Bjorn Kallvik's Arc

Chapter 1 of 1

Bjorn Kallvik had taught every newcomer in Slippery Slope to snowplow, and he knew all their names. Only one woman refused to smile at him. She came to his lesson each morning, learned fast, and left before he could say more than two words. He wanted her to like him. He had no idea how. The trouble was the hill. On the lesson slope he was the grinning instructor, the show. Thirty beginners watched his every joke. She saw that man and clearly wasn't impressed. He needed a place where he could be plain Bjorn, not the act. He had no such place. That morning she slipped on a patch of ice and dropped her glove. Bjorn skied over and handed it back. "Same time tomorrow?" he asked. "If I must," she said, and pushed off downhill. His dog solved it for him. The husky bolted from the lodge, dragging its leash, and ran straight across her path. She caught the leash without falling. The dog leaned against her legs and refused to move. "Yours?" she asked. "Mine," Bjorn said. "He likes you more than he likes me." She knelt and scratched the husky's ears. The dog groaned and flopped over. For the first time, she laughed. Not at a joke. Just at the dog. "He walks me every evening," Bjorn said. "Up past the quiet bar, where nobody skis. He won't come back without a loop around it." He didn't grin. He just told her. "You could come. He'd insist." She studied him, like she was checking for the trick. "No lesson," he added. "No audience. Just the dog." That evening she came. The slope-side bar glowed up ahead, its windows warm, its lanterns lit. They walked past it in the cold. The husky trotted between them, proud and clumsy at once. Bjorn didn't perform. He told her his dog chewed one boot a week. He told her he'd never left the mountain. She asked real questions. He gave real answers. Near the treeline, the husky stopped and stared up the slope. A huge shape moved there, white against the dark. A moose, broad antlers crusted with frost, stepped into the open. It blinked at them, lost its footing, and sat down hard in the snow. She grabbed Bjorn's sleeve and laughed again, harder this time. The moose heaved itself up and lumbered off, embarrassed. "Okay," she said, still holding his sleeve. "That was worth the walk." They stood close in the quiet. Then her phone buzzed. She read it and her face changed. "I have to go," she said. She let go of his sleeve. "I'm only here two more weeks. Then I'm gone." She handed him the leash and walked back toward the lights. Bjorn watched her go. She had seen the real him at last. And now he knew his time was almost up.