The Way Home
THE WAY HOME
Part 1, The Stranger
When I first saw him, he was washing his face in our faucet. It was an outdoor pump, the beads of rosy red water dripped from his chin. He was panting and running his hands through his wet hair. What had once been a white under shirt was now stained a multicolor mess of yellows, pinks and reds. He was a mess, but an imposing one. Standing over six feet tall with iron strapped to his hip and a belt lined with extra shells, he was the most frightening man I’d ever seen.
His eyes locked on me, I was too scared to inquire where he was from or who he was.
“Get back inside, Johnny.” My father called from behind me. “Fetch our guest a cold drink.”
The man stood up and placed his hat back on his head. He was tall and broad; he had the forearms of a ranch-hand. The forearms I knew my pa hoped I would someday develop as his apprentice.
My father walked out of the house, limped out is more like it. Father was an imposing man too, in his own way. He wasn’t lean and nimble, but he was sturdy, limp aside. My pa was built like a grizzly, me and my brother used to say, round but rigid. He had the paws of a grizzly too, when I was a boy, he would palm my whole head with them. Then he’d grin down at us and push us inside for dinner. That was before the limp in his step and the leather strap on his knee. Back when home felt like home and we still had a family. The stranger was taller, more fit, but my father shook his hand as an equal. Greeting this man, we did not know, like an old friend.
“The spout’ll do fine.” The man said.
My father waved it off.
“Nonsense. You’re our guest and damnit if you won’t be comfortable.”
I watched through the window as they turned back toward the house, my dad ushering the man in. Father had a habit of looking down when he walked, I knew he wouldn’t see me watching from the kitchen, but the other man found me straight away. He gave me a tip of his hat and my eyes darted to the rickety wooden floor. I greeted them at the door with a cup of cold water in each hand.
“We’ll be having supper real soon. Take what you want, rest up and then you can be on your way.” My father said as they entered.
I held the cup out to the man as he passed through the threshold. He snatched the cup from me without a word or a glance and gulped it down where he stood. Streams of water poured down his jaw as he tilted his head back and drank it whole. My father led him into the kitchen where the man placed the empty cup on the table. In truth, there was no kitchen, it was a small house, just a modest wooden shack. The entryway led to the cupboard which connected to the dining room. The only other room was the bedroom, connected by a single door which led to my father’s bed and my cot on the floor beside it. When we had a family, the house always felt cramped, but full. Nowadays, it was empty, but it didn’t feel spacious, just small.
Pa sat at the head of the table, falling into the chair with a heavy sigh while his gut nearly burst from his button-up. He gestured with one of his large rough hands for the man to take a seat at the table. Without protest, but some reluctance, the man obliged. Favoring the seat closest to my dad, but furthest from the window. The stranger removed his hat and placed it gently on the table in front of him. My father studied him, but the man did not make eye contact.
“What’s your name, son?”
Why Father addressed the stranger as if he were a younger man, I wasn’t sure. He didn’t look much younger than my father. As of that year my dad was fifty, my mom, if she were still alive, would have been thirty-nine. I myself was thirteen.
“John.” The man did not hesitate.
“John what?” My father persisted.
The man replied defensively.
“Smith.”
My father nodded, a knowing smirk upon his face.
“Well, John Smith, I’m Arthur. Nice to meet you. What do you do for a living?”
The man flashed a harsh look at my father, replying with a voice as dry as the Minnesota winter.
“Work.”
“What sort?” My father was not easily deterred.
It was obvious the man was annoyed, wanting to tell my dad to piss off and mind his own goddamned business, but he didn’t. I always admired that about my father, he had a way with people, even the harsh ones.
“Mostly hunting.” John Smith replied. “But I’ll do whatever pays.”
Pa smiled and nodded; though I still wasn’t sure why, it was exactly what he wanted to hear. My father looked across the table at me.
“Johnny. Fetch the supperware for our guest.”
“Yes, pa.”
I turned toward the cupboard, but my father s voice stopped me.
“Wait, my mistake…” I turned back; he was pushing himself up from the chair. While he smiled the whole way, I knew it hurt. “It’s my turn to set the table, aint it Johnny?”
I said nothing.
We had always switched; mom, pa, my brother and me. Every other day we would take turns. Mom and my brother were gone now, but my father insisted on taking their turns.
He limped past me, his large body pressing creeks from the wooden floor below him.
“Really pa, it’s no problem.”
“Now, now, Johnny. A promise is a promise. The next time I’m acting like an old forgetful fool, I’d thank you to tell me. It’s the only way I’ll learn.”
He pointed to his head with a jolly grin before tossing my hair and turning to John Smith. The stranger was making an effort not to look our way, just tapping his fingers on the wooden table.
“He’s a good boy, my Johnny.” Pa said while clapping me on the shoulder with one of his giant hands. “But he’s got to learn to speak up.”
He talked at the man who didn’t reply.
My father set the table and placed the final cup in front of John Smith. Lacing his thumbs through his suspenders, he looked down at the stranger.
“Welcome to our home, John Smith.”
The stranger looked up at my father and nodded.
Part 2, The Favor.
It was dark out now and my father had me light the lanterns so we could continue to entertain our guest. It was clear that John Smith wasn’t one for conversation, but like I said, my father had a way about him. By the time the sun had set, there was a conversation brewing. It wasn’t smooth or neighborly, there was a choppiness to it, a sputtering exchange always teetering on silence. Pa was a seasoned conversationalist however, riding out the long silences and obvious lies the way a competent sailor rides out harsh seas. Rather than press too long on a topic, my father would merely change subjects, pulling information from the man the way one pulls nails from a board. He was careful, but persistent. It reminded me of skipping rocks, usually only one or two quick and simple replies, but occasionally my father would find the right stone and a real exchange would briefly come to life before splashing back into silence.
From this uncomfortable dance, my father had managed to learn a great deal about John Smith. He was thirty years old, for one, proving my father’s insistence on calling him ‘son’ accurate. While at first I was surprised to hear it, in the dark, with his face contoured by lamp light, his age became more apparent to me. He was young, with fierce even handsome features. Sharp cheek bones, a strong jaw line and his intimidating build. However, while all of these traits should make for a handsome man of thirty, they did not. It was his eyes; they were the reason I could not regard him as ‘handsome’ just as they were the reason I had mistaken him for being much older. They were the eyes of someone who never slept or slept in a place so shallow and cold, they would likely be better off not sleeping at all.
Aside from his age, we learned that he was not originally from Minnesota, but Montana. He had arrived in Minnesota on business, but when pressed by my father on what that business may have been, he only said, “Work.” My dad left it at that. Through it all I had said nothing, just sat admiring the way my father managed to befriend such a strange man. He even managed to wring a smile or two out of him. But, while I had not been speaking, I had been studying the stranger in my own way. I studied his posture, and his possessions. It seemed to me that the man sat with a practiced attempt at ease, when in reality his crossed arms and bent knees told me he was ready to stand and draw at any moment. Meanwhile, his possessions were few, but each appeared meaningful.
On his left hip, as mentioned, was a revolver. A simple eight shot long barrel revolver. Around his neck was a silver chain, I imagined there was a crucifix at the end of it, but couldn’t see the apparatus which hung beneath his shirt. Finally, and most interestingly, he had a ragged old book tucked into his waist. I saw no visible markings on it, just the black leather cover and the many yellowing pages which looked as if they might simply fall out and flutter away like the leaves in autumn. My father occasionally looked my way, but never tried to rope me into the conversation, I wondered if it was intentional. I wondered if, maybe, he wanted me to study the man as I had.
While not every man speaks, they all have something to say.
That’s what my father used to tell me, and I always took it to heart.
“Do you mind if I smoke my pipe, son?”
My father asked John Smith. The stranger shook his head.
“Excellent.” My father began to light his pipe and took two long puffs. “If you feel so inclined, John Smith, we have a second pipe. Clean and ready for any company with the taste for it.”
