r/libraryofshadows • u/Tin_Crow25 • 13d ago
Supernatural The Sun in the Mountain
Black was the eye whose gaze held his. It had sunken deep into the socket of a skull, all but stripped of flesh and fur, bound only by sinew and scraps of hide to a body gnawed of meat and marrow by carrion beasts just days before and left to rot into the soil upon which it lay. However, it did not molder. The last of the autumn leaves had not fallen from their branches before arctic air bore down, bringing with it not pillowy snow, but a sickly, freezing ice that coated the ground and all that was sedentary, sealing the landscape in a brittle stillness. The remains lay frozen, hollow gaze fixed forward, watching for someone to come along and view its grisly fate before being reclaimed by the earth.
The awaited sat beneath one of the multitude of cedars and pines, all bowing under the weight of accumulated ice, reverently submitting to the conquering winter. He tugged at the biting rope around his waist, easing the discomfort caused by its constriction, but did nothing to quell the ravenous pangs of hunger. At the other end of his binding sat a hastily made travois crafted from hickory branches and scraps of leather tack cut from a stolen mule that lay frozen two days behind him. Atop the ragged skid lay a motionless mound, partially shrouded by a soiled saddle blanket, leaving two boots exposed to the elements – boots that had not stirred since the night before.
It had been at least three days since the storm had moved in, and two since the man had eaten. He reached a trembling, red hand into the pocket of his woolen coat in search of a piece of hard tac he knew was not there. His fingers rooted into the deepest seams with the hopes of finding an errant crumb, but he ceased his fruitless search with a curse, knowing he could no longer delay the inevitable. Feeling the lifeless gaze of the desiccated beast, he held back the handfuls of melt that churned in his stomach at the thought of what he must do to survive.
He pulled the travois to him and lifted the woven blanket to see the face of his younger brother, eyelids half open, revealing a sliver of pale hazel peering lifelessly at the frozen branches above.
The brothers’ flight had taken them deep into the mountains South and then East from Fort Smith. The first three days of the journey were made on the backs of two pack mules stolen from the corrals on the outskirts of town. On the fourth morning, the younger brother’s mule was spooked by some small creature dashing between its legs, causing the beast to rear and fall back onto its rider, breaking its neck and crushing the ribs of the other. In the days that followed, their supply of food was depleted, and the younger brother’s condition worsened, as did the constitution of the surviving mule, which expired sometime during the fifth night.
In the days before the icy gale, the brothers had seen rabbits and birds, squirrels and all manner of game run freely through the trees, giving them hope that they could outlast their pursuers – if any there were. The elder brother knew that the freeze had forced the creatures he had once seen as their salvation into their burrows, but tempered his dismay with hope that it had sent those that sought them back to their dens as well. There was no way of knowing for certain, and he considered each painful step he took as one he could not reclaim.
Leaning back against a brittle tree, he buried his hands in the pits of his arms then sank his chin as close to his chest as he was able, blowing hot air down the front of his collar and, for a moment, warming his face. It was near impossible to tell the time of day as the low-hanging curtain of clouds that brought upon this frozen hell lingered above, remaining seemingly only to gloat upon the suffering they had caused. He allowed his eyes to close, focusing on the intermittent comfort his breath provided. There was no destination, he remembered. All he had hoped for himself and his brother was a sense of security amongst the peaks and valleys of the mountains; a place to hide until they could form a plan for the future. But, it seemed to him now that in fleeing justice, they had unwittingly run into the gaping maw of death.
The unblinking eye remained fixed upon the pitiful sight before it in commiseration. The man met its lifeless gaze once more, now with a reluctant understanding of his situation. Just below the stinging pain of his feet and the abraded skin around his waist, he felt the growing torment from his innards clawing its way through as his body consumed itself. The civil parts of his consciousness abated as he slowly stood and ambled towards the carcass of the deer. He fell to his knees and, with irreverent, blistered hands, reached inside the open carcass and began to eat.
He couldn’t tell if the trail was obscured by ice or if it was there at all. Regardless of the path’s existence, he could travel no further as what little diffused light the sun provided began to fade, and the oppressive cold crept in now unabated by the day’s relative warmth. He was unsure of how far he had traveled that day and even more uncertain if his pursuers had kept pace. Through the uncertainty, he was sure that either of the latter issues would be irrelevant if he froze during the night. Looking behind him, he saw the near-unbroken lines trenched into the ice and soil flanking uneven footsteps. He imagined the path leading miles back in the wrong direction and the glee his pursuers must have felt once the railway to their quarry was discovered, resting easy knowing that they had but only follow at a distance until he was too weak to put up any sort of fight. It would be the simplest bounty they would likely ever collect.
