Once he was alone in his office again, James reached back down into his desk drawer and this time brought out a hard back book with a shiny new cover. His father’s book. The book he had yet to open. He didn’t need to, he knew exactly what was in there.
At one time he and his father had been as close as two people could be - fishing, hunting, hiking, just spending time together because they enjoyed each other’s company. He loved listening to his father’s stories about winter’s children, the mythical beings that lived on the mountain, high up during the summer months, only venturing down when the cold of winter enveloped the land.
They were tall and slender, beautiful and alien with hair of gossamer, pointed ears, and skin of ice. They were white, icy white, blending in easily with the winter landscape. They didn’t talk, but they could sing. It was their song that supposedly lured people into the woods where they froze to death.
There was a row of leather bound journals in his father’s house, family histories dating back to their ancestor Josiah Preston, who was one of the first settlers on the mountain. In every case there was a mention of winter’s children. But where James viewed them as a source for wonderful stories, Joseph viewed them as historical accounts. It was to Joseph’s everlasting disappointment that James never embraced the belief in winter’s children.
When Bethany Preston’s body was found, deep in the woods with no good explanation for her having left the safety of her car, for a fleeting moment James had believed something could have lured her to her death. Maybe not one of winter’s children, but why else take the chance?
But then one of their neighbors mentioned a hunting cabin not far from where she was found. Not many outsiders knew about it, but Bethany had been born on the mountain. She must have been trying to reach it before the storm got too bad. This explanation made much more sense, even to a twelve-year-old boy. It made sense to everyone but Joseph.
James started feeling uncomfortable around his father and his obsessive talk about winter’s children, and soon he started feeling embarrassed by his behavior, especially when they were out in public. For Joseph’s part, he couldn’t understand why his son was being so stubborn in his refusal to see what was, to him, the truth.
Joseph’s steadfast belief in winter’s children drove a wedge between them, and the gap only widened the day James showed his father the plot of land he’d purchased to build a house on. He thought his father would be happy for him. He was building on the mountain instead of purchasing one of those cookie cutter subdivisions that were springing up like mushrooms in damp weather. But nothing could have been further from the truth.
“I would think my only son would know better,” Joseph said. “You’re too high up. No good will come of this, mark my words.”
“I think you’re overreacting,” James said. “This spot is perfect. Look at that view!”
“The view may be pretty enough,” Joseph admitted, “But you’re too close to the deep woods out back. You’ve no protection when trouble comes your way.”
There was no need to ask what kind of trouble. There was only one kind of trouble as far as Joseph was concerned. Things only got worse when Joey, James Joseph Preston III, was born.
“You need to move closer to town,” Joseph insisted. “You’re too vulnerable up here, just ripe for the picking.”
“What makes you think that?” James asked. “Why hasn’t anyone else ever mentioned these winter’s children of yours? You’d think after all these years, someone else would have spotted them.”
That had the desired effect of shutting Joseph up, but the rift between them seemed even wider than ever after that. Periodically James and his wife would have Joseph over for dinner, and everything would be fine until the subject of winter’s children came up, as it inevitably did.
James sighed. It was all so much water under the bridge now. Maybe with the publication of his book Joseph would finally get winter’s children out of his system. It was possible, but highly unlikely.
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