It doesn’t take long for his brother to die. There’s nothing particularly dramatic about it either- a cough coloured red, a shudder and an endless quiet as pale as the snow that falls on us.

I’ve seen it all before. The tang of death doesn’t hold the same metallic heaviness it used to. I suppose it’s like that with everything, like when you repeat your name a hundred times until it’s lost all meaning and your own name just becomes noise.

I turn this thought over in my head more times than I should but what else is there to do out here except think? My ma used to say I could drown in my head with all the thinking I do. She’d make a huge fuss about the dead boy if she were here, but then again, she makes a huge fuss out of everything.

“Why are they always so bloody dirty? Maybe if they washed themselves once in a while, they wouldn’t die all the time,” Howard grunts. He doesn’t even lower his voice so the other boy- the older brother- doesn’t hear.

I shift uncomfortably, clenching my toes in the stiff embrace of my boots. I can’t help feeling obligated to defend the brothers somehow- the older one is only my age. “Winter, Howard. They can’t bloody help it the way everyone’s shoved onto the same train; all that sick floating in the same air for everyone to breathe in and out.” It’s something I’d heard some of the other men working the railroads have said but it sounds good and properly scathing in my mouth.

The older brother looks at me, dark eyes like the bark of pine trees and he says something in another language.

“What?” barks Howard. He coughs and it turns into a whole spectacle, him hacking and spluttering his miserable soul out onto the fresh snow, his back curved with violent spasms. When neither me or the boy say or do anything, he finally straightens, scrubbing his threadbare sleeve across his mouth. “What did you say, boy?”

The boy doesn’t reply.  

“Well never mind what the fool said; can’t even speak English,” Howard grumbles. He spits onto the snow; the slimy grey of his phlegm glinting up at us like some unfortunate oyster. “We were called for a reason so come on, boy, let’s get pulling.”

He’s right, we need to get a move on; the cold’s only getting worse. Howard and I work on the tracks mostly but when this happens: dead person on one of the endless refugee trains that snake through the country, we’re the ones who trek to the nearest station and wait for the body. This boy was only half dead when they carried him from the train- a limp wisp of brown skin and rotting lungs. But out into the slapping cold and Winter finished him off.

Anyway, it should be both of us pulling him but Howard’s older and meaner and despite all his coughing, I’ve seen his left hook and it isn’t pretty, so I shake out the wool blanket we use and gently flap it over the dead boy. It settles on him like a soft grey piece of the sky above. I throw a second blanket on the snow too and start to pull the boy onto it, but his brother quickly shoves my hand away, brown eyes darkening to pools of thunder. “No, I can do.” His accent is strange; familiar words made foreign by his tongue. He gestures to the lifeless boy then to his chest, his heart. “Mine. My brother.”

“Okay, okay. I’m sorry.” I hold my hands up in quiet surrender, stepping back.

He picks the second blanket up, lays it over his brother then he gathers him up, grunting at the heavy mass in his arms.

Usually Howard would joke about the literal dead weight or something but even he’s silent, watching the boy with barely concealed surprise.

“You don’t have to do that. It’s a long way, too heavy,” I say gesturing to the thicket of pine trees way off from the empty train station.

“I can do,” he says. And he starts to walk.

I watch him go for a second- a boy no older than fourteen, arms thin, eyes starving- then I crunch on the ice, breaking into a jog to catch up with him. I trip though, and Howard guffaws, his bloody laugh piecing the white stillness like a barb. The boy only looks back at me, pausing a little until I stagger to my feet.

“What’s- what’s your name?” I ask when I’m finally in step with him.

He shifts the weight of his brother a bit before answering. “Malik.”

“Malik,” I roll the name around, immediately liking the softness of it. “I’m sorry about your brother.”

He’s quiet.

“Are you- do you have any other brothers or sisters?”

I don’t know why I say this. I just want him to talk, I like the way he says things. Like a whale, I think. If whales could speak, they wouldn’t say much but the words they did say would fall like rain- soft and silver.

“No,” he murmurs. “I am only.”

“Only one? Yeah me too. I mean, I always begged my parents for a brother- hell, I’d even settle for a sister, but-”

“No.” He shakes his head. “Alone. No one else for me. No brother. No sister. No parent.”

“Oh.” I look back to see if Howard heard the exchange but he’s trailing far behind. “I’m sorry. He was younger, right? Where were you two going?”

He’s quiet for so long I give up hope that he’ll answer but then, softly, with an ache that cracks me wide open, he says, “We going somewhere good, safe. But trip was too cold. Too cold and he . . . too young.”