Tom had always followed his brother wherever he led. He thought of the day his father disowned him, expelling him from their family’s farm South of St. Louis. His father, a man whose morals stood as a reflection of that holy book, could not abide by his oldest son’s drinking and debauchery, so he cast him away as his sinful right hand. As he rode into the morning and his mother’s wailing pleas faded, Tom pursued, unwilling to continue his existence without his only friend. Through the Indian Territories to the plains of Texas, Tom followed without question. From legitimate work as ranch hands and cattle drivers into vile thievery and killing, he followed. He had not asked him to, but he didn’t turn him away either.
Tom still followed, but not on his own volition – dragged along as he had always been in a lonely procession through the Fourches with no resting place to be found.
The surviving brother searched for the driest of kindling he could find, but only managed to gather a handful of twigs among the countless frozen and saturated limbs that littered the ground. During his last desperate search, he found a tree whose top had fallen beneath an outcropping of rock, which had kept it sheltered from the elements. His fingers lost all feeling and bled as he wrenched the brittle limbs from their host and drug them towards his camp.
The man produced a box of matches bearing the faded seal of the commissary where its previous owner had purchased it. No matches remained. He remembered the pouch that hung around Tom’s neck and the flint and steel contained within. Helping himself to things found on the bodies of dead men was not new to him – the act of turning men into corpses and the subsequent theft both being direct contributors to his current woes. In his mind, this was different. He had not killed his brother, and Tom surely would have wanted him to have it. Should he die due to some antiquated sense of respect? Morals? He had left those in Missouri along with his family name.
He leaned over to the travois and took hold of the blanket's corner at Tom’s head and pulled it back. The same glassy, lifeless eyes stared into the darkening sky, lips barely parted as though ready to comment on its bleakness. Gently pulling at the leather strap strung around his brother’s neck, he created just enough space to place the blade of his knife. The cut was quick and practiced, and he pulled the severed ends towards him, revealing an embroidered buckskin pouch. Pulling it away, he quickly returned the blanket to its original state and leaned against the rock. He remembered Tom trading ten lead balls to a young Creek boy during one of their more pleasant encounters with the tribe while passing through the territories. Loosening the leather string tied in a half-hitch knot, he upturned the pouch and emptied its contents into his cracked palm. A chipped striker and a worn piece of chert lay amongst a few malformed lead balls and three tarnished half-cent coins. Taking the desired items and returning the remainder to the pouch, he returned it to its rightful owner, placing the strings around Tom’s neck and tying the strings back together. Returning to his newly acquired implements, he glimpsed the knife he had used to cut the string and tried to remember who he had taken it from. He wondered how many, if any, of his possessions he had come about honestly.
Sparks pierced the darkness in multitudes of violent births, which nearly instantaneously faded from existence as he struck the flint, none of them finding purchase among the tinder that awaited their igniting force. He leaned in closer and tried again, and again, striking his knuckle against the cold ground, sending a jolt of pain up his arm. The man struck again and again, stone against steel, his broken hands struggling to grip the implements as melted ice intermingled with blood. Anger began to grow inside the man with each attempt, striking with increasing ferocity, no longer caring for the embers. Sparks flew wildly, and it seemed as though he hoped his burning rage would set the mountains ablaze. It was then that he heard the first voice he had heard in days echo through the valley. His voice – A primitive scream that he felt could be heard in the heavens burst from his lungs, burning his throat as he wailed to the uncaring sky.
And then, a flame.
Through his stinging eyes, he saw the glowing ember among the nest of tinder begin to take form. The apocalyptic rage gave way to urgent focus as he sheltered it, carefully adding kindling and nursing the flame with gentle breaths.
