Short Stories I have written: Page 1
I hope to post 1 of them a week.
The following is an excerpt from my novel No Trace (this was originally written for a contest but became included in No Trace)
Courage
By G. A. Schumacher
He rose from the chair he had plopped in, fully recovered from the desperate run he had made. Time for him was short, they would be coming … of that there was little doubt. This contingency had not been planned for so he was ill prepared and would have to move quickly. He gathered his clothes, thinking on his feet as he hustled about the tiny place. It had been a good home, held great memories but now they meant nothing, the place meant nothing, would hold only sorrow if he stayed.
But he couldn’t stay could he? Circumstances dictated otherwise.
Competent hands grabbed important things, bypassing the worthless or mundane. There would be fingerprints, he could not avoid that and the police would identify him regardless so why worry about them. He needed only the better clothing, the sentimental items and of course anything with real value. And the guns, he had to take the guns.
The bag of cash lay strewn on the floor where it had fallen when he entered the suite. Unopened, the amount it contained still unknown, he ignored it for the moment despite the fact that it was the single foreign item in the room. Cold anger clutched at him, at times overriding the hurt. Why hadn’t he stayed? Could he have helped, made things easier? He recalled the confusion, the bright lights, the noise. The final image of Karen swept into his head.
Remorse edged the anger aside. He might have fought back, hung in the shadows and returned fire. He was good, his shooting first class, he might have killed some of them. Perhaps even the one that had killed her.
Yes, he would have liked that, to have killed her killer. Then what? There were far too many to fight. He could never have won. Should he have stayed and died too? But he knew the answer before he asked the question. Not for Karen. Perhaps not for anyone. In his place she would have run, as he had. Karen would not have died for him.
But Karen had died, perhaps not to save him but she had been with him, along for the thrill, for the excitement rather than the reward. The robbery had been his idea, his plan from the beginning even though she’d loved it … taken to it immediately. Yes Karen had expanded on the details, done the research and nurtured the idea until the plan appeared fool proof.
A Jewellery store and a Bank. Side by side. In West Edmonton Mall. Hit them both. The bank for him, the jewellery store for her. What a gutsy girl to do that, full of life and energy.
Not any more.
A Shopping mall filled with Christmas shoppers all milling about looking for last moment gifts. Cash registers filled with the days take. Credit card receipts … leave em. Checks … ditto. It had to be done at days end but before the throngs of people vacated the premises. That was important. Maximise the returns; minimise the risks.
In and out and then blend with the crowd. What an idea it had seemed when conceived. Wear convertible clothing … a reversible jacket … one pair of slacks over another. Do a quick change, flip the jacket around, scrap the top layer of slacks, and then arm in arm just like so many other couples they would simply stroll away with the take.
He had this false beard … to obscure his age. It would be worn for only a few minutes.
As for Karen, she had a wig. Short red hair … to cover her long sandy tresses. It always amazed him; how she did it. Talk about a chameleon effect. But that was the key wasn’t it? The plan seemed perfect, priceless, no way would it fail.
But somehow, it had. Luck had not been with them. Incredible how fate intervened and now Karen was gone, taken from him in a heartbeat, lost to him forever. He had not been aware that he loved her until now. How strange it seemed … looking back. Tears flooded his eyes, coming in an unexpected rush. All he had was a memory. Oh God, what a memory.
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His mind raced back, reviewing the last half hour of his life … the final half hour of hers.
The sound of alarms clanging returned to him. Excitement, yelling. Karen calling his name, her voice filled with panic. Other voices, louder then hers, hurtled at her from some place beyond his sight, commanding her to stop.
He could still see her in his mind, running, running hard across the open area, looking back, fear in her eyes. That and excitement brightening the irises creating the illusion of glittering gems. Blonde hair swirling around, her head turning as the deafening report of the guns shattered the calm. Then she was falling, falling ever so slowly it seemed, reaching out with her empty hand toward him, her own pistol clattering against the polished granite of the floor.
Eyes filled with shock sought him out. Her mouth opened, working wordlessly, straining to say some final thing, only no sound came. Or perhaps there had been sound, a word or two, overwhelmed by the continuing crash of deafening gunfire. Her limp body crumpled and slid on the slick surface but not before he had seen the light of life fade … like a candle flickers and dies. And so she died, on the cool surface, her body riddled with bullets, sacrificed … to save him … whether intentional or not.