At first John did nothing, just looked at my father and then about the small room. He nodded.
“Sure.”
My father went to stand but winced in pain.
“Johnny, my boy. Would you mind retrieving the pipe for Mister Smith.”
“Yes, pa.”
I rose from seat and found the pipe in its usual place inside the cupboard. I placed the small wooden box in front of John Smith, but there was no thanks not even a gesture as he stared blankly into the shadowy portions of the room.
Soon, both my father and Mister Smith were dragging on their pipes. Each looked content but in their own contrasting ways. My father looked at John Smith, never taking his eyes off the man. He wore the same smile on his face, reminding me of how he looked when he caught me in a lie and was about to cite scripture to gently scold me for my indiscretion. Meanwhile, John Smith simply glanced around the house. His eyes moving slowly from the windows to the flickering shadows tucked in the crevices of the room. While he tried to remain calm and indifferent, something told me he was not just looking at the shadows but watching them. Waiting for something inside to make its move.
“Aye, it’s a simple place this. As you can no doubt see.” My dad gestured to the small wooden box we called home. “But we do our best to get by. What is life without a little luxury.”
He pointed to the pipe John Smith was smoking. John looked at my father and nodded.
“Sure.” He said again.
My father placed his pipe down in the box and regarded the stranger a little more seriously.
“Do you believe in God, Mister Smith?” My father had leaned in closer, but John Smith took another long drag on the pipe and said nothing. “I suppose everyone does a little bit, even those that try not to. Even those who would be better off in a world without him.”
My father was looking intently at John Smith and the stranger stared back at him, unwavering.
“However, even those that don’t believe in God, I find, do believe in Destiny. Fate, if you like. What I would call an act of God, a miracle, you might call chance.”
John Smith said nothing, just stared back at my father.
“That’s what I believe this was today, Mister Smith, an act of god. Or fate, if that goes down easier for you….” John Smith’s eyes flashed to the shadows as they danced along the walls, the fire in the lamplight flickering “Let me start by saying, I have prided myself and my family on being aid for wayward souls who venture through these parts. It’s a harsh place, these hills, we are the only reprieve a man like yourself would find for days. So, while I would usually make sure you were well set and healthy before saying our farewells, I’m afraid with you Mister Smith I must make an exception. From you, Mister Smith, I must ask a favor.”
The stranger gave a deep exhale, a look of disappointment only gently surfaced on his face. Somehow, he had expected Pa would say this, but I didn’t. I looked at my father with genuine concern, not knowing what it was he planned to ask of the man.
“Winter will be sweeping over the Mountains in the coming weeks.” My father spoke more gravely than I could ever recall. “My wife died last winter, my eldest son the winter before that. Now it’s only me…” Pa looked across the table at me and gave a warm smile “…and my boy.” He looked back at John Smith. “We won’t last another winter here. Our closest neighbors are gone, and the town is a day’s ride away. With the snows we won’t be able to make that trip. I’ve been praying everyday for the lord to send us something, someway of getting away from here and to our new home, and when I saw you this morning, I knew he had delivered.”
Winter had been far from my mind until my father had mentioned it. I never liked thinking about winter, not after what it had taken from us. The unseasonably warm weather today had let me forget that it would be creeping back into the land in only a few weeks, but now I remembered. I remembered mom passing during the night, needing to wait days before we could bury her. The snows were too high outside, so we covered her with a blanket and left her in the bed where she could rest peacefully. I remembered, hauntingly, the way her skin turned pale and dry as the days passed. Anthony, my brother, died the winter before that. He dropped dead trying to help my father on a hunt, the cold stopped his heart. We buried him that day. It seemed natural it would claim one of us next, but I did my best not to think about it.
“And what do you believe he delivered you exactly, Arthur?”
The stranger’s voice struck me; it was the first time I had heard a modicum of personality in it.
“The right man.” My father replied. John Smith was quiet again. “The right sort of man. It’s not my place to judge you, son. That comes after all of this. But you are a man who is well versed in the harsher paths of life. That much I can tell. The path to salvation is a harsh one indeed but, if you help us, I think we have a chance.”
I looked at John Smith, my heart was racing. Leaving home, that’s what my father was talking about, trekking into the unknown; into the hills. It was a wooden box, practically a casket in itself, but it was my home, our home. I had known nowhere else but here. Of course, if my father was leaving, so was I. Mother and Anthony were gone, this was their grave now, but home was with my father.
“Help you with what?” John Smith asked.
“There’s a large town North-West of here, just beyond the hills. If we leave tomorrow, we can make it there before the first snow hits.”
John Smith gulped down what was left of his drink, he spoke while staring at the table.
“Ride out the winter. You’re better off.”
“We won’t survive.” My father spoke plainly.
“You have a horse. Eat the damn thing.” Frustration was bubbling up in the stranger’s words.
“It won’t be enough.” My father’s composure only revealed both to Mister Smith and myself that he had already weighed all the options, and this was our only hope. “And the bread we had tonight, that you shared with us. It was the last we had.”
John Smith looked over at me, his dark eyes shooting straight through me, then he looked back at my father.
“I’m a hunter not a guide.”
“You said you’d do whatever pays.” My father corrected with an upraised finger. “I’m not sure what your usual fee is, but I have a hundred and fifty dollars. It’s all the money I have, but if you get us to the other side of those hills, it’s yours.”
I gripped the table hard, wanting to curse at my father. Why did he trust this man so much? He would just as likely kill us both and take the money, now that he knew we had it. It was hidden, but depraved men do depraved things, and I had no doubt as to what kind of man John Smith was.
“You don’t know what you’re asking.” John Smith said while looking back toward the dancing shadows.
“Yes, I do.”
“No… you don’t.” Now the fire-light flickered and flowed across the stranger’s face, an orange hue warped his tired eyes and stern features. “It’s suicide.”
“I know about the stories, about the savages.” My father said, trying to maintain a composed authority about himself.
“Yes.” Smith said looking with sharp intensity back at my father. “The savages…”
“If it’s your own well being your worried about. Me and the boy are more than capable of helping. I have a rifle, a Winchester, and am well practiced. The boy is young, but he’s strong. He can handle whatever…”
“Stop.” John Smith interjected. “This is ridiculous. You can barely walk.” He snarled at my father. “And your son, strong or not, is just a boy. It’s four days through the hills, if we came across any… savages… you’d both be as good as dead.” He rose from his seat and placed his flat brim hat back on his head. “I thank you for your hospitality and wish you the best in the months ahead.”
“Wait!” I felt myself speak up before I realized what I was doing. Both men looked at me with visible surprise. I thought of my mother’s pale body and the look of pain in my father’s eyes as he prayed over her. “We need your help, Mister Smith. Please. Whatever your fee, we will pay it.”
For a moment, both of them just looked at me. Not until John Smith sat back down, did they face each other.
“Okay.” The stranger said, looking pensively down at the table, his fingers laced together. “Two hundred and fifty dollars. That’s my fee. When we get across and into town, you find a way to pay it. Even if it means taking on a debt.”
My father nodded; the way he looked at Mister Smith I half expected him to cry.
“Thank you, son. Thank you. It’s a deal.”
My father extended his hand and after another pensive pause, John Smith shook it.
Knowing we were to leave home the next morning, I couldn’t sleep that night. Laying in my cot I kept my eyes opened, just a peak, and watched Mister Smith through the open door. He had moved his seat into the corner of the room, the lantern was burning through most of the night as he sat there. Father trusted him, that was enough for me to go along with it, but I didn’t trust him. I wasn’t sure how dangerous the hills really were. I had heard the stories and when I was young, I was too afraid to venture into the woods, but those were just stories. John Smith on the other hand, was real and living. Though I knew nothing about him, I was sure he was dangerous. He sat in the chair all night, his eyes concealed beneath the brim of his hat and the tattered book open in his lap.