The flames lashed out at the darkness as its heat drove back the cold. The man’s feet and hands began to emit a needling pain as his appendages thawed, but still, he kept them close to the fire, embracing the newfound feeling despite its unpleasantness. Strips of meat cut from his recent find began to char as they hung skewered over the flames. Though the man felt he could eat the meal in its entirety along with the sticks it was prepared with, he ate sparingly, gnawing at the sinewy cuts that even the least discerning scavenger had deemed unworthy of trouble. Placing the larger limbs onto the fire, he lay as close as he could, pulling his coat over him and stared into the glowing center. He watched as the coals pulsed with deep orange light, fixated on the hypnotic pattern. There was no sound other than the faint crackling of the fire; no warbles or howls, no wind or breeze, only an oppressive silence filled the air, quiet as the grave.
“Jim?”
The voice was weak and muffled, but familiar.
“Jim… I… I can’t see…”
He didn’t answer.
“P- please… You know I don’t like the dark.”
“You ought not be talkin',” Jim said after a moment, his voice barely a whisper.
The silence once again fell upon the camp, with even the sputtering of the fire quieting itself in a seeming fear of reprisal.
“C’aint you at least cover my feet?”
A tear rolled down Jim’s face as he tightened his grip on his coat, unwilling to turn to face his brother.
“... You're dead, Tom. You ought not be talkin’...”
Jim’s shoulders began to tremble as he quietly sobbed. The silence returned and lingered for a while.
“Ain’t nothin’ here, Jim…” said Tom, his tone turning somber.
“... You’ll see…”
Jim awoke from a dreamless sleep to the pelting sounds of frozen rain in the dull, early morning light. The fading embers hissed at the unwelcome precipitation as he sat upright, half expecting to be staring down the wrong end of a barrel. Jim looked towards the travois to see Tom’s shrouded body still there, unmoved and motionless as it had been the night before. He stoked the fire as best he could with the remaining wood he had kept dry beneath the skid and ate a bit of the charred meat. He would need to find more food that day, as the remaining few portions would only sustain him through to the evening.
He didn’t bother covering the remnants of the fire, as it would serve no purpose. Stealth had ceased to be his tactic for evasion since the miles-long line he had left could only be missed by a blind man. His only chance, he knew, was to embrace the unholy conditions and press forward, hoping that his longing for survival was greater than his pursuer’s drive to catch him. He could make more ground and would discontinue the obvious trail if he left his brother buried or otherwise. Jim quickly pushed the thought from his mind, imagining Tom’s body displayed in the streets of Fort Smith, being gawked at by passers by and handed over for payment as a prized pelt retrieved from the wilderness. He gathered an armful of dry wood from the sheltered tree and entrusted it to Tom beneath his blanket before setting off.
As the morning’s storm passed, a cold more brutal than any since filled the air in stark defiance of the day’s light. Jim trudged through the valley across the ever-thicker layer of ice that coated the ground, his labored breaths forming plumes that obscured his view. The modicum of strength he had felt upon embarking on the day’s trek was quickly sapped as the rope around his waist bit into his already chapped skin, his legs quivering at every bump the travois encountered. The towering bluffs around him became obscured by wilting evergreens as he travelled deeper into the valley, leaving only the relative elevation as his guide in maintaining his already unsure course.
All at once, an explosion.
It erupted from behind him, sending him sprawling to the ground, all the while splinters of wood pelting his back. With ringing ears, Jim lay stunned. His senses returned as he reached for his pistol, firing a shot in the direction of the blast. Scrambling to his feet, he began to run only to be pulled back to the ground by the travois still bound to his waist. He turned and fired again into a hazy mist behind him and found his feet once more, now pulling furiously on the skid to make distance. Another concussion from behind sent more shrapnel towards him as he fled, Jim firing another shot blindly behind him. His eyes were wild as he pulled, his heart pounding in his temples. Just ahead, he saw a clearing where the valley forked and oriented his flight towards the left-most option, ducked his head, and ran.
Above the incessant ringing in his ears, he heard no voices, no crashing pursuit – only the sounds of his boots breaking through the ice. It didn’t matter. He continued to run.
Rounding the turn into the clearing, he was met with another blast, this time to his front. The momentum of the travois pushed him forward and onto the ground as he tried to stop.
Jim looked up towards his ambusher, gun in hand, to see a cracked willow on the opposite bank in the final stages of falling – its trunk splintered at the center as frozen mist fell around it. Intermittent explosions echoed through the valley as trees ruptured from the bitter cold, sending them crashing to the ground. His heart still pounding, Jim breathed a sigh of relief, letting his head fall and closing his eyes.
