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Display a printable version Dark North Moon
He crouched, watching the setting sun through unblinking eyes. The beard which covered his mouth, his throat, the tensed muscle cradling his collarbone, was freshly combed with the ribs of a salmon. He wore no shirt against the growing chill of oncoming winter, wore no shoes to protect his feet from the sharp stones and pine needles which scattered themselves across the mountain's slopes. Only a ragged pair of trousers, stolen long since from some unfortunate's campsite, tucked roughly around his waist in case he came across another hiker. It had happened. Oh yes, more than once it had happened. The sun reflected itself in his eyes, as he forced himself to stare directly after it, to watch closely as the universe's greatest fire was swallowed and defeated by the powers of the night, by the powers of the wind, the powers of the ceasing sky. He had known fire - a great fire, in which he had lost the first man he ever loved. There had not been time to complete their bond, to take him utterly within, to open completely to the slick feel of flesh pounding against the roof of his mouth, sliding along the length of his throat, taking him completely to keep him from further disappointment and harm. Every sunset, he stared into the fire, willing Gordon Velander to walk out of the haze and lie with him once more, to bare his breast and open his heart to his willing mouth. Every sunset, he watched the fire sink and cease, knowing that no fire could ever rise against him again. He would drown fire with his own blood ere it took anyone from him, ever again. The sun sank, leaving him triumphant, and alone. These few moments he feared and treasured, the utter still of the mountains in evening, the breaths of solitude between the longing after Gordon and the coming of his friends. They arrived as they always did, waiting for the death of the sun, the sudden breeze from the north heralds to their presence. He stood, raising his arms to embrace the wind, his chest tanned between rope-crossed muscles. He had sung, once, a song of the heart and the wind; but they cared not for the voices of men, craving silence as surely as they craved the hearts of their slain. They were formless and deformed, dark and silvered in the young moon's light. They flashed in the air as salmon in some great ethereal river, flickering their sharp fins and claws against their beloved's face. Some held back, high in the skies, their shapes too large and ungainly to approach the embrace of earth and pine; but the manifold were young and delicious of spirit, slicing playfully against his throat with the all the malice of newborn kittens. It did him no harm, but for his love and the show of play he clutched at his throat, making muted choking sounds as he spasmed in mockery of death, setting the spirit-swarms into raptures of silent delight. He clutched for the stones beneath his hands, falling to one knee, and one brave wind-walker dashed forward to rip its ineffective talons across his hamstring. Throwing his head back as if to howl, he clutched at the leg and twisted, his body shaking both with mirth and effort as he danced alone beneath the boughs. Sprawling finally on his back, he leaned his face to look up into the stars, seeing them only barely through the leviathan wisps which hovered far above him. "Please," he whispered, and then, remembering the last camper's plea, "Mother." The wendigo shimmered with approval, as children before a circus clown might fall to their applause, and he went utterly limp before slowly raising his head once more, leaning on his left arm as a tiny chill wind nestled against his beard, seeking the warmth of blood which it knew it must find beneath the bronzed skin. "No, little one," he whispered, "Not dead yet. Only the dead, for only a minute. My heart is for you only so long as it keeps the time." He sat regardless, permitting the creature to curl beneath his beard, settling next to the pulse alongside his throat. With a shrug, he stood, stretched his back, and looked to the sky. "Show me, and I will serve you," he whispered. The massive forms began to float on the wind, moving to the east. He walked carefully, following in the darkness with no fear of stumbling but ever wishing to move silently, to avoid snapping a twig or dislodging some errant stone beneath his feet. Any such sound might set a hunter alert, or frighten a solitary hiker before the proper time for fear. They were more canny here, in the mountains, than they had been in the plains. He had crossed, hungry and friendless, from the Farm to the mountains and through a great deal of those before finding the wendigo. The people of the Midwest were cautious, but easily set at ease, even by one who looked half-ragged. Here he must move more carefully, for many who came to the mountains came armed, and set their camps in numbers. He had witnessed rallies of men in secret groves, and bands of men drinking on the roadsides. Women came less frequently, but came in numbers as well, numbers hostile to men solitary or in mass. Those who came alone came ever armed - save one, who had been searching for something which might have been the wendigo. He had found them too late, and only through extraordinary efforts, something he thought the fellow might be happy for in his eternal rest. It was the solitaries the wendigo preferred, those who had gone hungry or threatened to do so. Whose camps had been raided by wildlife or whose fishing had been poor. Their flesh was far from that of the Farm, fed on corn and on others of their kind; but he had grown to the taste of suffering under the tender care of Gordon in the Pen. He did not complain, and aside from Gordon's absence he was content. The wendigo had stopped up ahead, and the small one stirred beneath his beard. He crouched, moving more carefully in this hour. He did not like to draw the process out, but scanning the campsite was always wise. It was hardly any camp at all. No tent stood, no fire was built. Only a single off-road vehicle, pristine on its top and windows if muddied along wheel and sides. It did not idle, but he caught slight strains of music from within, a song he dimly remembered from the days when such things mattered. He found that it irritated him now, grown used to the silence of his friends. There was enough room to skirt around, to watch every side of the vehicle. No tent - no cooler. No fire pit or grill. Nothing at all to indicate that the person within had any purpose high in the mountains, here far from the lights of the city. Perhaps he was lost, or confused. Perhaps he had grown angry, or sad, and driven without thinking. He was within, the music said as much; and perhaps he waited for morning to walk in search of gas or rescue. It was perfect, he realized, and he chucked a finger beneath the little wendigo's form. It rustled in pleasure, biting at his finger with meaningless jaws. "Only the dead," he repeated in a hoarse whisper, and lowered himself to his belly to crawl closer to the truck. He was halfway there when the driver's side door opened, and the sudden flare of a cigarette lighter caught his eyes. He flinched - furious with himself for doing so - and sprang to his feet. The driver's tone carried amusement, not fear; and the tiny wendigo swiftly shimmered beneath the locks of his hair, cowering at the base of his skull where the pulse was thinner but still evident. "Easy, George," said the driver. "I know you." George stopped, looking to all sides of the truck. The wendigo covered it, darting beneath its frame, whipping around its wheels, setting the cigarette smoke to dancing in the breeze. But they did not go in, and they did not settle on the dark stranger's shoulders. "That's not my name," said George. "I know," replied Agam, "It's mine. And I have something you want."
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| Last updated on 3/14/2008 10:58:43 PM by Jennifer Brozek |
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| Other documents at this level: 25 - Missives 26 - Minding 28 - Sunday Bloody Sunday 29 - Away 30 - Twining 31 - Hands of Glory 32 - All Hands |
Night came early, so near the border, so close to the sky. Here in the mountain passes, high above the fields and roads and cities of men, the night came ever early. The light remained longer than those to the east might say, its salmon-streaks swept without beginning and without end, seemingly near enough to reach forth and touch the light, to reach forth and snatch the descending sun in the palm of a brave man's hand.