Part 3: Voices
As was planned, we set out into the hills the following morning. We had a wagon and the one horse, Gurdy, so we packed light. Not that it was difficult, we didn’t own much to begin with. John Smith remained quiet through the morning. He didn’t help us with packing, and only carried what was his. That being his gun, his belt of extra shells and the book I watched him read anytime we stopped for water. I wanted to tell the stranger that if he intended on earning his two hundred and fifty dollars, he best help us with the wagon. But it wasn’t my place to say and my father never complained.
There was nothing chummy about the dynamic between us and John Smith. Me and Pa sat in the wagon and let the horse carry us at its one pace, no sense in overworking him. I usually sat in the back while my dad sat up front, the Winchester rifle propped up beside him. John just walked on, always about ten paces ahead of us. I would watch as he swaggered through the forest, his flat brimmed hat sitting atop his head and his mangled white shirt whipping in the breeze. While at first he just kept his eyes facing forward, never paying us or anything any mind; the deeper we traveled into the hills and the more our small homestead became just an empty shack in the distance, the more tense he seemed to get. By midday of the second day, he was darting his head from side to side. Visibly disturbed by every shake of bush and break of twig. He had a peculiar habit of resting his hands on his hips whenever we stopped. Whether because a wheel was stuck in some mud or because John himself gestured for us to hold-up while he took a look around. After a few of these stops I realized it was just an easy way for the stranger to place his hand near his gun without alarming anyone. While I could concede that he was, at last, doing the job my father had paid him to do, it didn’t look worthy of the two-hundred-and-fifty-dollar fee to me.
Stop and look, stop and look. Nothing but showmanship in my eyes. I was beginning to think he had made the whole thing up, just acted especially dramatic so that me and Pa would offer him more money. There were no savages out here, just bears and big cats. Young and stupid as I was, I had taken the bait. I was ready to tell Pa my theory when we found the other wagon.
In the dense woods it had been hard to make out until we were just about on top of it. It was another wagon, not unlike our own, only this one had enough furniture and goods in the back to build a house right where it stood. Or, in this case, crashed. The only things missing were the people, and the yaks that I imagine had been attached. John told us to stay back and my father called me up to the front of the wagon. I sat beside him, he already had the Winchester in his hands and was watching John with piqued interest from afar.
“What do you see there, son?!” Pop called over to John, but there was no reply.
The wagon looked worse for wear. The linen enclosing the back was torn and peeled away. Judging by the tracks, the whole wagon had been forced off the path and into the trees. One rear wheel was missing, and another was split through the middle.
My dad craned his neck to see past the trees, but it was no good. We didn’t see John, but we heard him rummaging through the back of the wagon. By the sound of it, he wasn’t exactly being delicate.
“What is it John? What did ya find?” My father called over.
There was still no reply, just the sound of more glassware and silverware being thrown about. Pa was about to call out again when John Smith walked back into view. He was already looking our way and waving us over.
We dismounted the carriage and descended the hill down to him. I was admittedly excited, the way fearful nerves can put a slight pep in your step, I had a giddy feeling pricking at the tips of my fingers. I wanted to see it, wanted to see what had happened. My life had seen enough sorrow, but very little adventure. That said, I slowed my step and waited for my father while he limped his way over. There was a decline down into the place where the wagon crashed, and I knew it would be a struggle for Pa. I held my father’s hand to help him on his way down.
“Thanks Johnny, damned leg aint good for nothing.”
I didn’t say anything.
We reached the wagon; John Smith had his hands on his hips observing it. He wasn’t so much studying it as he was staring blankly at it, as if calculating something. I was about to take a look in the wagon myself when something thumped me in the stomach. John was looking down at me, two loaves of stale bread were wrapped in a blanket, he had pressed them into my chest.
“Take this back up to the wagon.” He scowled, but I nodded and went back up the hill without protest.
I placed it in the wagon and calmed myself down. My father never spoke to me like that, it was rude. It surprised me to feel the anger prickling against my ears like the nipping of a winter’s day. He should be more respectful; we were paying him after all. John and my father were exchanging a quiet word when I came back down. I was curious what they might be talking about, but I was more curious about the wagon. While they spoke, I peeked into the back. Up close it was much more haunting. The linen was torn into ribbons which fluttered in the breeze, the belongings in the back were strewn about haphazardly, but I think John was more to blame for that. I saw clothes, men’s shirts and women’s dresses. They looked fancy, or at least fancy by my standards. After some rummaging of my own, I found some especially small clothes. A tiny pair of pants and a small jacket. There had been a young child in the wagon…
I don’t know why it struck me, but the worst sight by far was right under my nose. It had barely been noticeable beneath the clutter, hidden in plain sight. It was a small white blanket, folded into a tight but careful bundle. It had been a family, a young family.
I must have had a frightened look upon my face, because a hand grabbed my shoulder and pulled me away. It was John. He was glaring at me.
“Get away from that, kid.” His tone was biting.
I rubbed my shoulder which still hurt from the force with which he had grabbed me, but I said nothing as my father came around the side.
“Stay up with Gurdy and the wagon, aye?” My father asked with a gentle authority, Gurdy had begun to bray impatiently. “Keep your eyes peeled for whose wagon this might be.”
Pa smiled at me, his usual protective smile, I nodded.
“Yes, pa.”
I knew it was foolish, foolish to believe that somewhere nearby in the forest there was a young mother with an infant in her arms and a father with his young boy by his side. They weren’t just on a leisurely walk, or moving about for help, they were…
I couldn’t bring myself to think the worst. Besides, there was no blood, just a wrecked carriage. The wheel had come off and the trees had done a number on the linen, nothing more. Someone else found them while passing through the path and they had made it home safely. Made it to their new home on the other side. Still, I could feel something was wrong. A chill was rising in the air and I looked to the trees around us. I could’ve sworn, in that instant, the trees were looking back at me.
John and Pa were having another quiet conversation, but my father wasn’t as good as John at being quiet.
“Not sure if I knew them, but they must have been neighbors of ours. Not too many people would come venturing through here.”
My father’s whisper carried over to me. John said something I couldn’t make out.
“No, no. Johnny didn’t see a thing. Just shook up by the wagon is all…”
John whispered back at my father, too quiet to hear.
“Yes, o’course son, extra careful from here on. I’ll be sure to let Johnny know.”
The two walked back up the hill. Pa struggled the whole way up the incline, but while John didn’t help him, he stayed close behind, perfectly placed to catch him if he fell. They were both back on the path in front of the wagon when my father stepped forward and cupped his hands around his mouth.
“Helloooo!” He shouted in the opposite direction of the crashed wagon.
John leapt over too him and pulled his hands down. My father looked embarrassed and I reached for the Winchester. I knew John was fit and sharp, but the speed he had shown to leap over and grab my father was stunning. Clearing the distance like a jungle cat, he scolded my father.
“What did I just say!” He hissed and Pa gestured toward the forest.
“Supposing they’re still out there…”
“They’re not.” John spoke definitively.
My father apologized and John walked back into his position ten paces ahead of us. Pa took a seat beside me and explained that we would need to stay extra quiet tonight and be especially careful these next couple of days.
“Keep your eyes open, my boy…” He smiled at me before side clicking his mouth. At the familiar sound, Gurdy began to trot forward.
That night we made camp in a raised clearing which felt more exposed than if we were to camp in the middle of the forest. We were surrounded on all sides by dense trees and brush, beyond which was only an oily darkness. John assured us it was the best we could do. He said something about sightlines, that here we could see anything if it came from the forest, but I couldn’t see anything beyond the orange glow of the lamplight.
Me and Pa sat on one side of the lamp, John sat on the other. For most of the night he sat reading his book. I imagined all the ways it might go if I asked him what the book was or what it said, but I pictured no avenue where he gave me a satisfactory answer. My father, as he often did, hummed quietly the tunes of some old songs he liked. When she was alive, mom would start to put words to his humming, she was a beautiful singer. Then Anthony would join in with her, he was good too. They had beautiful voices. I would just listen; listen and watch while they all made music together. Mom would ask me to join them, but I didn’t like my voice and wasn’t any good at carrying a tune.
