He rides through the dusk. The sun has gone down, leaving only faint red light to illuminate his hunched back. Light that isn't light at all. Only the ghost of light. His eyes still sting from the last pearl of sweat that dribbled down the furrowed skin of his brow. His clothes are still torn and tattered, barely hanging from his body, the shape of which around his chest and legs are all that still define them as clothing.
Darkness comes like a promise, and the night air, rushing against his face, dries the salty sweat and tears that hang in thick, amorphous beads off his temples. The horse will be tired soon, he realizes, and he dreads the moment he's forced to make camp. He would go the rest of the way on foot if he had the chance, now that all of his nights are restless nights.
He looks over his shoulder. The faltered light on the horizon is now a deepening shade of violet, but it's enough to make out the figure in the distance--the one that's been on his trail for days now, always just within sight. He can make out shapes and colors, all else too distant to discern. He knows what chases after him, what will pass him in the night and wait for him at the top of the next hill. He's seen it. He's dreamed of it. A pale rider on a pale horse.
His own horse, nameless, the color of chestnuts, slows to a crawl, its bulky feet kicking up thick clouds of dust from the barren ground until it refuses to go any further. He can't blame it. Neither of them have eaten in days. It most likely would have died of neglect anyway if he hadn't taken it, hadn't freed it from the abandoned village. He dismounts, leading it by the reins to an outcrop of wide stones and dry brush, deciding to go no further, to accept whatever plan fate has for him.
Pulling flint from his pocket, he gathers bits of brush and starts a small fire on the blackened ground, finding little comfort in the knowledge that other people had once camped in this very spot. Whatever impression of wilderness this land had given him was lost, and he could only wonder if the others had made it safely back to civilization or if they had died somewhere along the way. Or maybe there had been no others in these parts. Maybe that darkened spot on the ground had been that way all along, just waiting for him to come along, to show him how the board was to be set. Everything in its right place.
The brush will keep the fire fed for awhile, he thinks, but not all night. He strips the ragged coat from his back. Its of no use anymore, after all. Without a second thought, he drops in onto the fire and watches the flames test it at first, burning small, solid holes from the bottom, licking the edges, leaving its dry, widening saliva to slowly consume the fabric. The tattered edges are burned away, and the blue jacket becomes at first a solid black, then falling away to a gray ashen waste. The brass buttons flicker as they sink below the charred brush, catching his eye.
There is no food left. He knows this. The rational part of his brain reminds him of this, yet he checks again anyway. He always checks, just in case there's a bit that his fingers skip over, that alludes eyes like a hawk's, peering into a vacant forest and desperate to catch a fleeting glimpse of any small movement. Nothing there, he discovers, pulling his hand free. There's nothing to do now but sit and wait.
Maybe tonight isn't the night, he tells himself. Maybe there's meant to be another day--at least one more. He knows not what lies ahead on the eastern horizon, but there's always a chance that he'll find a small city or town, someplace with food, soft beds, and softer women. Some place with people--any people--old, young, white, Indian, thin, fat, loud, mute. Anyone. Anyone alive. Like a man in front of the firing squad, blindfolded, he clings to what hope he still can, praying for someone to yell out, granting him reprieve before the concussion of the choir of rifles and an expectant darkness that no campfire can scare away.
Just when he is sure that this is the end, when time seems lost and purposeless, the sun rises, and he lives to see another day. The horse, however, is dead. It passed quietly sometime in the night.
He sets out on foot now, hoping that he's close enough to wave someone down, to cry out for help. There's always that chance, always something to hope for. He climbs the next hill and scans the land below--nothing, vacant scrub and dust and little more.
At noon, the sun bears down on the exposed flesh of his neck and back, forcing the sweat back into his eyes, until he, like the horse, can go no further. On a mound of dirt he collapses and rolls onto his back, his chest heaving with every strained breath. His mouth is dry--so dry--if only he had one more drop. Then all the concerns fall away, his eyes drawn to the sun. He sees lights, sparks of blue and white, flashing in the sun, but there's something else there, too. It reaches out to him. It reaches out of the sun, grasping for his arm, until he feels himself slip away in its grasp. There is a voice with it, speaking vaguely of absolution.
When the sun sets, it descends from a wasteland, quiet and still, remarkable for nothing more than dirt, dry brush, and a darkened circle of earth--the only indication that anything here had once been alive.
When she finished reading, Kate carefully placed the papers back into the folder and placed it atop her nightstand, separating herself from a story that had wholly consumed her. It held her attention captive, never allowing a moment of release until the end, and then she had to let it sink in, works its way inside her mind until it was all that she could think about, until she fit the remaining pieces together. As much as she had already written, she knew that Oscar's sections needed to remain as they were, leaving her to create the fate of the kingdom of three. She had a difficult decision left to make.