Now it was his turn to run, slipping and sliding across the same waxy granite, away from the shooters, twisting, dodging, always contriving to keep the huge stone pillars between him and a similar fate. Lead fragments reached out for him. Bullets splattered against walls and disintegrated with the ricochets that occurred yet none touched him.
The sack of money slowed him but he could not drop it. She had given her life for that sack. He owed her that much, only hoped that the amount might justify the cost, yet in his heart he knew that it never could … never would … and that whatever the outcome of this day it would haunt him to his grave.
Outside now, the wide glass door closing softly behind him he sprinted like an Olympian, feet pounding, heart pumping. He might have held them, his pursuers, had he stopped and fired in their direction but that was not his way. The pistol he carried served only as a last ditch defence. They were coming, boiling out from the open door like wasps angry at having their nest disturbed, intent on stopping him. The sound of sirens screaming, soft at first, grew in volume. Tires squealing a black and white rounded the corner, red and blue roof mounted lights ablaze, the sweeping colours reflecting from the snow-covered Parkade.
They were his saviours though they couldn’t know that then, wouldn’t admit to it had they known. The occupants burst forth from the car, charging out each door, unwittingly cutting between the runner and his pursuers. Yelling at him to stop, brandishing their weapons the pair shielded him from shots that might have been fired by the sharpshooter behind. It was all he needed.
Now safe temporarily, shielded from view by rows of parked autos he really opened his stride. Shoppers laden with bags and parcels ran interference without ever knowing how they contributed as he headed for the down ramp. Almost upon it, more screaming sirens pierced the night. More flashing lights, racing engines, and another police cruiser circled its way against the flow of traffic up toward him. He had no place left to run except for over the side. Pausing he watched, waited. To drop to the pavement on the road below could be fatal at worst, crippling at best.
Then his chance came. In a flash he catapulted over the edge and onto the roof of a passing van. The roof, glittering with the reflection of myriad Christmas lights, caved under the impact yet cushioned his fall. The driver, startled, stopped in panic but it mattered not for by then the runner had gained his feet and raced along the bare pavement, running smoothly once again, legs pumping with unbridled power, his body unscathed, unfettered and on his way to escape.
And so he managed to escape. Pursuit stalled as they looked for him on the upper level threading their way through row after row of cars and pickup trucks, searching under and between but finding nothing. It took twenty minutes before the report of the van with the caved in roof worked its way up to the hunters. By then he was gone and those that hunted him knew they had failed for the moment.
All was not lost for them. They had a body and the body had much to tell. It would be only a matter of time until they picked up the trail once again.
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Bundled clothes, hastily grabbed from drawers and closet, tossed hurriedly into a single case; so much he couldn’t take. No time to pick and choose. The laptop he threw on top of it all, covering the pistols and boxes of ammunition. Whatever had to remain behind worried him. So much abandoned, lost, loaded with clues to aid his enemies, for they were his enemies. He surveyed the room a final time, then picked up the bag with his ill-gotten gains only to change his mind and shake the contents into a conveniently grabbed sports bag. Better to leave the canvass sack that had held the money. No … better to take it … he couldn’t decide. No links with the past, nothing at least to tie him definitively to the robbery.
As an afterthought he grabbed a long unburned candle. She’d loved candles, scented, unscented, it mattered not for the flickering flame was what held the greatest appeal. Quickly he raised the top of the range to snuff the pilot light then lit the candle and placed it on the table. One, two, three … each burner on, gas hissing a soft gentle whistle. That would take care of the fingerprints, the incidentals he could not have otherwise eradicated in a month of cleaning.
He doused the light and closed the door, wondering as he did, how long would it take for the fumes to reach an explosive concentration. Then Robert Earl Stenger headed for his car and, he hoped, for oblivion.
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This is a story I had published in Primitive Archer magazine some years back.
The story that follows is a blend, a merging of fact with fiction. The events that occur in 1999 are true, the places exist today, the names other than for the fictional characters Uluk and his two friends are the actual names of the places mentioned. All exist in the northwest corner of British Columbia and the Yukon territories. All of the information is available from the following web sites, including pictures and even a crude map. The latter part of the story is purely conjecture.
http://www.explorenorth.com/library/weekly/aa082599.htm
Kwaday Dän Ts’inchi: By Garry Schumacher
Somewhere, suspended in time, buried under tons of bluish clear ice lies a body. Defying the natural order of decomposition, sealed in its icy tomb the body waits like an unopened time capsule. Decades tick by, first one then another until finally the decades add up to centuries and still the body lies where it has rested, seemingly forever.