Pa’s humming came to a stop suddenly.
“Thank you again, John. I know this wasn’t easy for you.”
John looked surprised, so did I. What had John done so far to earn any thanks? Surely the money was more than enough.
“Not necessary. Just pay me and we’ll be even.”
My father had a look on his face which told me that he didn’t agree. I didn’t agree either, we were paying too much in my opinion, but I had a feeling that my father saw it differently. He felt guilty, as if he was taking advantage of the stranger in some way. As though there was no amount of money which could express his gratitude.
“Well, necessary or not, you have my thanks.” My father pulled a large bottle of whiskey from beside himself. He rolled it over to John. “It’s not much, but I felt you might appreciate it.”
John took the bottle. At first, he just studied it. Rolling it in his hands and straining to read the label.
“Fuck it. Why not?” He opened the bottle and pressed it to his lips, tilting his head back he gulped down nearly a quarter of the bottle. With a heavy sigh, a rare smile floated across his face. Realizing, for the first time, how rude he had been, he offered the bottle to Pa.
“That’s alright. I don’t drink.”
He looked at me, the bottle still outstretched. I looked to my father in surprise.
“The boy doesn’t drink either.” My father asserted.
John shrugged.
“Suit yourself.” He gulped down half the bottle. Holding it closer to the light, John examined the label on the bottle. “You find this in the carriage from earlier? All I found was bread and clothes. Not a drop and not a penny.”
Pa shook his head.
“No. Brought it from home actually. I have no need of it, just had a feeling you might.”
It was a fleeting mask, the way the anger shot across John Smith’s face. No doubt he took my father’s words to mean more than they did. He took another swig from the bottle and then pointed at my father.
“Why don’t you drink, Arthur?”
“I used to. When it first happened…” Pa smacked his leg twice. “It hurt something awful. Drink helped keep the pain at bay. One day when it didn’t hurt anymore, I realized drink could keep other pain at bay. If it wasn’t my leg, then it was my back or my head, or maybe I just wanted a damn drink. Who was gonna tell me I couldn’t?” While my dad’s words were harsh, he never broke his smile. “Turns out… everyone. My wife, my eldest son, they tried to tell me, tried to get through to me, but I was stubborn. You don’t end up living out here, in this place, without being stubborn.”
I had never heard my dad be this honest before. I wondered, why now and why in front of this man? He wrapped his arm around me and smiled his same warm smile.
“For a minute there I was closer to that bottle than my own son. It was a few years before I found my way back. I had only just won them over again, my family I mean, when the first terrible winter rolled through.” He turned back to John Smith. “So, I don’t drink.”
There was finality in his words and the stranger looked embarrassed or maybe remorseful, it was difficult to say in the dark.
My father continued with a lighter heart.
“But it don’t hurt as bad as it used to.” He patted his outstretched leg again. “Just too damn stiff is all. Was worried on that hill today, might have gone rolling right back down the blasted thing.”
He smiled and John Smith smiled back.
“Then I would’ve had to carry your fat ass.”
Pa was quiet at first, so was I. My father was a kind man by nature, but I had heard stories of his youth. The way he broke a man’s nose for disrespecting his wife or stopped a man in his tracks when they tried to rob some old man in town. He was slow and stiff, but one hit was all my old man needed. Instead, his look of confusion melted away into a loud roaring laughter. It echoed out into the forest around us, soon John Smith joined him and even I couldn’t resist. It had been a heavy few days, and the laughter felt too good to stop. It lightened not only the air around us, but our spirits too. I laughed until my stomach hurt and my Pa laughed until he was wiping tears off his rosy cheeks. I had keeled over, not ever having heard someone say such a thing to my dad. He was too big and too scary, even to those who knew him as a kindly man. When I looked up, I noticed John Smith had already stopped laughing. He had his eyes fixed on the darkness ahead of him. Staring into the shadowy forest, he had the same look as the night in the cabin. Hand on his hip, waiting for something to walk into sight.
Helloooo!
The echo came from the forest behind John Smith. I froze and my dad placed his hand on me. He was eyeing John, but the stranger didn’t look back at him, just stared into the lantern. Just as he had expected my father to ask him the favor, he had expected this.
Helloooo!
The echo called out again. The word was clear, but it carried in a strange way. Less like a man shouting ‘Hello’ and more like a dog howling into the night. Much like a dog, it would callout and there would be a pause as it awaited reply, but when no reply came it would shout out again.
Helloooo!
There was no concern in the voice, it almost sounded pleasant, like a friendly traveler who comes across other wayward souls. I almost expected to see a seasonally dressed hiker emerge from the wood, ready to regale us with stories of his adventures. But no such man emerged, the voice just lingered in the air followed by suffocating silence.
“Was that…?” My father went to ask, John pressed his finger to his lips quieting him.
“Just owls.” John Smith said in a hushed voice. “They sound different out here. Loud as banshees, but nothing more.”
He was lying, poorly. I wasn’t sure if it was for my benefit or Father’s, but his intensity spoke for itself. He held us in place with his stare. Even when Gurdy began to stir and bray nervously. The horse knew something we didn’t, something only it and John Smith knew.
After an especially loud guffaw from Gurdy who was now thrashing about, my father leaned over with a commanding whisper.
“Gurdy, quiet down!”
The horse steadied and there was quiet again. My heart was still racing, I strained to look into the darkness but saw nothing. As if invited by the silence, the voice returned. Only, this time, it was closer.
Helloooo!
The voice called out from behind John Smith.
Helloooo!
Another voice called back, but it echoed from the tree line behind me and my father. We could see nothing, but we could hear them, moving around in the trees.
Helloooo! Helloooo!
Helloooo! Helloooo!
The echoes rang out from every direction. They sounded as if they were standing just beyond the tree line, but try as I did, I saw nothing. Whatever it was, it was standing just beyond the depth of our sight, behind the black veil of night. I turned to John Smith, but he gave no sign of worry, only the same tense readiness he always had.
“Just owls…” He whispered at no one in particular. He reached toward the lantern. “What do you both say we turn in for tonight? It’s late and we have a long day ahead of us.”
He extinguished the flame and the darkness enveloped us all. I stayed close to my father as the voices called out, slowly and uneasily, lulling me to sleep.
Part 4: The Savages.
Click! Click!
I wasn’t quite awake when I first heard it, but I was no longer asleep either. Laying, my mind in a state of limbo, I heard the clicking sound from the direction of John Smith. I thought little of it at first, in the hills at the base of the mountains, any number of things might make that sound.
Click! Click!
The sound came from the same direction. I was nearly awake now, but still not aware enough to remember where I had heard the sound before. They weren’t just clicks, not the clicking of some simple minded animal or the sound of snapping twigs, it was a deliberate and purposeful sound. A signal? I was still dazed. I began to doze off again when I heard Gurdy raise his head with an inquisitive snort. The horse heard it too, but unlike the voices it did not stir uncomfortably, just sat upright confused. Peeling my eyes open and seeing Gurdy faintly in the darkness, I put the two together. It was side clicking, just as my father did, or any rider softly commanding their horse. A simple way of telling your horse: ‘It’s time to get a move on.’ I closed my eyes, far too tired to concern myself with something which felt so inane. It made sense, in my stupor, Gurdy heard the sound and was stirred awake, just as he ought to be. From whom it was emanating had not crossed my tired mind.
I heard him stand to attention, he was growing louder in his confusion. Small sounds as he stammered about, trying to figure out who was making the sound.
The sounds, as if spurred on by Gurdy’s reaction, filled the night air with chilling enthusiasm. They sang out in a perfect choir from every crevice of the surrounding trees.
Click! Click! Click!
Click! Click! Click!