“How old was he?”

“Six.”

“I’m sorry,” I whisper again, because what else is there to say? Death to me is a pothole in a road- unexpected perhaps, but inconvenient for only a minute. In the scheme of things, the deaths of these strange people on their trains have no right to nudge even the edge of my heart. So what is it about this boy with his silver words and arms weighed with death that makes my throat ache with sadness?

Suddenly, my own arms feel unbearably light. “Please,” I say. “It’s still a fair bit away, let me help.”

 I can already see the refusal darkening the corners of his mouth, but when he turns to me, something in my expression makes his eyes soften. “Okay.”

I take half the weight, cradling his brother’s legs as tenderly as if they were glass. We trudge across the frozen landscape shoulder to shoulder, blinking against the bits of snow that curl into our eyelashes. Even with the weight shared, its hard work- all aching shoulders and sweat creeping slowly down foreheads.

It’s not long before Howard passes us, rolling his eyes at our pace even though all he has to hold are our cheap shovels. “Woulda been faster to drag ‘im.”

“He’s the worst,” I pronounce confidently though I admit the effect is lost since I only say it once Howard’s a dark figure in the distance.

By now, my arms are about to slip from my body, curl into the freeze of the ice and declare themselves done with me. “Almost there,” I say to them and to Malik’s arms as well because if mine are ready to commit mutiny, his must be twitching to strangle him.

Howard waits by the edge of the mess of pine trees that grapple for space in their small wood. To me, the trees always seemed so alone out here in the snow, stranded in their own greenness. If it were up to me, they would only ever be in warm places where they have the bees and the flowers to speak with instead of only icy flakes and the blundering fist of Winter.

When we finally set his brother down- every part of me screaming gratefully- Malik stretches both hands up high as if trying to measure himself against the pine giants. I watch him- his fingers shaking into blueness, damp hair the colour of oil spilling from underneath a red cap- as he lays a gentle hand against one of the pines.

Doesn’t he know the trees here are too cold to feel the touch of a hand?

“It is good place to bury,” he says.

“What?”

“In the trees, good place for him to sleep.”

“Oh. Yes, I suppose so. I always thought it was quite lonely out here, but I guess you’re right. They could always talk to each other- your brother and the trees, I mean.”

He looks at me thoughtfully. “This is . . . very strange thing to speak. But you are right, they can talk to the other.”

“Are you done?” Howard growls. “We’re going to be out here till night if you two don’t start digging.”

“Us two?” I say.

“Yes,” Howard spits right into my face. I will myself not to step back, I don’t want him to peer into me and see all my weakness swimming about. “There’s only two shovels. One for you and one for him.” He inflects ‘him’ like Malik is some kind of disease and my hands instinctively clench themselves into fists. “Make it quick boy, I’ll be by the station.”

He flicks the shovels to the ground. They land harshly, one of them hitting the dead boy beneath the blanket. I feel the anger explode in Malik without having to look at him- like an immediate burst of heat- and I grab his arm in just case he tries to take on Howard’s left hook. He stays still, though I can imagine that dark gaze of his eating a hole in Howard’s face.

“Alright, Howard, we got it,” I mutter. “You can go.”

His eyes flick between us for a moment, then he mutters a string of swear words and stalks off. Malik’s anger follows.

“I hate him,” I grumble, more for Malik’s benefit than mine.

But Malik sighs, gently shrugging off my hand. “It is okay. I am used to it.”

“You shouldn’t have to be,” I argue. Though honestly, I feel like a sham- it wasn’t long ago that I thought similarly to Howard; that I saw the people on the trains as somehow less. Their sadness used to make me uncomfortable, almost irritated. I push down the hot guilt that roils in my throat and turn to the matter at hand- the dead boy and the glinting snow and the watching trees.

“We better get started.” I pick up the shovels, hand him the less splintery one due to his lack of gloves and we begin the dig.

My traitorous arms already start to complain in the first half hour. “Come on,” I snap at them. “Do some good, you lazy bastards.” I shake the right one out to stir him up into a bit of action. He responds with a lethal dose of pins and needles.

Malik watches this, the palest hint of a smile shadowing his mouth. “Maybe you try saying nice? Maybe then they listen?”

“I doubt it,” I sigh. “If I’m being honest, they’re quite pathetic.”

We go on, shovelling buckets of powdery snow over our shoulders in glistening arcs. We must make quite the sight, I think. At the very least, the trees must be vaguely curious.