Then, as if she was dreaming and expecting it all along, she heard a knock on the door. Her clock ticked from 1:43 AM to 1:44 in that brief moment her eyes were upon it. Remember what Oscar had said and wondering what it meant, she knew what had to be done.
Darkness comes like a promise, and the night air, rushing against his face, dries the salty sweat and tears that hang in thick, amorphous beads off his temples. The horse will be tired soon, he realizes, and he dreads the moment he's forced to make camp. He would go the rest of the way on foot if he had the chance, now that all of his nights are restless nights.
He looks over his shoulder. The faltered light on the horizon is now a deepening shade of violet, but it's enough to make out the figure in the distance--the one that's been on his trail for days now, always just within sight. He can make out shapes and colors, all else too distant to discern. He knows what chases after him, what will pass him in the night and wait for him at the top of the next hill. He's seen it. He's dreamed of it. A pale rider on a pale horse.
His own horse, nameless, the color of chestnuts, slows to a crawl, its bulky feet kicking up thick clouds of dust from the barren ground until it refuses to go any further. He can't blame it. Neither of them have eaten in days. It most likely would have died of neglect anyway if he hadn't taken it, hadn't freed it from the abandoned village. He dismounts, leading it by the reins to an outcrop of wide stones and dry brush, deciding to go no further, to accept whatever plan fate has for him.
Pulling flint from his pocket, he gathers bits of brush and starts a small fire on the blackened ground, finding little comfort in the knowledge that other people had once camped in this very spot. Whatever impression of wilderness this land had given him was lost, and he could only wonder if the others had made it safely back to civilization or if they had died somewhere along the way. Or maybe there had been no others in these parts. Maybe that darkened spot on the ground had been that way all along, just waiting for him to come along, to show him how the board was to be set. Everything in its right place.
The brush will keep the fire fed for awhile, he thinks, but not all night. He strips the ragged coat from his back. Its of no use anymore, after all. Without a second thought, he drops in onto the fire and watches the flames test it at first, burning small, solid holes from the bottom, licking the edges, leaving its dry, widening saliva to slowly consume the fabric. The tattered edges are burned away, and the blue jacket becomes at first a solid black, then falling away to a gray ashen waste. The brass buttons flicker as they sink below the charred brush, catching his eye.
There is no food left. He knows this. The rational part of his brain reminds him of this, yet he checks again anyway. He always checks, just in case there's a bit that his fingers skip over, that alludes eyes like a hawk's, peering into a vacant forest and desperate to catch a fleeting glimpse of any small movement. Nothing there, he discovers, pulling his hand free. There's nothing to do now but sit and wait.
Maybe tonight isn't the night, he tells himself. Maybe there's meant to be another day--at least one more. He knows not what lies ahead on the eastern horizon, but there's always a chance that he'll find a small city or town, someplace with food, soft beds, and softer women. Some place with people--any people--old, young, white, Indian, thin, fat, loud, mute. Anyone. Anyone alive. Like a man in front of the firing squad, blindfolded, he clings to what hope he still can, praying for someone to yell out, granting him reprieve before the concussion of the choir of rifles and an expectant darkness that no campfire can scare away.
Just when he is sure that this is the end, when time seems lost and purposeless, the sun rises, and he lives to see another day. The horse, however, is dead. It passed quietly sometime in the night.
He sets out on foot now, hoping that he's close enough to wave someone down, to cry out for help. There's always that chance, always something to hope for. He climbs the next hill and scans the land below--nothing, vacant scrub and dust and little more.
At noon, the sun bears down on the exposed flesh of his neck and back, forcing the sweat back into his eyes, until he, like the horse, can go no further. On a mound of dirt he collapses and rolls onto his back, his chest heaving with every strained breath. His mouth is dry--so dry--if only he had one more drop. Then all the concerns fall away, his eyes drawn to the sun. He sees lights, sparks of blue and white, flashing in the sun, but there's something else there, too. It reaches out to him. It reaches out of the sun, grasping for his arm, until he feels himself slip away in its grasp. There is a voice with it, speaking vaguely of absolution.
When the sun sets, it descends from a wasteland, quiet and still, remarkable for nothing more than dirt, dry brush, and a darkened circle of earth--the only indication that anything here had once been alive.
***
When she finished reading, Kate carefully placed the papers back into the folder and placed it atop her nightstand, separating herself from a story that had wholly consumed her. It held her attention captive, never allowing a moment of release until the end, and then she had to let it sink in, works its way inside her mind until it was all that she could think about, until she fit the remaining pieces together. As much as she had already written, she knew that Oscar's sections needed to remain as they were, leaving her to create the fate of the kingdom of three. She had a difficult decision left to make.
Then, as if she was dreaming and expecting it all along, she heard a knock on the door. Her clock ticked from 1:43 AM to 1:44 in that brief moment her eyes were upon it. Remember what Oscar had said and wondering what it meant, she knew what had to be done.
No comments:
Post a Comment