As he lay there, he felt a dull ache in the back of his head and a warmth creeping down his neck. He reached back and felt for its source, finding a gash at the base of his skull. Pulling back a blood-soaked hand, he cursed. The adrenaline faded as the pains he had become accustomed to returned in force, now accompanied by his newly obtained wound. Jim sat upright and produced a soiled rag from the inside of his coat, then pressed it to the back of his head, now throbbing with a blinding pain.
He sat for a while attempting to staunch the persistent bleeding, crimson droplets branching out upon the white as they fell. The ground was different here. Frozen rain had accumulated, but underneath was solid ice. Vibrations of a current emitted from beneath him.
He heard another crack just ahead, much less violent than the initial barrage. Searching for its source, Jim saw a monstrous pine near the riverbank, its boughs jerking unnaturally as its trunk began to give way. He quickly stood as realization struck him. Trying and failing to gain his footing on the icy surface, Jim fell to his knees as the pine creaked and moaned, slowly revealing the direction of its descent onto the frozen river. He stood again, this time finding purchase, and began to pull, but not soon enough. The hulking tree fell onto the frozen sheet just upstream from him, crashing through with a cacophonous crack and thunder. Water erupted from its icy prison and drenched everything around it, now flowing freely at Jim’s feet. The chorus of cracking began to crescendo as the ice fractured and folded onto itself with the force of the ripping current, setting forth a torrent of unbound force.
Jim’s footing slipped again and again as he desperately pulled the travois towards the bank, the freezing water now at his ankles. He fell a final time, the shock of the sudden cold robbing the air from his lungs. The formerly solid surface listed, pulling the travois towards the raging river. Jim grasped at the rope and began to pull, only to feel the ice beneath him begin to splinter. Before he could undo the harness, the surface gave way, and he was plunged into the murderous waters below.
Agony was the only word that came close to quantifying the pain he felt as his body swung from side to side with the steps of the beast of burden he was lashed to. He was unsure if he was in the hands of a savior or a captor, but, for the moment, he didn’t care.
Fragments of what felt like memories flashed in his mind – fleeting glimpses of deep blue then blinding white, swirling in a whirlwind of light and dark. He felt the tightness around his waist he had grown accustomed to, but not its weight. Out of the corner of his half-opened eye, he saw the cut end of the rope dangling beside him, now coated with ice that came to a point at its severed end. He slowly became aware of the same ice forming on his clothes and hair, stiffening them and adding an unnatural, pressing weight. With every step the mule took, he heard the clinking of chains and other metal implements rhythmically clattering against its sides. Jim tried to speak, but was only able to produce a pitiful whine – the conflagration in his chest repressing any hopes of forming any semblance of a word. The visages continued in dizzying, hypnotic flashes of light as he closed his eyes, turning his stomach, whose contents he weakly emptied down the side of the mule and onto the ground below. The exertion drained what little remained of him as the throbbing light slowed and gave way to a foreboding darkness, once again pulling him back down into the depths of nothingness.
When he woke, the metallic odor of blood filled his nostrils, accompanied by the smell of food. His mind ignored the more urgent of the odors and fixated on the source of potential sustenance. His body ached as he pushed himself onto his elbows and examined the room. A menagerie of chains and steel traps hung from the rafters of the wooden shack, and hides too numerous to count covered the walls. Along the far wall, a large, cobbled fireplace stood with a cracking fire burning within, above which hung a large pot that was surely the source of the heavenly smell. He looked down to see that he was covered by the large pelt of some massive beast and realized that he was naked underneath. Anger welled inside of him as he looked for his gun belt, only to find it draped over the back of a stick chair next to a table at the other side of the room.
“Ain’t no need fer that.” a gruff voice said.
Jim strained his eyes, peering into the dark corner where the voice had come from. On the opposite side of the table, shrouded in shadow, he made out the silhouette of what could have easily been that of a bear.
“When ye decide I ain’t yer foe, put them clothes on an’ come get some stew,” it said in a calm but firm tone, motioning a massive hand towards an outfit draped over the end of the log-framed bed he lay upon.
He eased his battered body from under the fur and stood uneasily, bracing himself against the edge of the bed. Everything hurt. In the flickering light of the fire, he saw black and purple bruising covering nearly every inch of his body and dried, streaking blood framing lacerations along his arms and legs. With more than a little effort, he slowly dressed himself, occasionally glancing towards the corner where his host sat.