The seasons come and go. The winter snows driven by the harsh blizzards replace that portion of the ice cap lost each summer to the long clear days of bright cheery sun. Then comes the years of El Nino to the Pacific Northwest. During this period the rays of the summer sun beat unmercifully onto the glacial surface. Winter, affected by the warming ocean currents holds back the precipitation. What snow does fall to the high altitudes is quickly melted and gone with the unusual warm spell carried to the high country by the warm dry winds that flow eastward across the mountain ranges.
The glacier is in trouble; it deteriorates rapidly. The snowy cap melts away completely exposing the bluish ice once hundreds of feet thick. Rivulets form from the melt, merging together to cut deeper and deeper into the surface of the glacier, wearing away, changing the surface of it. The forces of nature are hard at work yet the body still lies in wait, high up on an exposed ridge near to the top of the glacier.
It’s August 14th now, 1999. Three hunters move across the glacial cap in British Columbia's Tatshenshini-Alsek Park. All three of the men are teachers from the Nelson, British Columbia area. Just two short weeks away from the start of the fall school season, nearly at the end of their long summer break, the hunters are on a quest for Dall sheep in the remote wilderness park (special permits are available for hunting in the park). Stopping every few minutes as they progress along the ridge they glass the exposed rocky peaks and windswept outcroppings hoping for a sighting of their quarry. One of the men slightly winded from the long steady climb pauses to pick up a piece of wood that has been freed from the ice by the late summer sun. As he picks it up he remarks to his companions how it resembles a walking stick. They examine it closely for wood is an unusual find high up on the glacier, far from its natural sources.
Casting his eyes about, another of the other hunters spots a smaller item. It too is made of wood, but more importantly, there is the wrap of sinew that binds the item to a short sharp stone blade. This is a cutting tool; a crude yet effective stone knife. Suspecting now, that they have made a discovery of tremendous importance, the three men look around excitedly, lusting to find even more artifacts. Within moments they make an even greater, more sinister, discovery.
“Hey guys! Look at this. I think it’s a body!” And the three of them stare in amazement at the object frozen in the ice.
“Geez! I think it is. Look there. That’s gotta be a hand.” And they each peer down, straining to see through the hazy ice, struck silent now by the impact of what they have just discovered.
“I don’t see the head!” The silence is broken. “There is no head!”
“No. ---------- No! But it’s got to be a body. Look there. That’s clothing. I’m sure of it.”
They analyze what they have found nearly exposed on the surface of the glacier. Clearly the hunt must be put on hold. This is a discovery that must be reported. Reluctant to leave but anxious to tell the world, they abandon the site. Facing them is a two-day hike back to civilization, where they report what they have found to the Beringia center at Whitehorse in the Yukon Territories.
Slowly the wheels of government roll into motion. A team of archeologists, a forensic anthropologist, and a glaciologist assemble to handle the recovery process. The R.C.M. Police force has to be called in. After all, it is a body frozen in the ice. Finally after days of preparation, on Aug 22/23 of 1999, the headless body of Kwaday Dän Sinchi is recovered from its centuries old, icy tomb.
Kwaday Dän Sinchi is the name, an aboriginal name, given at this time to the body that has at long last been liberated from the icy grip of the huge glacier. Meaning, “long ago person found”, the name suits the body today. Freed from the clutches of the glacier, peaceful sleep will not be the immediate destiny for Kwaday Dän Sinchi. Before he can be allowed to lay at rest once again, undisturbed through eternity he must undergo a series of tests and examinations for now we want to learn from him what he has to tell.
Science tells us that Kwaday Dän Sinchi has lain in his icy grave for 550 years. Committed to his glacial tomb even before Columbus set foot upon the Americas, Kwaday Dän Sinchi tells his story as scientists pick and probe at his remains, ravenously seeking what information he can provide. When they are finally done, they will have his story, at least what they can piece together from the body, the clothes and the artifacts. Yet for all they learn, it will not be enough. For all that the body and items can tell us they can never reveal to us just how he got there in the glacier, who he was, how he lived, nor what he left behind.