We don’t talk really. All our energy is sent chipping and scraping and, in my case, swearing.

In the fifth hour, after we’ve taken a break and the grave is waist- deep, Malik begins to sing. Softly at first- I barely hear it over the crunch of our spades against the snow but then his voice carries up, louder and louder. I don’t understand the language he sings but I drown in the gentle lilt of his vice. It’s deep and blue, brimming with tides of sadness. He is a whale, I think. Most certainly.

The trees sigh. I’m sure they’ve never heard such beautiful sorrow and the snowflakes swirl and drift like pale dancers and-

I am the silent spectator.

Only when the grave is finished- a good foot above our heads- does he stop, his voice fading away into the coldness.

I’m quiet for a few moments after, afraid of saying too much, of saying too little.

He’s the one to talk first. “My papa sang to us.”

I nod. “I think it was the greatest thing these old pines have ever heard.”

He smiles softly, the shy unfurling of a flower bud in spring. It might be the best thing I’ve ever seen. “Come,” he says. “Now we put him to sleep.”

I climb out, boots scrambling against the icy side of the grave and there’s a panicked second where I’m afraid I’ll slip back down, and we’ll freeze out here- two boys who dug their own graves- but then I find my footing and drag my trembling body up.

Usually Howard and I just roll the bodies in, and I’d wince as they tumbled to an icy end but this time, I take tender hold of the little boy’s lifeless form, hoisting him up against me and struggling to the edge of the hole. Malik looks up at me, spreads out his arms high. “Don’t worry, I will catch.”

“I don’t think-”

“Push to me. I will catch.”

I wrestle with my own reluctance but relent, dropping the boy onto the edge and then giving him a nudge. He flops down a little way, careening into his brother’s arms. Malik yelps at the impossible weight. His knees cave but still he grips that bundle of boy and blanket. He lays him down and fixes both of the grey blankets around his brother as if he were tucking him into bed.

There are more words whispered, the hunching of Malik’s back as he holds back a sob and then a final hand rested upon his brother’s chest.

I wish I could steal all the time in the world, tuck it into Malik’s pockets so he could rest here with his brother for as long as possible, but I am no thief and the world is whirling on, barely acknowledging the life snuffed out in an iced grave.

“Hey,” I say gently reaching a hand towards Malik.

He looks up at me and there is a moment of stillness- of boy and boy and dead boy; the heaviness of the whole situation crushing our throats- but then he grasps my hand. He’s heavier then he should be, and his bones are ice but-

I lift him.

“We have to fill it in,” I say and by now I don’t even get angry at my arms for their tired protests, but Malik shakes his head. “No. The snow will cover. He will have . . . have . . . how you say?” He mimics pulling something tight around his shoulder and I nod.

“A blanket,” I say, almost smiling. “Yes, a new blanket of fresh snow.”

“Yes.”

“Yes.”

We smile- twin flashes of white- each finding the other mirrored back in that moment of teeth.

“Do you want a minute alone? I could go wait somewhere while you say goodbye?”

But again, he shakes his head. “I have already told him goodbye. A long way ago.” He rubs at his eyes, sighing up at the snow in a puff of warm fluttering air.

I watch as he reaches up to one of the towering pines and plucks a small bit of branch and leaf. He lays it carefully down at the end of his brother’s grave. “There,” he says. “A bit of tree for him to talk to like you say.”

I look at the frosted scrap of green pressed so gently into that snow and a quiet thought comes over me. “Maybe when we leave, the trees will tell him stories about all they’ve seen in their years and those stories will pour right into his head. Maybe he’ll dream in words rather than pictures.”

“I don’t know what you are saying but it sounds nice. These words: dream and pictures and . . . stories?” I nod. “Yes, he would have liked them.”

“I’m glad,” I whisper.

We stand in an age of frozen quiet.

“Come,” I finally say. “The next train will be here soon.”

Malik nods but he doesn’t move, his gaze fixed to the snowy pines that crowd us. What are they telling him?

“Malik?”

He wrenches his eyes from the pull of the trees and for a moment I see the soft flickering of his thoughts flit behind his eyes but then he nods, and his thoughts hide themselves again, retreating to silent corners.

We fall in step with each other, leaving the young boy to finally rest beneath the weight of the pine trees.

The walk back feels familiar, as if we’ve been doing this together for years- wading through the snow- and different thoughts start raining in my brain. How when we get back to the station, Malik will change his mind about his destination and choose to stay with me, and he can tell me what the words in his song meant and-

And there goes my imagination. I have to rein it in, pull its galloping hooves to a stop.