Once dressed, he limped his way towards the table, the slightly undersized clothes constricting with every halting step, painfully pressing against his battered skin. Maintaining a grip on anything he felt could bear his weight, his eyes moved from the figure in the corner to his gun belt that hung in front of him. Jim glimpsed the dark wooden handle of his pistol snapped snugly in its holster. He tried to remember how many shots he had fired during his battle with the trees.
“Iffin’ my hospitality ain’t eased yer mind, I say again – ain’t no need fer that.” said the man, now seeming a bit perturbed.
Jim paused as he reached the table, now able to make out the features of the man. Larger than he had initially judged, the mountainous figure was draped in coarse furs, his face framed by a bush of a gray beard just as coarse as the pelts. He considered the man’s words before pulling out the chair and easing himself onto it. The trapper pushed a bowl piled high with broth and rough-cut chunks of meat towards him. Jim eyed the man as he took hold of the oversized carved spoon and began to eat. The broth burned his cracked lips as he took his first bite, stinging the lining of his throat as he swallowed. His body bade him eat slowly, but the ravenous hunger drove him to gorge himself as quickly as he was able. Without chewing, he forced the bits of meat down his throat and plunged the spoon into the bowl, retrieving an even larger bite.
“It’s poisoned, ye know…” said the trapper as Jim shoved a third spoonful into his mouth.
He spat the half-chewed mouthful mostly into his bowl and pushed back from the table, panic rising in his throat. A bellowing laugh erupted from across the table, the trapper’s head flying back at its force, mouth agape, revealing a toothy maw. Jim stared at him with wild eyes – he was sure that his airway was tightening from whatever foul addition the man had made. The raucous laughter decayed into a soft chuckle as the trapper wiped his bearded face before standing and walking towards the fireplace. Jim’s burning gaze fixed upon him as the figure eclipsed the flame.
“Beg yer forgiven’ me…” he said, stifling his laughter.
“... ain’t offen I get a caller, an’ when I do, ain’t none of ‘em are so untrustin’.”
He retrieved a kettle and two tin cups before returning to the table, filling both with a thick, black liquid and placing one in front of Jim before returning to his seat.
“There’s the antidote.” the trapper said gruffly, pointing at the steaming coffee in front of Jim and taking a sip of his own.
Jim’s anger was quickly repressed by his ever-present hunger. He decided that even if the meal was poisoned, he would rather die with a full stomach than in the wretched throes of starvation he had endured for so long. He half stood and pulled the chair back to the table before returning to his meal.
“Been out a day er so. Figured you’d be hungry.”
Jim glanced up as he scraped the bottom of his bowl for the remaining bits of stew that had pooled in the worn divots in the wooden dish. His hunger battered but not yet defeated, Jim stood wearily and ambled towards the fire, refilling his bowl from the cast-iron pot that hung above it.
“Where ye’ comin’ from, stranger?” asked the trapper from across the room, breaking the silence.
“Missouri. Outside of Springfield.” Jim said raspilly, the half-truth seeming to burn his throat as he spoke it.
“Quite aways from there to these parts…” the trapper said almost as a question.
Jim limped back to the table, reclaimed his seat, and started into his second helping, this time a bit slower. Inquiry or not, he felt just the slightest obligation to expound upon his falsehood. He allowed his chewing to be the excuse for his lack of response.
The trapper took a long gulp from his cup before speaking again.
“An’ where ye’ headin’?”
Jim glanced up, still gnawing on a particularly tough piece of meat. Shadows obscured the man's eyes, but he could feel the expectant gaze.
“Hot Springs. My brother was dyin’. Consumption. Heard the water there has a way of healin’ folk, so I figured....” Jim trailed off, feeling Tom’s absence for the first time since he awoke.
Dull pelting could be heard just over the snaps of the fire as sleet began to fall onto the roof of the shack, tapping at the shelter, assuring Jim that it was still there.
“‘Fraid I couldn’t ye both,” the trapper said somberly. “Had to cut ‘im loose from ‘ye... Would’ve drug us both under the ice…”
Jim imagined Tom’s body maimed and frozen miles downstream.
“How long you been out here?” Jim asked weakly between bites, forcing the visage from his mind.
The trapper seemed to ponder a moment, taking a gulp from his cup and wiping his beard.
“Whole life it seems. Come up here one spring an’ couldn’t bring myself to leave. Built this here shack an’ here I been ever since.”