Here then, is the rest of the story:
He had come to Yakutat, and long had he lingered there with the people. For Uluk the traveler, Yakutat had been the highlight of his journey, the shining star among the villages that welcomed strangers to their lands. The Salmon eaters were a friendly carefree lot and he had delayed his departure for as long as he had dared. Too long actually, and he would not have stayed so long had two of his new friends Acutay and Whoilay not volunteered to brave the wrath of the angry seas and ferry him down the coast in their open dugout. It would take a week, perhaps longer, depending on the winds and the deep swells of the open ocean for the strong young men to paddle down the coast then penetrate to the depths of the long fjord that would take him to the mouth of the Tatshenshini River.
Fall was fast approaching and with the fall would come the harsh winds, the rains and the high surf. They might be forced to lie up along the coast for days at a stretch, waiting for the winds to abate and the seas to calm. Both Acutay and Whoilay knew this well, better than did Uluk for their lives had been spent living along the north west coast of America. Still they had not hesitated and their paddles cut soundlessly through the water, their seasoned arms propelling the dugout swiftly through the waves. Near to the shoreline they traveled, close enough that the roar of the surf crashing on the shore was constant and close enough that they might see the coastal bears, the river otters and the abundance of other wildlife that chanced near to the shore.
Soon the trio found themselves deep within the fjord and at long last at the mouth of the Tatshenshini River. Here came the parting of the ways, the goodbyes that each had postponed for as long as they could. Uluk was returning to his homeland, heading eastward first, then North across the glacier and the mountain peaks following a little-used pathway that would take him back to the rocky shore of Dezadeash Lake. Well provisioned for his journey, equipped with many pounds of smoked and dried fish thanks to the generosity of his hosts; Uluk was free to travel quickly. There would be no need for him to hunt for food. He wore his last pair of new moccasins carried with him from his home and for protection from the rains he had his prized hat, tightly woven from cedar roots. This hat he had traded most of his atlatl darts for as well as the spare atlatl he had carried with him.
The coastal forest was lush, the undergrowth thick. Travel by foot along the river was slow and also very dangerous. Huge bears prowled the banks and waded the rapids scooping out the spawning salmon, catching the slow and the unwary, gorging on the rich flesh seemingly insatiable in their need to layer their bodies with fat for the long season of hibernation that lay ahead. These bears harbored no fear of man, they seldom saw one and when they did, the man creatures stepped aside allowing the mighty bear to have his way.
Uluk unerringly knew the direction that he must travel so it was a simple matter for him to avoid walking the banks of the river, wiser too for rivers don’t run straight and following the bank of the Tatshenshini River would add miles and days to his travel. Now that he was in the forest again, afoot in the land, he felt at home and anxious to reach his destination, to see his people, and to taste once again the caribou and the moose that sustained them through the long cold winters.
The days passed by quickly and he climbed slowly in elevation never far from the river. Game was plentiful though he need not hunt for the supply of salmon that he carried in his backpack was all he needed. The salmon, rich in nutrients provided all that was necessary to maintain his strength and though growing tired of the flavor Uluk was reluctant to pause long enough to hunt. Finally, he reached the place where he must abandon the river valley entirely for the deep narrow gorge where the river channeled through the mountain was impossible for a man on foot to travel. Here was the beginning of the greatest obstacle to crossing the mountain range. For the next miles he must negotiate the steep rocky, mountain terrain slick with moisture from the rains that constantly pounded the western slope. Worse yet, this late in the season, the rains that slicked the rocky slope down near the base could turn to freezing sleet and snow well before he reached the top.
He camped that evening not far above the base, still well below the tree line. Able to coax a fire with his fire bow, Uluk lolled, beneath a rocky overhang sheltered from the steady drizzle that slowly saturated the soil and vegetation beyond the fires glow. As he relaxed, he peeled the bark from the long straight stick that he had cut earlier in the day. The stick would aid his walk across the glacier that waited high up on the mountain. Tired of the daily fare of smoked fish, he ate little, saving the remainder for the next few days upon the trail. In the morning he would begin the difficult part of his ascent. For the moment he would relax enjoying the warmth of the fire. He tossed on a few more sticks to gorge the flames, relishing the radiated warmth on his skin. He removed his heavy coat and lay upon it basking in the heat, drying his leggings. The steam rose from his moccasins, and he felt the heat work its way through the heavy leather into his soles.