My eyes broke open and my heart was already racing. I felt the warmth of my father beside me. The sounds briefly lost all order, the clicks emanating from every side of the tree-line. It was pitch black, only Gurdy’s silhouette was visible in the moonlight. The horse guffawed in loud frustration, the confusion in its head building as it clopped about in circles. Realizing the mistake of their eagerness, the clicking ceased. A quiet fell over us (me, my father and John Smith) the loudest most consuming quiet I had ever endured. Gurdy continued to stir and move in the darkness, I couldn’t be sure if John or my father had heard it. I was paralyzed with fear, too terrified to speak. Stuck in a dark silent void atop the hills, I knew if something were to come for us now, we would never be found. The crashed cart, with its torn linen and abandoned belongings, invaded my mind. I saw only it, and the white shawl. I imagined the family, a young married couple and their children. One only five or six, the other a newborn. I imagined them lost to the forest, swallowed by the darkness, falling deeper into the bottomless quiet.
Click! Click!
The silence evaporated in a pair of softer clicks. It was the original set, the one in the tree line several yards beyond where John Smith lay sleeping. Gurdy stirred to life again. He made another sound with his nose, a sound of assurance. He clopped in the direction of the softer clicks, toward the tree line.
Click! Click!
The sound encouraged the beast, trotting confidently toward the forest as ordered by the sound.
“Gurdy…”
I whispered, but I knew it was no good. My heart raced and my eyes burned, I knew I was about to cry. Something was in those woods, and soon it would have Gurdy. For once I wanted to be brave, I wanted to do something right. Whatever it was in the forest, whoever it was, I didn’t want them to take Gurdy. I went to stand, but I felt a firm hand grab hold of my arm and yank me back down.
“Don’t Johnny…” My father held me down, I nearly screamed but he was pressing his finger against my lips. “Stay down and stay quiet.”
I couldn’t see him, but I could feel him, smell him. He was holding me close to him, I had a feeling it wasn’t to stop me from moving but to stop anything else lurking in the blackness from taking me. Gurdy was far away now, nearing the trees. I only heard the clopping of his hooves and the occasional bray as he approached the source of the clicking.
Click! Click!
I heard Gurdy stop at the edge of the trees, confusedly waiting for another click. I tried to see what was happening, even with my father holding me down. It happened quickly. Gurdy remained unmoving at the edge of the tree line, his silhouette visible beneath the moonlight. Then, as if the forest itself opened up, something large reached out and snatched the horse by its head. I heard Gurdy hit the ground, struggling and thrashing, he cried out with a series of loud brays and guffaws as he was dragged away into the trees.
Click! Click! Click! Click!
Click! Click! Click! Click!
The clicking roared out from every direction, but we could hear the source of each rushing through the trees toward the place where Gurdy was struggling. They converged on their collective catch. Once enough of the unseen beings had reached the horse, Gurdy’s screams faded. His whines muffled by the sounds of the savages. His cries were replaced with the sound of ravenous dogs, tearing and gnawing at fresh meat. Snaps and yips, like coyotes competing for the most savory bits were interrupted with a few more satisfied, almost joyful clicks. I felt the tears rush down my face while Gurdy’s bones were snapped and chewed in the near distance. I still could not see my father, but he whispered into my ear, rocking me like a child.
“It’s okay, my boy. It’s okay.”
Even after the sound of their eating drifted away and, quiet as they were, the creatures could be heard receding into the forest on all sides, I did not sleep. We all remained awake. My father held me the whole night, until the darkness dissipated into morning greys. It was just enough visibility to at last set my eyes on John Smith. He was already standing, how long he had been standing there I could never know. His gun was drawn, and his body held firm against the morning wind. Below his hat, his dark eyes were aimed purposefully toward where Gurdy had been snatched.
The sun was not yet visible through the trees when he turned toward me and my father.
“Get up. Time to get moving.”
There was no pity, no hint of concern in his voice; it was as dry as the night we met, as dry as the dirt below our feet.
“Already? Are you sure its…”
“Grab what you can from the wagon. Only what you need. With any luck we can get clear of their territory before sundown.”
Smith spoke over my father, he didn’t raise his voice and Father didn’t protest any further.
We gathered what we needed from the wagon. Food, water and clothes mostly. I couldn’t resist, as my eyes fell on the reigns to which Gurdy was no longer tethered, one final glance at the tree line where he had been dragged away. Part of me wanted to walk over, force myself to look at what was left of him. Something inside me believed it would make me stronger, but another part of me, a larger part, couldn’t even gather the strength to step in that direction. I felt myself shaking, imagining the knarred mess that was left behind. However, by the sound of it, there wouldn’t be much left to see. My father patted my shoulder and used his massive hand to push me forward. John Smith was waiting for us several paces ahead, he looked back at us with muted impatience. His tired eyes drooped on his otherwise youthful face. Bottle in hand, he gulped down what was left of the whiskey and tossed it into the field.
Once we were within feet of him, he turned toward the path and walked off without a word.
“Was that…the…”
My father was trying to speak, but even he was struggling with the reality of our situation.
“The savages? Yes.” John Smith answered. “But I’m afraid they aren’t the ones you were thinking of, Arthur. They’re…” He looked for the right word. “…worse.”
Fortunately, my father was as strong a man as I had ever known. He had the sack with what little we had salvaged from the wagon slung over his back and the Winchester rifle in his hands. Calm as he was trying to be for my sake, I watched his eyes dart from side to side. His attention never left the trees. Shifting the rifle’s barrel from one side of the path to the other at the slightest sound.
He caught me looking at him and smiled.
“Go on, Johnny. Stay close to Mister Smith. Don’t let your old man slow you down.”
He nudged me forward with his hand, I said nothing, just quickened my pace. He was panting, the sack was heavier than I thought, that or he was having a harder time with his leg than usual. The limp was obvious, even with his grimacing attempts to hide it behind a jolly grin.
Looking back at my father, I walked into something solid. I stumbled back to see John Smith standing over me. Looking blankly down at me, his eyes tracked up to my dad.
“You okay, Arthur? Need us to slow down?”
There was no audible concern in his words, but the gesture alone was the most kindness John Smith had shown my father yet.
“Heavens no.” My father laughed. “Excuse my language, son, but get us the fuck out of here.”
John Smith tipped the brim of his hat in agreement.
He faced forward as he posited the question which had long been on his mind.
“What happened to your leg, Arthur? Old war wound?”
“No, no.” My father waved it off between heavy breaths. “Fell from my horse. Frightfully embarrassing and quite dull.”
Father winked at me. He was lying, for my sake. He didn’t fall from his horse, I did. I didn’t want to think about it beyond that. Didn’t want to think about how it was my fault my father was nearly crippled; my fault he had turned to drink; and now my fault that he was laboring his way through the hills. It wasn’t my old man slowing me down, it was I who had slowed him.
We had walked the entire day. By now, even I was panting. The air was chilled in the mountains, but it burned going down. Every breath was a labor, every step a challenge. We had kept a strong pace, but the trail was leading upward now. My legs were tired, and I could only imagine how my father must have felt. The sweat dripped from his brow down to his chin. He gave heavy gasps, but whenever I looked back to check on him, he would only smile and tell me to stay close to John.
The sun was high overhead when we reached the incline. It was a steep hill, thick brush and towering pines littered the way up. I knew, when we were still several yards away that my father couldn’t do it. Without looking to my pa, I asked sheepishly of John Smith.
“Is there any other way around?”
Wiping sweat from his brow he answered me.
“’Fraid not. The way around would take us another full day… we don’t have that time.” He panned up the hill. “This is the only way. The best way… for all of us.”
“Yes, yes. Well then, up ya go.” Pa pushed me along as if we had never said anything. John Smith, after a pause to examine my father, turned his back and began to make his way.
