The Secret Life of Owen Skye by Alan Cumyn Read Free Book Online Page B

drifts of snow against the rocks there. The boys had simply dug into the side of the biggest drift, and in time the cold air had iced over the insides so the structure was strong. It was cozy inside out of the wind, with the three boys snuggled in together. Andy had brought a candle for light but the little flame added a lot of heat too. This was their own place that they had made together.
    Andy hooked up his radio to the new battery and fiddled with the dial. Soon the radio came alive with buzzing and whining sounds, some crackles and burps. Then this came on:
    â€œThis is Alan Winter bringing you another edition of Winter Nights, three hours of commercial-free radio.”
    The voice was deep, slow, soothing and clear. It was the first Earthling program the boys had ever picked up on Andy’s radio.
    â€œI have a thought for this night,” the voice said, “before I open the telephone lines. Nights like these remind me of a winter long ago, when after the snow and cold there was a day of rain and then more cold, an arctic air mass parked on top of us like a bubble. And all the water on top of the snow froze the world into a skating rink — streets, lawns, parks. The motorists cursed, slipped and slid into ditches, and pedestrians floundered. But on skates it was as if we had wings. From across our lawn and through the park and onto the river — one huge, continuous skating miracle.”
    The mellow, rich voice came through crystal clear in the snowfort where the boys lay together warm and dreamy.
    â€œOne moonlit night,” said the voice, “a lot like tonight, if there’s room in your imaginations, I remember spreading my coat open like a sail and being blown on my skates through fields and fields. The sky wasn’t black so much as a deep purple. And my skates went faster and faster. The trees were all coated in a sheen of ice, the bushes were glossed over, darkly gleaming.
    â€œI think of that night sometimes, sailing on skates across the fields. Riding the ridges, whooshing down the hills. We don’t get too many nights like that in our lives. With the air so still and clear, you can look into the face of eternity.
    â€œMy name is Alan Winter, and this is Winter Nights. I am waiting for your calls.”
    There was some music then, and someone called to talk about a problem they were having with hair loss, and then the signal started to fade. It was very late, and there were no aliens, so the boys decided to go home.
    On the slope of Dead Man’s Hill they tested the snow. Though it wasn’t frozen over the way Alan Winter had described, there was a shiny crust on top that could hold them up if they lay on their backs. And, if they dug their heels in and pushed, they could slide along like fish swimming in a lake. Up above them the sky was clear and the stars were clustered by the billions, like cities seen from a great distance. Even Leonard, who’d been getting tired and grumpy, was happy to swim on his back along the frozen snow and look up at forever.
    That’s what Owen was doing when forever was suddenly replaced by Uncle Lorne’s face. He’d come walking up in his big boots, his jacket wrapped around him and his scarf dangling down, the breath coming out of his mouth in clouds of steam.
    â€œWhat are you kids doing?”
he demanded, towering above them. He said he and Margaret and Horace had been out looking for them for hours. They didn’t know where the boys had disappeared to.
“What in God’s name are you doing?”
he demanded again.
    Owen looked way up at him and couldn’t answer because he didn’t really know himself. It had started out as one thing and then turned into something else and something else again, and to try to explain it so that an adult could understand seemed impossible. Owen thought of trying to show Uncle Lorne the trick about swimming on your back on the snow, but