Lulled by the crackling flames that drowned the steady drip of water from the rocks and limbs out in the forest, Uluk slept. Tired from the days of difficult walking, his was the sleep of the exhausted, a dreamless, sound and motionless sleep. While he slept the drizzle softened then stopped. The westerly winds far above, broke apart the dense gray clouds scattering them eastward, clearing the sky in preparation for the dawning of a bright and sunny day.
Suddenly his eyes snapped open. It was well into the night. The firelight was gone. Something had awakened him. Uluk remained motionless, instantly alert and listening, tuned to ferret out the soft night sounds. Save for the sighing of the wind whispering through the cedars, there was no sound at first. Then at last he heard it. A snuffling, accompanied by a scuffling noise. Something large moved just outside his shelter, beyond the protection of the overhanging ledge. A tremor of fear rattled him. No time to fan life into the fire, to coax back the strong orange flames. It was too dark, the danger too near, there was naught to do but run. And so he did. Grabbing at the pack that contained his belongings Uluk leapt from the shelter and scurried away along the rock wall heading up the slope.
Behind him he heard the loud grunt, the scratch of sharp claws that tore at the earth and rocks. If he had paused to listen he would have heard the sniffing, the coughing as the large bear tore apart his camp, ripping through his coat. His coat! The coat that he had slept on. The warm heavy coat that he had abandoned in his haste to escape.
Uluk ran, surprised that he could see so well, realizing just then the brightness of the full autumn moon. He dodged past boulders, weaving through the trees and the branches that reached out to claw at him in his haste. Behind him he heard no sound. Beyond the harsh ragged puff of panicked breath and the soft pounding of his feet upon the earth there was nothing. He stopped running; turning back he listened, straining to hear above the pounding of his heart. Nothing! Had the bear followed? Or was the bear still at his night camp? There was little there to hold the bear. Just his coat! His coat! He would need that coat. Somehow, someway he would have to recover the coat. Surprisingly he still had his hat. The hat, woven from cedar roots remained perched upon his head.
How close till dawn? He glanced up, trying to see the sky through the branches, yet too little of it was visible for him to read the time. What to do? Should he go back? Better to wait till morning. Would the bear stick around the camp? Not likely, Uluk thought. Once the bear found the camp to be empty, he should be moving on. Then he heard the sound that chilled him to the core: the loud woof, the challenge from the bear. It was close! The bear was following!
What should he do? He could hardly stand his ground. Certainly he had three darts left, and his atlatl. They could kill the bear, but slowly, unless he made a perfect shot. Anything less than a perfect heart shot would mean that the bear could live for several hours before dying. He heard the woof again, now sounding closer than before. Which way? He wasn’t certain. He searched the trees as best he could in the dark. If he could locate a large tree with low branches, he might climb above the bear. That would work but only if the bear was one of the large coastal bears, the grizzled bears.
He started up a promising tree. Grasping the bottom branch he swung himself above the ground reaching to the next branch straining to gain height. If the bear was not a grizzled bear! If the bear was a black bear! Uluk chose not to think of that. Surely it had to be a grizzled bear, a large coastal bear, huge in bulk, powerful and deadly and because of its very bulk, unable or at least unlikely to climb trees.
A harsh snort sounded loud just under him, lending strength to his arms to propel him upward to yet another higher branch. He heard the bear claw at the tree, felt the tree shake as the monstrous brute stood and shook the tree to its very roots when it pounded in rage at the trunk. It was a grizzled bear. A huge one! Definitely much to large to easily climb such a tree. Just a yard above its highest reach Uluk paused and looked down through the darkness at the enraged mass beneath him, smelling the rankness of the bear. He tore off a small limb and hurled it at the brute, defying it, cursing it. The huge beast dropped down to all fours and peered upwards through the branches, its weak eyes searching for his prey. Then the bear started slowly circling the tree. Uluk watched the dark shape as around and around the bear circled, pausing at times to stare up into the darkness among the thick branches. Then suddenly, the bear was gone. No longer under the tree, the bear had disappeared into the forest.