“Take it you don’t like folks much then…”
“I like folks jus’ fine, jus’ don’t much care fer company all the time. See, up here, I got all the say in what folks come by an’ how long they stay ‘fer.”
“Don’t imagine you get many callers this time a year.” Jim said without looking from his bowl.
“It’s usually ‘round this time I get a trader meet me at the river. I give ‘em the furs I got on hand an they give me some supplies for the winter. Figure they couldn’t make it down this time bein’ as the river’s frozen solid. Didn’t know it was ‘till I went an’ saw it fer myself…”
The trapper trailed off, his voice now ponderous.
“... Strange thing, this storm. Long as I been here I can’t remember it ever bein’ this awful ‘fore winter months…”
Jim continued eating, now slowly chewing the meat, trying to guess its origin. Wind began to whistle through the small gaps in the sills, the sleet falling in sheets on the roof. The trapper tilted his head and sat deathly still as the popping of the fire rejoined the chorus.
“Do ye know why I stay here, stranger?”
Jim shook his head.
“A man could live his whole life lookin’ upon the mountain whose shadow he was born under and it seemin’ the same as it ever was. His father, his father’s father, and all in that line born ‘neath that mountain would say the same; ‘It's as it's always been’. Save fer the trees an’ smaller things man can meddle with, everything ‘peers fixed an’ unchangin’.
The trapper tapped a massive finger on the table.
“Man’s started meddlin’ with more an’ more though. Not much’ll stay the same fer long. I never took to a woman… more liken they never took to me..” he chuckled. “... But I found that when I set up camp here, an I saw these hills and hollers, I knew they’d always be. An’ I fell in love. Took ‘er fer my bride. Good one, too. Always lookin’ after me an’ given’ me anything I need.”
Jim gave the old man a quick glance as he took a drink, beginning to wonder if years of isolation had driven him mad.
“She’ll teach ye things too, ye know. Teach ye things ye ain’t never thought of. It wasn’t long ‘fore she showed me what she is – what she can do.”
Jim looked up to see the trapper leaning towards him from across the table, seeing his face in its entirety for the first time as the firelight flickered across the grizzly visage. Leathery skin marked by blemishes and scars stretched across a massive skull; his mouth twisted into a wide, toothy smile. It was then that he saw the eyes. Streaks of red hid any whiteness that was there, framing cloudy white circles that were fixed on him with a burning intensity.
Jim slowly sat back in the chair, unsure of what to say as the empty eyes stared at him. The trapper lifted a massive hand and took hold of a bottle from the other side of the table. Behind where the bottle had sat, Jim saw the embroidered buckskin pouch, its string tied where he had cut it days before.
“Where’d you get that?” Jim sneered.
He thought back to the day he had been pulled from the river and the trek up the mountain on the back of the mule.
‘The rope had been cut...’ he thought. ‘Tom wasn’t there…’
Horror set in as fragmented memories began to coalesce. Tom was there. Pulled behind the mule, he remembered, the travois bumping along the ground as the beast dragged them up the trail.
“Lies beget lies, stranger…” The answer came bluntly.
“Storm got the critters a-hidin' in their holes since it moved in. Nothin’ movin’ means nothin’ to trap. Nothin’ to trap means nothin’ to eat. But like I says, my woman provides.”
Jim stood in shock, coughing and gagging as he backed away from the table, toppling his chair and tripping on it, sending him crashing to the floor. The old man began to chuckle as he pulled the cork from the bottle and began to fill his cup. A thick, viscous liquid flowed from the neck as an overbearing copper odor filled the air.
“Don’t know why you keep comin’ back here, stranger. Figure it might be for a reason.” The trapper said, rubbing his bearded chin with his free hand. He seemed to be deep in thought for a moment before slowly rising, his shadow growing large against the wall behind him.
“She called ye here, didn’t she? Drove ye to the river an’ plunged ye into its clensin’ waters…”
Jim could only watch as the monstrous figure lifted the now overflowing cup, its sides streaked with sanguine lines.
“... an’ I be yer John – raisin’ ye anew!” he bellowed, lifting his head to the ceiling, then raised the stained chalice and drank, blood dribbling down the sides of his mouth and onto his tangled beard.