So steep was the hill that, at times, I was nearly walking on all fours. Grabbing at exposed roots and the base of trees to hoist my way up. I tried to slow my pace, keeping Pa close to me but, lacking the wind to speak, he would wave me forward whenever I stopped.
Stay close to John Smith. He would say without speaking.
Formidable as John Smith was, even he looked exhausted. The sweat bled straight through his shirt and his breath was heavy, but his posture remained rigid and defiant. I was climbing the hill, but John was battling it. Ripping at the roots and cursing at the dirt, it seemed hate was willing him to the top. My father, however, was drowning in the hill. His breath grew heavier and his movements slower. His bad leg had become useless, nothing more than dead weight pinning him down. We were nearly halfway up when Pa fell for the first time.
A shout of pain, and my eyes darted back to him. He had tumbled a few feet back down the hill and was already trying to push himself up to his feet. Waving his hand stubbornly, he chuckled. I began to climb down when John Smith moved quickly past me. He pushed me away and reached my father in only moments.
Extending his hand, he spoke to my father.
“Get up, Arthur. We’re nearly there.” His words were mirthless, but just as before, the gesture spoke for itself.
“Yes, yes, nearly there.” My father exhaled doggedly. I watched as he reached into his shirt and pulled a lump of brown cloth from his breast. The cloth, wet from my father’s perspiration, was concealing something. He grabbed John’s hand and left the cloth there. “Bless you, son. Bless you. Get me and the boy out of here, yeah?”
My father locked eyes with John. He patted the cloth in his hand, and I could see something in his eyes. He was smiling, as always, but this time it wasn’t masking a physical pain, it was masking something deeper. I couldn’t make it out, maybe I just didn’t want to, but John could. He pocketed what my father handed him and nodded.
Helloooo! Helloooo!
Click! Click!
My blood ran cold at the sound of the voices. The inhuman way they repeated, the shrewd way they awaited an unsuspecting reply. They were close and getting closer. It sounded as though they weren’t far from the base of the hill.
Then a new sound, a woman’s scream. High pitched and stomach churning, I froze in place at the sound of it. John Smith snapped back into action, storming past me with a scowl.
“C’mon kid! Move!”
He returned to his state of battle with the hillside, ripping and tearing his way to the top. I followed with only a glance back at my father. Pa was staring in the direction of the voices, back down at the base of the hill. Feeling my eyes on him, he began his climb upward again, grunting painfully the whole way. I don’t know how, but we quickened our pace, spurred on by fear. Fear of dying, but not just dying, dying in the jaws of those creatures, those savages. Remembering the sounds they made as they devoured Gurdy, the popping and lapping, the monstrous satisfaction. Those sounds would be with me forever, even if I somehow survived this. I knew, more than anything, I didn’t want to become a part of those sounds, didn’t want to become one of the voices in the hills.
“HELLOOOO!”
They were here, moving their way up the hill. Too fast to outpace and too many to maneuver around. We couldn’t see them, but we heard them rushing through the trees on either side of us. It sounded effortless, the way they moved so quickly. Clicks and cries from voices which had once traveled through these same hills filled the air around us. Father was doing his best, trying to run on both legs, but after only a few more paces he crumbled down again. He crashed into the dirt and as suddenly as they began, the voices stopped.
There was no sound, not the drone of insects nor the song of birds.
Father raised his head from the dirt, his eyes found me immediately. The rifle lay a few feet ahead of him. I could see he wanted to reach out and grab it, but for reasons unbeknownst to me, he didn’t. I began, quietly as I could, to work my way down the hill. Down to him. Just below the top of the hill, John Smith stood as still as a statue, his gun drawn. He aimed at nothing, only panning through the dense trees. They were here, right beside us, but we couldn’t see them.
Father was waving me off, shaking his head for me to turn back, but I wouldn’t leave him. I knew he would never leave me and besides, it was all my fault, the right thing to do, the brave thing, was to help him. With two good legs my father would have scaled this hill without breaking a sweat, with two good legs my father could do anything.
I was feet away from him when he turned his head behind him. He was trembling, I had never seen my father tremble before. Not even when Anthony or Mother died did my father tremble. At first, I couldn’t see anything, it looked only as if one of the trees was slowly rising over the incline, its branches jutting in opposite directions, but then I realized. They weren’t branches; they were antlers. A beast, with a human skull and greying flesh pulled tightly against its frame, with large jagged antlers sprouting from its head. It looked like a starving animal, the body was tall and long but its ribs and spine were less covered by skin as they were protruding from it. Looming over my father, its hollow abdomen rose and fell with hungry anticipation. I couldn’t breathe. I only heard my Pa’s trembling voice.
“My God…”
The gaunt creature hissed, its beady red eyes sunken into its sockets. I watched in horror, my body completely numb as my heart pounded through my chest.
Father turned quickly for the rifle, as a long black hand dug into his back. He cried out in pain as it ripped him down into the forest.
“Johnny! Run!” His voice shouted up to me. In only moments, he had disappeared in a cloud of dust beyond the thickets.
The next thing I knew, I had the rifle in my hand and was dashing down toward where it had taken him. I had made no decision, no conscious effort, I only acted. There was no fear, no panic, I felt nothing.
“Kid! Wait!” John Smith shouted after me, but with tears streaming down my face I rushed back down the hill and into the forest.
They couldn’t have him. Not Pa, not my father.
“Dad!” I cried out. “Dad! I’m coming!”
My foot snagged on an exposed root and I stumbled down the hill. I barely felt any of it, the trees that bashed into my ribs, the rocks that dug into my back. Not until I collided with the final tree which halted my fall, did I feel the aftermath. My body was stiff, every muscle had tightened from the pain in my side and my back. I was dizzy, lifting my hand to my head and finding fresh blood dripping through my fingers. Rising wearily to my feet, I held the rifle in hand.
“DAD!” I shouted down into the hill. “DAAAD!”
No one answered.
“Please…please God not him too…” I whispered to myself. “Dad…” this time it was only a whimper.
Johnny!
I heard my father’s voice shout back to me, but I saw nothing. He was far away, but he was alive. I leaned forward.
“Dad! Dad, where are you?!” I awaited reply.
Johnny!
He cried back again. This time a bit closer.
“Dad?!” I yelled, confused but relieved.
Johnny! Johnny!
Johnny! Johnny!
The voices rang out in every direction. Each was moving closer now, thrashing about in the brush and bush below. I wanted to cry, sob and never stop crying until the beasts had me, but something else bubbled up inside. What had been sorrow, the deepest pain and sadness I had ever felt, boiled away in anger. As if my mind were protecting itself, protecting me from becoming one of the voices, another meal. I felt rage building in me, a hate. I leaned into the quiet of the forest and I screamed. Roaring in the direction of the creatures, the loudest most spiteful sound I had ever made or could ever muster.
My scream echoed in the hills, and the voice of my father did not reply.
An inhuman sound bellowed back at me from the trees below, one of the creatures roared. Replying in its real voice. It did not frighten me, only angered me. I screamed again, one final time, my eyes red and my cheeks flooding with blood and tears. Then a hand grabbed my shoulder and spun me around. John Smith was looking out into the trees.
“C’mon kid.” He spoke quietly. “We need to go.”
My lip quivered and my body shook. I punched the man in his stomach, then in his shoulder, then his chest. My young hands only bounced off of him. He grabbed my arm.
“Why didn’t you save him?!” I cried. “Why didn’t you save him?! You had your gun! Why didn’t you save him like he told you to?!”
He was pulling me by the arm back up the hill. Looking nowhere but up, he spoke plainly and quietly.
“I’m a hunter, kid. Not a hero.” He swallowed hard. “But your old man paid me to get you to the other side. So, I’m gonna get you there.”
Part 5, The Way Home
We reached the top of the hill and everything still hurt. My chest throbbed and my head pulsed with every erratic beat of my heart. The soles of my feet were torn, and I was limping myself now. Lurching from the pain which spanned from my lower spine into my stomach. I knew John was tired too, but he hardly showed it. Since the attack, he had yet to put his gun away.