Silence reigned. Except for the low moan of the wind through the branches, driven by the occasional gust, there was no other sound. Like a silent spirit, the bear had gone. But was it gone? Did it wait in silence just beyond view? There was no way that Uluk could know, not now, not in the darkness. He shivered in the dampness of the cool predawn air, feeling the wetness of the rain soaked tree as his body pressed against the scaly trunk. He had no choice. He would have to endure the chill, the cold wind until the dawn. He would have to wait for morning light.
It had been light for some time before Uluk dared to descend from the tree. As softly and noiselessly as possible he climbed down, shivering violently from the chilling hours spent in the tree. Momentarily he paused on the lowest branch, listening, looking about, searching the undergrowth for signs of danger. There was nothing, no sounds beyond the chatter of the birds, the distant bark of a squirrel from somewhere back along the trail. He dropped to the ground. Desperate to retrieve the coat abandoned at his camp as he had fled in panic, he armed his atlatl, nocking a long stone tipped dart into position on the throwing stick. A poor defense against the large bear, it was all that he had to bolster his courage as he crept noiselessly down toward the place where his camp had been.
The shelter under the rock outcrop was silent, still cloaked in shadow, hours away from the warming rays of the sun. The circle of stones in which he had built his fire was torn asunder. The bear had clawed and scratched the ashes obliterating nearly all evidence of the fire. Tattered remnants of the heavy coat, torn now into ragged scraps lay scattered through the rocks. The grizzled bear had destroyed his coat, ripped it to shreds, chewed and likely devoured pieces of the hide. All that remained untouched was the stick, his fresh cut walking stick.
Wracked with disappointment, Uluk raised his gaze to the sky, knowing how serious his plight was at this moment. The sky was clear, the day would be warm. If he hurried, if he was quick and traveled late. He could make it. He could cross the glacier and descend into the forest on the other side. If he kept moving he could endure the cold, create his own warmth and once over the top and back into the forest he could get a fire started. There would be dead dry branches under the thick spruce trees and plenty of “old mans beard” to start a fire. It could be done. He, Uluk, could do it.
He hurried now, eating on some of the dried fish as he walked, trotting when he could, wherever the slope was shallow enough to allow it. Out in the open as he approached the packed ice, the warmth of the sun felt good, drying his clothing as he moved. The cool northwesterly wind had less bite once his clothes had dried and he perspired slightly with the exertion of the pace he forced himself to maintain. There was danger if he hurried once out upon the glacier. Hidden crevices bridged with layered snow posed deadly traps. If he slipped into one, there would be no escape. This he knew and he would probe carefully with his walking stick as he moved across the surface. He would need the daylight to make it safely across. He glanced at the sky, concerned, gauging the amount of daylight left. Once again he picked up the pace, forcing himself to move even faster.
Then he was on the glacier, moving quickly. There were places where the snow had been swept free from the icy surface. Here he could see any danger that lay ahead and could move with good speed. Wherever there were dips and depressions his travel was slow and tortuous. These areas required careful probing as he moved, reluctant to risk the fall into a hidden crevice. In the distance he could see the crest of the massive glacier. Soon, he told himself, soon he would be on the downward side. From there it was not so far to the forest. He realized that he had made good time, better than he had hoped. Ahead, he could see the fresh blanket of snow that covered the glacial cap, a minor obstacle that would slow him for a short time. Anxiously he glanced once again at the sky.
Finally at last he neared the crest. He was pleased with his progress, realizing he was nearly to the finish. He would have time to pause, to take a short rest, maybe grab a bite of salmon and then he would be off again. He stretched his arms, flexing his shoulder blades to relieve the knot between them that had grown harder the past hour. It would be nice to shed the pack for a few moments. Uluk slipped it from his shoulders then setting the pack on the snow; he turned for a moment wanting to catch the view of the land behind him as it dropped away to the fjord and the ocean beyond. The view from here was breathtaking. He savored the moment, ignoring the sharp bite of the wind, enjoying the bubbles of autumn colors interspersed among the distant evergreens. In a moment he would be over the crest and once over the glacier itself would cut the sharpness from the wind.
Rested and anxious to be on his way Uluk hoisted the pack and turned to glance back down the trail from where he had come. His heart skipped; first one beat then another. He could not believe his eyes, yet he felt the warmth of panic wash over him. Not one hundred yards from him was a great huge grizzled bear, and nose down, the bear followed on Uluk’s tracks!
