Poor Mountain Father's Arc

Chapter 1 of 1

Poor Mountain Father woke to the sound of his children's teeth chattering. He had built this cabin with his own hands, high on the snowy mountain, so his family could live together. But love did not stop the cold. Wind hissed through the gaps in the timber walls. His son shivered under a thin blanket. His daughter had pulled her knees to her chest. His wife lay awake, watching him, saying nothing. He knelt beside the boy and touched his cheek. It felt like river ice. "We can't keep sleeping like this," his wife whispered. Her name was Poor Mountain Mother, and her voice held no blame, only worry. That hurt him more than blame. He had promised her a warm home. Every draft that slipped through the walls broke that promise. He lit the stump of a candle and studied the walls. In the flicker he saw the truth. The gaps ran between every log, where old mud had dried and crumbled away. Cold poured through each crack like water through a sieve. "Get up," he told his children. "All of us. We fix this tonight." His eight-year-old son rubbed his eyes and climbed out of bed. "How, Pa?" the boy asked. He always asked how. He wanted to build things like his father. "We chink the walls," Poor Mountain Father said. "Mud, moss, and rag. We stuff every crack." His ten-year-old daughter did not wait for orders. She grabbed a bucket and went to the door. "I'll fetch the mud from the bank," she said. She was the practical one. She hated sitting still while others worked. They worked through the dark. The father mixed frozen dirt with water near the stove until it turned to paste. His daughter carried buckets. His son pressed handfuls of moss into the low cracks he could reach. Poor Mountain Mother tore an old shirt into strips and packed them tight into the widest gaps. The wind fought them. Their fingers went numb. Still they pressed on, crack by crack, wall by wall. By the time the sky turned gray, the hissing had stopped. The father held his palm to the wall where the worst draft had been. He felt only solid, cold wood. No wind came through. The cabin held its heat at last. His son crawled into bed and was asleep in a breath. His daughter smiled and dropped beside her brother. For the first time in weeks, the children slept warm. Poor Mountain Father sat down heavy on the floor. He had won. But as he leaned against the stove, a new fear crept in. The mud paste was already stealing the last of their firewood's heat. The woodpile outside stood almost empty. He had sealed the cold out. Now he had to keep the fire alive, and winter had only begun.