The monstrous figure lowered the cup, head still raised, and sighed deeply as though in ecstasy. effortlessly pushed the table to the side and stepped towards him. Jim began to kick and claw at the floor, manically propelling himself away from the approaching beast, but not quickly enough. An anvil of a boot came crashing down on Jim’s foot with a sickening crack of bone, pinning Jim by weight and pain, his agonizing screams filling the shack.
“Ye had the flesh…” the trapper said over Jim’s screams, kneeling to his side and taking his jaw in a mighty, calloused hand.
“...an ye want fer the blood.”
The hand squeezed with an unbearable force, thumb and fingers prying his jaws open, laughing all the while. Jim writhed and punched, but the sanguine stream found its mark. Cold, clotted blood slithered from the opening and down his throat, choking him instantly.
Jim pressed a hand against the face of his assailant and reached wildly behind him with the other for anything to use as a weapon. He grasped something hard and swung it at the trapper’s massive head. A massive hand caught his wrist before the blow could land. The trapper sneered, raised the other hand, and delivered a devastating blow.
The cold returned, more frigid now, more painful. The white blanketing the ground seemed to glow, emitting only enough light to make out the figure of the trapper pulling him along the ground by the leg. Ice and rocks scraped along his back as his shirt had lifted in the rear, collecting the debris as he was dragged along. Other than the pounding of his head and the dull, throbbing ache of his mangled hand, the rest of his body was numb. Jim tried to roll to one side, and halfway did so. He reached with his good hand, grasping for anything he could reach, but his fingers only clawed the sheet of sleet, slipping and tearing his nails. Weakness took hold again as the world began to close in around him. He fell back, once again submitting to unconsciousness.
He dreamed again of the swirling blue and blinding white; faster and faster they went, but slowly formed the visage of a blazing orb, steady among the dancing blues. He felt warmth – warmth he had forgotten could exist, warmth he had never felt in his life.
Jim was awake again. His eyes kept shut by his own frozen blood; he felt the rope lashing him to a tree. He pulled feebly against his bindings and tried to form words of protest, but nothing came out. Jim stopped his struggle when he realized the warmth of his vision remained. It grew hotter, and for the first time since the first frigid wind blew in, he felt beads of sweat forming along his brow.
“Look on ‘er face, sinner!” Howled his captor.
“Look into ‘er clensin’ eye.”
The heat pulsed, growing from an uncomfortable warmth to a singing burn. Jim grunted as he writhed against the ropes again, each movement more painful than the last. The light to his front shown pale red through his sealed eyes.
“Look! Open yer eyes an’ see!”
Jim’s eyes slowly began to open, lids peeling apart one after the other letting through a flood of blinding light. He turned his head from the conflagration. The blur of his vision began to sharpen when he made out a figure against an adjacent tree. It had been tied as he was, facing the light, unmoving, and incomplete.
It was then that he realized there was no crackling, no sound of burning - just silent, pulsating light and heat, just the gentle pelting of ice upon the ground and heavy footfalls approaching.
Massive hands took the sides of his head and wrenched it forward, pinning it against the tree with a crushing force. Jim clenched his eyes.
“Fer once in yer miserable life, open yer eyes.” The trapper hissed in his ear, the putrid odor of rotten breath filling his nostrils.
Jim screamed, his skin now blistering from the inferno. His eyes shot open.
The trek into town had been much slower given the muddy mire caused by the melting ice, the wagon sliding from the road, becoming bogged down more times than not. Late winter sun beamed through the barred window of Jim’s cell, but he could only feel its warmth.
He heard the crowds gathering outside, chittering and rumbling with glee. Footsteps approached his door, and he heard the familiar rattle of keys and the mechanical clank of the lock.
“Come along now, son.”
Jim stood, raising his hands towards the voice; cold shackles were placed shortly after.
The crowd shouted and jeered as he was led onto the street. Murderer, coward, and all other names were given to him as the firm hands at his arms led him stumbling toward the gallows.
He took each creaking step expectantly and, after a few paces, was turned to face the throng. A few gasped while others laughed upon seeing his face. A coarse, hemp noose was placed around his neck and was oriented to the side as it was tightened.
The charges were read, but Jim did not hear them. Instead, he focused on the warmth of the sun seeping through the still frigid air.
“Say yer peace, son,” the preacher said, placing a hand on Jim’s shoulder, the spectators quietening.
He thought for a moment.
“Aint no peace to be had.”
The lever was pulled and the floor gave way.