The bear moved slowly, not from caution but from obvious distress. The great bear was suffering, wounded, injured in some accident or the victim of a terrible fight. The bear spotted Uluk and seemed to pick up his pace as he surged forward with anticipation. This had to be the bear that had chased him from his bed during the night. It was easy to see why for the bear was in poor condition, unable to fend for himself among the other bears. And now the bear was fast approaching for an easy kill.
Uluk was lost. He could not run for to run was to court death in one of the hidden crevices of the glacier. His only option was to stand and fight. Uluk nocked a dart to the atlatl, preparing himself for the throw. A good direct hit, right in the heart, that was what he would need. If he had a fire he could ward the animal off with a burning brand. But there was no fire, no burning brand. He stood there poised, waiting, prepared to take the shot, and then he threw. The dart arched through the air. Uluk was good with the atlatl but the distance was far and the bear was lumbering forward certain of his prey.
The dart struck the mighty bear, sliding along the massive head. Then the stone point cut deep into the shoulder of the bear. The huge grizzled bear shrieked in rage and angrily tore at the shaft with blunted teeth, wrenching it from the muscle of the shoulder. Not good enough!
Uluk nocked his second dart. The bear was moving forward again, this time bellowing loudly in his rage, creating a fearsome roar. Uluk waited, trembling, he must hit just below the chin so that the feathered shaft could slip between the bear’s front shoulders and penetrate to the heart of the beast. This dart must fly true!
Then the dart was on its way. He watched the feathers flash as the dart sped through the air. It too missed the mark for the bear had slowed briefly from his forward dash. The atlatl dart ripped through the flesh of the great bears leg, opening a wound, causing a crimson splash of blood to spray out onto the fresh whiteness of the snow.
“No good! No good!” His mind screamed silently. He had just the one dart left and now the bear was closing on him. Uluk nocked the dart to the atlatl for this last time. He must wait for the bear to make his final charge then he must lunge to the side and launch the dart into the ribs and lungs of the mighty bear. Then he would run, back along the way he had come. He must hold out long enough for the stone point on the dart to do its work, to slash through the lungs, collapsing them, suffocating the bear. Then, if his shot was true. If the gods favored him today. Just maybe he might survive!
The great bear was nearly on him. He could see the vapor from its hot breath as the bear rushed toward the man creature oblivious to the pain from the atlatl darts. Uluk shifted his weight, stepping sideways slightly, preparing to make that hard sideways lunge and launch the shaft. He would only have the one chance; the timing must be perfect. The bear closed the distance. Uluk shifted right a little farther!
Suddenly the glacier crumbled. The snow surface, frozen and thawed for so many times through the past summer, gave way. Uluk felt his body falling. He threw the shaft, fighting for his balance as he felt his body plunging down into the crevice. The bear lunged by but Uluk did not see. He was suspended in the crevice just below the surface of the glacier, wedged tightly into the ice. He could hear the roar of the mighty bear as the beast stood above him. He did not see the wicked swipe of the powerful paw that slapped along the side of his head. He heard only the crack made by the breaking of his neck. Then silence, a black numbing silence.
The huge bear had won, or so it thought. The man creature lay dead before him, yet he could barely reach it. He pawed at it with his long claws extended. No good. It would not move. Then laying on its belly the wise old bear gripped the man creature’s head between his teeth, wrenching savagely in his attempt to withdraw the limp body from the crevice. The bear twisted and pulled, straining to remove the body yet he could not. Harder now the bear pulled, exerting his maximum effort. With a loud ripping sound the head tore free, separating from the body, bright crimson blood splashing on the ice to mingle with the blood that still drained from the wounds on the great bear. That would have to do. He would settle for the head, a meager meal at best yet the rest was beyond his reach. Limping painfully, blood still draining from where the atlatl darts had torn his flesh the huge bear continued on, passing over the crest, carrying his prize with him. Now to find a place to curl up and lick his wounds, for he was old and hurt, and he was tired.
The sun slowly set over the Tatshenshini-Alsek glacier. Even before the sun had completely gone, the westerly wind was herding in the dark billowy clouds that had formed out over the ocean. On the low land near to the base of the mountain, a soft rain had started falling once again. Higher, among the peaks and across the glacier it changed from rain to snow, huge damp flakes of soft white snow. Buffeted by the winds the snow swirled and spun across the surface of the glacier, polishing the exposed ice, filling in the dips, the cracks and the crevices.
