his head all the way down his back, nearly to his tail.  “Why, yer’ as cold as a stone!”  He thought for several seconds.  “Here, now!  I’ve got something what will warm ya’ up proper!”

 

            He produced a filthy cup from within the inner reaches of a coat he had laying nearby.  He took the bottle, which showed a picture of an old fashioned train on its red label, and poured a generous helping of the liquid into the cup.  It was red and smelled a little like cough syrup.  He put the cup down in front of Shale, saying, “Don’t ya’ be spillin’ it now…that cost me good.”  With that, he plopped over on his side, nearly crashing into Shale.

 

            Shale sniffed the liquid.  It didn’t smell all that bad.  He stuck out his tongue and gave it an exploratory lick.  He wrinkled his nose at the taste; however, the bum had been right about one thing.  It did add some warmth to the night.  He took a bigger swallow, ignoring the awful fruity taste.  The warmth cascaded down his throat, hit his stomach and seemed to spread out through his icy limbs.  A smile came to his lips.

 

            “So ya’ like that, do ya’?” the bum asked.  He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial level. “Ya’ know, I do too.  I drink it all da’ time!”  He took a long swig off the bottle, and then poured more into the cup Shale was drinking from.  Shale, not wanting to be rude, happily lapped it up.  Of course, at this point, he was thinking less of rudeness and more that the strange liquid was actually pretty good.  He felt warm and toasty, as though he were indoors.  The rain had stopped, although it was still mostly overcast.  Had he been capable, he could have snapped his fingers at the cold, the rain, or anything else Mother Nature decided to throw at him.  It suddenly seemed much less important to him, in his current mindset.

 

Several drinks later, Shale looked blearily over at his companion.  He had some degree of difficulty keeping his head steady to look at him, but he squinted, shook his head, and looked closely, which seemed to help.  The hobo was now laying flat on his back in the grass, singing in melancholy tones to the clouds overhead.

 

“She died of a fever

And no one could save her

And that was the end of sweet Molly Malone.

And her ghost wheels her barrow

Through streets broad and narrow

Crying ‘Cockles and muscles, alive alive-o’”

 

             He began to cry softly, in the easy way that drunks are good at.  Shale, now quite alarmed by his erratic behavior, finished his cup off and leapt to his feet.  At least, he tried to leap.  By this point his coordination was a bit off, his leap caused him to stagger bluntly, and he ended up draped partially across the hobo’s lap.

 

            “‘Ere…now,” said the hobo, hiccupping.  He grabbed Shale by the face and drew him close, hugging him.  Shale, who was no great fan of close contact on any occasion, suddenly found himself nearly smothered in the filthy hobo’s arms.  He struggled vaguely, but he couldn’t seem to get his footing.  To add a final indignity, the hobo planted an extremely wet kiss directly on top of Shale’s head.  Shale managed to twist himself free and got approximately two yards before the

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