Nonfiction Editor Wendy Dickson's story, Snow Angels, won 6th place in the Preditors & Editors Reader Poll 2008 for Best Mainstream Fiction.
It was snowing when Sarah finally got her little sister, Lizbeth, out of the one-room schoolhouse and headed for home. They hurried down the rutted wagon track.
“Oh no!” cried Sarah. “I forgot Ma’s present! I have to go back.”
“I thought we had to go,” said Lizbeth.
“We do,” replied Sarah, “but if I don’t get it now, I’ll have nothing to give Ma Christmas morning.” She gave her little sister a stern look. “Don’t move.”
Sarah eyed the leaden sky as she ran back to the school. She hurried to her desk and grabbed the present. It tinkled as she slid it in her book bag.
Lizbeth was making a snow angel when Sarah returned, panting.
“Look, Sarah!” Lizbeth shouted.
“It’s beautiful. Now come on,” Sarah answered.
It was snowing harder now—big, wet flakes that stuck to their clothes and eyelashes. The trail disappeared under a mantle of white. A breeze picked up, swirling the snow in dizzying patterns.
“Sarah! I can’t see!” cried Lizbeth. Sarah stopped and wiped snow from Lizbeth’s face. She fixed Lizbeth’s scarf so all Sarah could see were Lizbeth’s eyes.
The wet snow soaked their coats and long woollen skirts. But as darkness fell, the temperature dropped and the wet wool stiffened, making it harder to walk. It was dangerous being caught on the prairie in a blizzard, but staying put wasn’t the answer, either. They’d freeze before anyone found them.
Sarah held tight to her sister’s hand as they plodded forward, heads bent against the driving wind and snow. Sarah had no idea where they were. Her eyes watered as she strained to see through the blowing snow, in search of a light from a farmhouse window.
“Help me,” she whispered to the wind. “I don’t know what to do.”
The wind gusted once more, then slowed, and the falling snow eddied around them. Sarah spied a tiny speck of light ahead.
“Lizbeth! Can you see that?”
“Are we home, Sarah?” asked Lizbeth.
“No,” Sarah replied, “But we’re somewhere.”
When they reached the house, Sarah pounded on the door.
“Help!” she cried, “We need help. Hello!”
The door creaked open. An old woman stood in the doorway.
“Yes?” she asked, as she peered out. “Land’s sake! Where did you come from? Come in! Come in!”
She turned to the man whittling by the fire. “Alfred, put some more wood on that fire. And put the stew pot on. And the kettle.”
The kind old woman helped them out of their coats and led them to a rug in front of the fire. She grabbed some quilts and wrapped them around the girls.
“If I’m not mistaken, you two belong to Will and Liza Stanton,” she said.
“How’d you know that?” Lizbeth asked.
“You’re the spitting image of your mother, child.” She turned to Sarah. “And I wouldn’t mistake those Stanton eyes of yours anywhere. What’re your names?”
“I’m S-Sarah,” Sarah replied between chattering teeth, “And this is Lizbeth. Where are we? I thought I knew everyone around here.”
“You girls wandered a ways off course. My name’s Ellie. This is my husband, Alfred.” Ellie grabbed dishes and cups from an old cupboard. Sarah’s mind raced. There was something about their names that tickled her brain.
Ellie poured steaming stew into the bowls and handed them to the girls. She placed two mugs of weak tea with lots of milk and sugar on a small stool in front of them.
“Thank you,” said Sarah with a grateful smile. She was exhausted and content to sit there while Lizbeth chattered away with Ellie. Alfred smiled and continued his whittling. The heat from the fire and the food made Sarah so drowsy she could barely sit up.
“You girls look exhausted,” said Ellie. “You curl up right where you are.”
Sarah wrapped the quilt tighter and lay down beside her sister. Then she sat back up.
“Wait! I have something for you,” Sarah said. She crawled out of the quilt and reached for her pack. She pulled something out and handed it to Ellie.
“I’d like you to have this . . . as a thank-you for taking us in.”
“But that’s for—,” Lizbeth began.
“Hush, Lizbeth,” Sarah replied. She watched as Ellie unfolded the brown paper. Inside was an angel made from a frame of thin wire covered in old lace. The wings were covered in feather down. A tiny bell attached to the bottom tinkled merrily.
“It’s beautiful, Sarah,” Ellie said. Tears filled her eyes. Sarah smiled as Ellie hugged her. Sarah lay back down and within moments she was fast asleep.
In the morning, Sarah awoke to hear Ellie bustling around the kitchen. She nudged her sister. Lizbeth sat up, rubbing her eyes.
“You’re awake!” exclaimed Ellie. “The storm has passed and you’re just in time for porridge.”
The girls ate big bowls of hot porridge.
“That was wonderful, Ellie,” Sarah said as she set down her spoon. “But we should be on our way. Ma and Pa will be worried.”
“You’re right, dear,” replied Ellie.
“Thank you for everything, Ellie,” said Sarah.
“You’re welcome,” Ellie replied, as she opened the door. The sky was pale pink—dawn wasn’t far away. She pointed across the farmyard. “You head up that hill,” she said. “Keep the rising sun in front of you and you’ll be home in no time.” She gave the girls a hug and sent them on their way.
Sarah and Lizbeth hurried up the hill. Sarah smiled as she looked back once more at the tiny farmhouse. Slipping and sliding down the far side of the hill, Sarah suddenly stopped in her tracks.
“Lizbeth! I know who they are!” Sarah cried. “But they can’t be. It’s impossible.”
“What are you talking about, Sarah?”
“Ellie and Alfred. Remember when Pa would tell us stories about his grandparents? What names did he use?”
“Umm, I think he called them—.” Lizbeth’s eyes widened. “But that means—.”
“We have to go back.”
When they reached the crest of the hill, Sarah's breath caught in her throat at the sight below. The house stood faded and forlorn. The window was nothing but a gaping hole. The door swung back and forth, creaking on rusted hinges.
“Sarah, what happened?”
“I don’t know. Let’s go find out.”
Sarah and Lizbeth half-ran, half-slid down the hill and ran into the house they’d left only minutes before.
Nothing greeted them but a broken rocking chair and a moth-eaten rug in front of the fireplace. Sarah ran to the hearth and held her hand over the ashes. A hint of heat warmed her hand. A stir of air swirled through the open doorway and a bell tinkled overhead. She looked up. The little angel she'd given Ellie swayed gently from a nail in the fireplace mantle.
“Are they angels, Sarah?” asked Lizbeth.
Sarah smiled. “I think so.”
“Sarah, are they real snow angels?”
“I think they’re our special snow angels.”
“Pa’s never going to believe this,” Lizbeth said, shaking her head.
“Let’s go home,” Sarah replied. The little angel tinkled once again as Sarah lifted it down from the nail. Cupping it to her chest, Sarah hurried after her sister.
~The End~
Illustration Copyright © 2008 Candace J. Hardy
Copyright © 2008 by Wendy Dickson