“If they get close again. You stay quiet and you stay out of sight.” He was finding his bearings as he spoke. “They have amazing hearing, but their eyesight is only good up close. You stay hidden, they shouldn’t find you.” He pointed to my father’s Winchester rifle. “Use that only if absolutely necessary. It’s loud, it will draw more to you, but it should be enough to get one of them off you as a last resort.”
“Should be?” I asked, still dazed from the fall and my own blinding anger, but I was beginning to come to.
“Normal bullets won’t kill them. You need silver.” He gestured to his revolver. “I can kill them, but if I start shooting, I can’t stop shooting. You understand?”
I nodded.
“Good.” He was different than before. The same in many ways, but different in his urgency. There was an honesty to his words, a sincerity that hadn’t been there before. Honesty had been his last resort and it appeared he was desperate. “You need to do what I say, when I say it. Got it, kid?”
I nodded. He tilted his head, unconvinced. I wiped at my puffy eyes and running nose.
“Got it.” I replied firmly.
“Good. Most importantly, you need to stay close to me. I’ll take lead, you follow. No more than three paces back. Now, let’s go.”
We walked, hip to hip, across the flat peek of the hill. I didn’t hear any of the creatures, but I knew, mostly from the way John was moving- slowly and deliberately- that they were close. It had been huge, the one that took my father. Taller than him, in fact. Lanky and frail looking, but strong and fast. I didn’t know what they were, but something told me that John did.
Approaching the decline, the way back down into the forest, I saw something beautiful. I saw the edge of the forest and the clearing beyond that. We were high up, even higher than I thought. Looking down at the tops of pine trees and the rolling hills below us, I began to feel a hint of hope. We might actually make it out alive. But, it struck me hard and firm, my father would not. He was gone. Swallowed by the hills, just another voice for their collection. This was the way out, but not the way home. What would home be without him? I had no one now, even if I made it, I would have nothing. All the belongings I had ever owned were gone, and all the people I had ever loved were dead. I didn’t cry or sob, I had nothing left inside for that. My body throbbed and my hollowed heart continued to beat indifferently. We had ground to cover.
We had taken our first few steps into the descent when John held me in place and raised his finger. He had heard something, something I hadn’t. He extended his gun hand in the direction he had heard it and moved slower. I mimicked his movements, stepping with padded foot against the forest floor. Only as we descended did I realize what had alerted him. Not sound, but scent. It was a rancid odor, like rotting meat or a festering wound. The further we went down, the more potent the odor became and the more slowly John moved. His breath was slow and so quiet were his movements, I could hear the beating of his heart beside me. The musk was suffocating, clogging not only my nose but my mouth and my ears. I pinched my eyes shut as they began to water from the intensity of it. Only when I was sure I would begin to choke, the tickle in my throat nearly squeezing a dry cough from me, did I see it. John had stopped moving completely, his gun aimed straight ahead. I swallowed hard. Terror, thankfully, preventing me from making a single sound.
It stood on its hind legs, but its long spindly arms reached all the way to the dirt. Its antlered head was pale white like an exposed skull, and its emaciated body was a dark, deathly grey. With every breath its chest rose and fell. We were only a few yards away, but it had yet to see us. John gently pressed on my neck to lower me down, he crouched beside me.
Through a slitted nose it sniffed the air and its sunken eyes came to life. Drinking in our scent, it rose higher onto its hind legs and curled its arms inward toward its chest. It opened its large mouth, unhinging like a snake’s, and called up into the sky.
“Helloooo!”
Tilting its head like a bird, it waited for us to answer. I grabbed John Smith’s shirt, startled by how human the creature had sounded. I turned to John, hoping he had a plan, but the beads of sweat rolling down the side of his face told me our only hope was for the creature to move on.
It sniffed the air again.
“Helloooo! Click! Click!”
Without a reply, it dropped to all fours and began to follow its nose. Every sniff brought it closer to us as it slithered and turned, slowly pinpointing our location. When only feet from us, it crept slower. It didn’t see us, but it knew we were close by. John sighed; he had made a decision, a difficult one. He looked at me, his dark eyes blazing with purpose. For a moment I thought he was going to leave me. Use me as dead meat to ensure his getaway. He had the money and Pa was dead, what did he need me for? Pointing to a small cave carved into the base of the hill, he mouthed the words to me.
When I say. You run. Wait for me.
I nodded, but I surprised even myself. I didn’t want to listen, didn’t want to leave him. He wasn’t going to leave me, not to die anyway. Stranger or not, he was all I had left, but I knew we had no other option. It crawled closer, so close that I could see the small hairs which protruded from its tight decaying skin. Its sunken read eyes resting at the center of its bone white face were aimed directly at me. My scent, for reasons I could only guess, was stronger than John’s. It would go for me first.
“Now!” John shouted as he dashed away, deliberately stomping his feet against the twigs and branches below him.
The creature roared a high-pitched screech and then scurried on all fours toward John. So powerful were its movements that debris kicked up underneath it. I sprinted in the direction of the cave, hearing above me the many other creatures rushing down the hill after John who was still shouting.
“C’mon you ugly bastards! Come and get it!”
The cave was just ahead, a dark inlet beneath a mask of drooping moss and roots. Instinctively, I leapt into the bushes. One of the creatures was perched above the cave, looking less interested in the shouting man in the distance. Its head was tilted upward, smelling the air. Smaller than the previous one, it was less eager to catch up to the pack. Laying in the bushes, I was trying to slow my heart and stop my breath. It sprang down from atop the cave like a cat from a windowsill, muttering inhuman sounds under its breath as it prowled forward. Sniffing to the point of audibly snorting, it knew I was close by. I wanted to crawl away, but at this distance it would hear me and once I moved it would surely see me, poor vision aside. Then, another smaller one of the creatures appeared over the ridge behind me and made another series of inhuman sounds, hisses and clicks which the other could understand. They each smelled the air, standing on either side of me. I was finished and I knew it. All I could do now was hope that when they took their first bites or tore my first limb, I wouldn’t scream. I wanted to give them nothing of mine to mimic for the next poor souls who ventured into these hills.
I closed my eyes, squeezing the rifle, I thought of my father, my mother and my brother. I listened to the songs my mother and brother would sing, the humming of my father. I wanted to die listening to them, not to these monsters.
CRACK! CRACK!
It was the distant sound of John’s revolver. He was still alive, but far away. The two creatures looked to each other and then yipped and yelped, rushing in the direction of the gunfire, away from me. His gun burst out in a series of pops and then faded into silence.
It took me awhile to find the strength to move again. Not until the sky opened up with a brisk heavy rain, did I rise to my feet. I staggered through the storm and into the cave, rifle in hand. I collapsed against the cold rocky floor. I was exhausted, the moment I touched the ground I felt myself begin to drift off. I told myself not to. Clinging to the rifle I snapped myself awake, but it was futile. My gashed head was dizzy, and the pain in my back and side were exhausting. Eventually, I passed out. My eyes would open occasionally, watching the rain crash down, violently splashing at the edge of the cave. I blinked, and the rain was beginning to wane. Another blink and golden rays of light were sparkling against the wetted rock. Only the water dripping from the moss and roots at the cave’s entrance assured me there had ever been a storm. Judging by the trajectory of the sun rays fanning out before the cave, it was late afternoon. Four maybe five o’clock. It would be dark in only a couple of hours and John had yet to return.
I didn’t think. I was too tired to think. He told me to wait and so I did.
What if he doesn’t come back at all? What if they already got him?
The thought struck me, but it seemed pointless. If he never returned, then I was dead. There was nothing to be afraid of after accepting that. I would sit in this cave and starve to death if I had to, anything but let those things have me. If I could never make it home, to my new home, empty as it might be, I wanted to at least die on my terms. This cave, without Pa, was as good a home as any. I almost dozed off again when I heard a sound from above. Something, or someone, was standing just above the cave. I hoped with what little hope I had left, that it was John, that he had fought his way through and found me. But, like a spider crawling up from the drain, I saw the creatures long wiry arms lower into sight from above the cave’s opening. It slowly and quietly descended to the ground and hunched its way into the cave.