I keep my mind quiet until we reach the station. The next train is already here shuddered to a stop.

Howard’s the only one I see out here. He’s red with cold- it makes the blonde whiskers on his chin stand out like stale straw.

“Why’d you take so long?” he growls right away. Any other time and I’d apologise. That’s what you do with Howard- keep your head down. But with Malik next to me I suddenly feel bold.

 “Why do you bloody think?”

His eyes flash in surprise. “Don’t talk to me like that-”

“He was burying his little brother, Howard!”

Malik’s finger taps lightly on my shoulder. “It is okay.” He speaks to me, but his eyes are locked on Howards’. “He no understand. He is lost. He does not know about dying and hurt.”

Howard’s lip curls. His next words are spat out like splinters, they stain the air black. “Don’t tell me what I don’t know, you piece of filth! Trust me, I know all about dying. I see it every day- your kind dropping dead all over the place. But you know what-” He leans close to Malik, his spit flecking Malik’s nose. “Serves ‘em right if you ask me.”

And then-

Howard reels back spluttering and swearing, clutching his nose. I look at my hands. Good old leftie- I didn’t know he had it in him. He throbs- a dull red ache- but it’s worth it.

Howard straightens up quickly, blood leaking from his nose and I wait for the pain, for the promise of that damn left hook. But it doesn’t come.

Because Malik’s suddenly in front of me, not moving not saying anything. Just standing there- his thin, starving body as immovable as a mountain.

“Go to hell.” Howard sort of whimpers it to both of us, his eyes swimming with an anger and hatred I think he doesn’t even understand himself. And then he’s gone, moving to one of the lonely benches in a trail of wet coughs.

“That was . . . I . . . you no have to do this for me,” Malik splutters.

“Yes, I did. For me too, I think.” I can’t help but grin.

Malik smiles too, softly. “Thank you.”

We lapse into silence for a moment.

“So, you will get on train?”

I shake my head. “We were told before- there’s another body on the next train that arrives here. We have to wait for it.”

“We say goodbye then,” Malik says, and I turn to him in surprise. I feel strangely unmoored, floating in a sea of dread. I can’t explain it- how much I don’t want this coal black train to swallow him up, eat him away from my mind.

“You’re going?”

“What else can I do?”

I run my tongue over my chapped lips, as if the answer is there in the flakes of broken skin. “I don’t know. I just . . . I feel like I know you without even knowing you. Maybe we were brothers in another world.”

“You are always saying strange words.” But he smiles. It’s a smile that pushes back everything else, shocks you a moment with its unselfconsciousness and makes you believe- even for just a moment- that he feels exactly as you do.

 Or maybe I’m reading too much into it.

He pulls the gloves off his hands, holding them out to me. “Thank you.”

“Keep them.”

“Oh no, thank you very but-”

“I can get new ones any time. Plus, your hands look ready to fall off. And you don’t want that. Yours seem pretty obedient.”

He smiles, puts the gloves back on and looks at me, brown eyes drinking up my own. “I think your one is good as well.”

I look at my throbbing left fist. “Yeah, he did alright.”

“Maybe we meet again? In this ‘another world’ you say?”

“I hope so. I’ll tell the trees to look after your brother.”

“Tell them to look after you too.”

“Yes.”

“Yes,” he punctuates the word easily, a natural follow to mine and a part of me aches for more of his silver words. I’d like to fill up on them now, drink in that soft strange rain before the sky closes up forever.

But the conductor breaks apart the air with the metallic ringing of his whistle and Malik rushes for the train. I watch him slip through the people- a flush of colour with that bright red cap- and I think for a moment I see a flash of his soul as he goes- smooth and supple, a rare softness. He appears at the open train window and as the train staggers forward, he lifts up a gloved hand. He says something else, lips moving quickly but the train coughs forward, stealing his words away.

I swallow.

I try very hard not to think and I go sit on one of the benches.

Somewhere- very faintly- I hear the talk of the pine trees. They’re whispering to a sleeping boy. I fall silent, listening.

Howard is quiet too for once, his face unusually blank as he presses his arm against his nose. I watch his eyes close for a moment and I wonder if he’s listening to the pines too or if he’s just lost in the dull swirl of his own dark thoughts.

(I hope he’s listening to them- I really do.)

We sit on our separate benches beneath the fast-falling snow, waiting for the next body.

---

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