The Pump House

The dawn drew frosty breath from Earl’s lungs. It was supposed to be one of the coldest spells, ever, in this neck of the woods. Happy valley was usually blessed with sunshine in abundance. Weather, normally expected for the area in early November sometimes included shorts. This definitely was not one of those times.

By Earl’s standards it wasn’t really cold either. He had at different times in his life tasted the cold Sam McGee sought to avoid in his famous cremation. This was a measly ten degrees below zero, not forty. Earl had heard tree trunks crack like rifle shots during minus forty five Celsius. The now legendary valley ‘Oh three, deep freeze,’ as cold spells went, wasn’t hardly worth talking about in Earl’s experience. This area had not seen these temperatures since the last ice age, though.

A gremlin with a cold, hard spirit had ensconced itself in the pump shack, located close to the now nearly frozen stream. This stream had never iced over in living memory, or so the locals claimed. Earl trudged wearily back to the leaky little house, a jug of ice water in his frozen hands. The jug had almost cost him a swim in the chilly waters.

Earl had been trying to break the ice near the bank when he slipped and fell, face first, sticking his arm into the very hole he had been chopping. His now drenched clothes had begun to freeze. Earl was torn between returning to the house and its warm, wood fire and the pump shack, where sat the reluctant pump needing a prime for one more try. It had been eight days since water had trickled through the ancient plumbing of the run down farm house.

Earl’s partner in crime, Dave would surely be snoring.