This one was bigger than the last two, barely fitting its tall lean body through the entrance of the cave. It hunched forward, its massive antlers scathing the stony ceiling above. It knew I was here, and was not as tentative as its smaller kin, it was a seasoned hunter. Decisive and dead quiet as it moved toward me. I scooted back on my palms, balancing the rifle in my lap. Finally, my back thumped against the rock wall behind me. It was a shallow cave, there was nowhere to go. Both me and it stopped, it had heard me, and I was trapped. We locked eyes. I wasn’t sure whether or not it saw me, but it knew that I saw it.
A gentle hiss slithered from its bony mouth. I slowly turned the rifle toward it.
Last resort… I reminded myself.
It dropped to all fours, the saliva dropping in clumps from the ends of its blunt teeth. The odor enveloped the entire cave. It was ready to pounce, ready to leap and drag me away into the trees. Not even my bones would be left for others to find.
Too frightened to properly aim, I pointed the rifle in its direction and…
BANG!
The shot fired, the muzzle lit the cave and the sound cracked out into the forest. The bullet only grazed the side of the creature’s face. It screamed in anger and went to jump at me. I tried to cock the rifle, but my young hands trembled. At the last possible moment, it cocked, and I fired again. It struck the belly of the monster, pushing it backward. Hissing and roaring it stood up again. I was on my feet, but there was no way out of the cave past its long limbs and jagged antlers. Writhing in pain its mouth opened wide in a scream which sounded like a woman in mortal terror. Wincing, I cocked again, but John’s words rang out in my mind. I couldn’t kill it, not without silver bullets. I would just have to fire until I had no shots left. It leapt forward again, I closed my eyes and pulled the trigger. To my surprise, its neck burst into a scarlet mist. The large monster listed to the left, looking both surprised and frightened, it tried to roar but only gargled as more of the scarlet liquid poured from its mouth. I was breathing heavy, my eyes were wide behind a mask of dried blood, never pulling the gun away from the creature. However, this time it didn’t try to attack me, it turned to the entrance of the cave.
John Smith was standing there, hatless, the barrel of his revolver still clouded with smoke.
“Get down, kid.”
I dropped to the ground; the creature tried to snatch John with one of its long grey hands, but he fired again.
CRACK!
The creature fell back, it’s thin chest and rib cage erupted in a splash of bright red blood. John stood over the creature as it twitched and whimpered. His revolver aimed down at it, the smoke from the barrel filling the cave. He did not fire again, only watched the creature’s sunken eyes while the wicked life within faded.
When I was sure it was dead, I rushed over to him and hugged him. I didn’t cry but held him tight. Reluctantly, I felt him place his arm around me. It wasn’t warm like my father’s embrace, but it was enough.
“Not much further, kid…” His dry voice spoke out.
We left the cave. The other creatures arrived there shortly after we had moved one. We saw them in the distance while making our final ascent into the next hill. They called out in all the ways they could.
Johnny! Click! Click!
Hellooo!
We didn’t pay them any mind, just kept walking. At the top of the next ridge, John pulled out his book and flipped to a marked page. He exhaled and sat in the dirt. I only now noticed the blood running down his arm and the thick crimson gashes on his chest and face. He had been attacked; he was hurt.
“Are you okay, John? You’re hurt.”
He looked at the blood running down his forearm.
“Oh…yeah. I’m fine, kid.” He ran his hands through his sweat soaked hair. “Fuckers got my hat though.”
It was a dry joke. I tried to laugh as he looked up at me, but instead I felt a single tear run down my cheek. They had taken his hat, but they had taken my father.
“If he could’ve walked…” I said, but didn’t have the strength to finish. “If he had two good legs…he was the strongest man I ever knew…” I wiped the tears away, I didn’t want to cry in front of John, in front of this stranger. “I’m sorry pa… I’m so sorry.”
John stood up.
“Cut that out kid. Your old man knew he couldn’t make it. He knew the moment we reached that hill.” He pulled the brown cloth from his waist, unfolding it to reveal the money my father had promised him. “Your dad was a man of his word. Only felt right that I should be the same. He paid me to get you through, because he knew he wouldn’t make it. It’s not your fault.”
“Yes, it is. He didn’t fall off his horse…” I said, my head hung low. “I did. It bucked me off, was gonna trample me. I froze. Like some little chicken shit, I froze. He jumped in front of it to get me clear. His leg broke cuz of me, cuz I’m a coward. Now he’s dead… because his son was a goddamn coward.”
John Smith looked at me, the softest look I had seen from him yet.
“You got me through. I thank you for that. But for what? To get home. What home? I have no one now, nothing.” My eyes burned and my lip quivered; I swallowed hard to hold it at bay. “Those monsters took him and now he’s gone forever…”
John knelt down in front of me. He placed his hand gently on my shoulder and looked at me with a fragile smile.
“That aint true kid.” I wiped my eyes hard and tried to look at him, but it was like staring into the sun, I couldn’t look for more than a moment at a time. “When your mother died, where did she go?” I tilted my head, I didn’t understand the question. “Or your brother before her, where’d he go?” He took his hand off my shoulder and began to squeeze the chain around his neck. “Now, your father, he would’ve said Heaven and who knows, maybe he’s right. I’ve seen too much evil to believe in something so beautiful myself, but I’ve seen too much in general to be a skeptic. All I can say, for sure, is that you’re wrong. They aint gone.” He pointed to my head. “You have ‘em all right there. In every memory and every dream, they live in you, through you.” He held tighter to the chain around his neck and looked to the distance, as if recalling a memory of his own. “You gotta carry them with you, everywhere you go. That’s your job now, kid. You gotta carry ‘em home. Wherever the hell that is…” He stood up and looked over the ridge, in the distance was a small black dot. The town, my father had wanted to call home. “That’s the way to be brave, kid. Not through revenge, there’s no bravery in that, only hate. But by holding on to what we love, no matter what. That’s bravery, kid. That’s the way home.”
I was grateful for the words; in a way I couldn’t express, certainly not as a thirteen-year-old kid.
“John…” I looked up at him as he gazed into the distance. “I’m sorry you got dragged into this.”
“Caleb.” He said flatly.
I furrowed my brow.
“Caleb. My name’s Caleb.”
I looked at him for a long time and what felt like for the first time, but he wouldn’t look back at me. There was shame on his face, I don’t think he told many people his name. I think, maybe, I was the first person in a long time.
I extended my hand.
“Nice to meet you Caleb, I’m Johnny.”
He shook my hand firmly.
“Nice to meet you too, Johnny. Anyway…” We began walking again. “I’m not upset ya’ll dragged me into this. I got paid.” He smiled and so did I. “Besides, I was thinking. I don’t do favors, nothing for free, and me and your old man agreed on a price. Considering the hundred fifty dollars in my pocket, I’m still short a full hundred. Maybe you could stick with me awhile, work off your debt.”
The lead in my feet and the pain in my side subsided in an instant, I knew what he was doing but we both left it unsaid. I owed him more than a measly hundred dollars, I owed him my life. Now, far from the grasp of the monsters in the hills, he had saved it a second time.
“What would we do?” I asked.
“Hunt.” He replied with a gesture to the old ragged book.
Hard as it was to believe, my father had been right. Miracles, fate or just plain chance, John Smith had been the right man; the right sort of man. We walked stride for stride into the next hill, the town in the horizon no more than a day away. The creatures still called out from behind us, moaning in their many stolen voices. I hardly heard them now. Instead, I listened to the melodic tunes of my mother and brother and the soft humming of my father. Tilting my head to the sky, I finally joined in, whistling the song myself.
END