Courage
By G. A. Schumacher
He rose from the chair he had plopped in, fully recovered from the desperate run he had made. Time for him was short, they would be coming … of that there was little doubt. This contingency had not been planned for so he was ill prepared and would have to move quickly. He gathered his clothes, thinking on his feet as he hustled about the tiny place. It had been a good home, held great memories but now they meant nothing, the place meant nothing, would hold only sorrow if he stayed.
But he couldn’t stay could he? Circumstances dictated otherwise.
Competent hands grabbed important things, bypassing the worthless or mundane. There would be fingerprints, he could not avoid that and the police would identify him regardless so why worry about them. He needed only the better clothing, the sentimental items and of course anything with real value. And the guns, he had to take the guns.
The bag of cash lay strewn on the floor where it had fallen when he entered the suite. Unopened, the amount it contained still unknown, he ignored it for the moment despite the fact that it was the single foreign item in the room. Cold anger clutched at him, at times overriding the hurt. Why hadn’t he stayed? Could he have helped, made things easier? He recalled the confusion, the bright lights, the noise. The final image of Karen swept into his head.
Remorse edged the anger aside. He might have fought back, hung in the shadows and returned fire. He was good, his shooting first class, he might have killed some of them. Perhaps even the one that had killed her.
Yes, he would have liked that, to have killed her killer. Then what? There were far too many to fight. He could never have won. Should he have stayed and died too? But he knew the answer before he asked the question. Not for Karen. Perhaps not for anyone. In his place she would have run, as he had. Karen would not have died for him.
But Karen had died, perhaps not to save him but she had been with him, along for the thrill, for the excitement rather than the reward. The robbery had been his idea, his plan from the beginning even though she’d loved it … taken to it immediately. Yes Karen had expanded on the details, done the research and nurtured the idea until the plan appeared fool proof.
A Jewellery store and a Bank. Side by side. In West Edmonton Mall. Hit them both. The bank for him, the jewellery store for her. What a gutsy girl to do that, full of life and energy.
Not any more.
A Shopping mall filled with Christmas shoppers all milling about looking for last moment gifts. Cash registers filled with the days take. Credit card receipts … leave em. Checks … ditto. It had to be done at days end but before the throngs of people vacated the premises. That was important. Maximise the returns; minimise the risks.
In and out and then blend with the crowd. What an idea it had seemed when conceived. Wear convertible clothing … a reversible jacket … one pair of slacks over another. Do a quick change, flip the jacket around, scrap the top layer of slacks, and then arm in arm just like so many other couples they would simply stroll away with the take.
He had this false beard … to obscure his age. It would be worn for only a few minutes.
As for Karen, she had a wig. Short red hair … to cover her long sandy tresses. It always amazed him; how she did it. Talk about a chameleon effect. But that was the key wasn’t it? The plan seemed perfect, priceless, no way would it fail.
But somehow, it had. Luck had not been with them. Incredible how fate intervened and now Karen was gone, taken from him in a heartbeat, lost to him forever. He had not been aware that he loved her until now. How strange it seemed … looking back. Tears flooded his eyes, coming in an unexpected rush. All he had was a memory. Oh God, what a memory.
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His mind raced back, reviewing the last half hour of his life … the final half hour of hers.
The sound of alarms clanging returned to him. Excitement, yelling. Karen calling his name, her voice filled with panic. Other voices, louder then hers, hurtled at her from some place beyond his sight, commanding her to stop.
He could still see her in his mind, running, running hard across the open area, looking back, fear in her eyes. That and excitement brightening the irises creating the illusion of glittering gems. Blonde hair swirling around, her head turning as the deafening report of the guns shattered the calm. Then she was falling, falling ever so slowly it seemed, reaching out with her empty hand toward him, her own pistol clattering against the polished granite of the floor.
Eyes filled with shock sought him out. Her mouth opened, working wordlessly, straining to say some final thing, only no sound came. Or perhaps there had been sound, a word or two, overwhelmed by the continuing crash of deafening gunfire. Her limp body crumpled and slid on the slick surface but not before he had seen the light of life fade … like a candle flickers and dies. And so she died, on the cool surface, her body riddled with bullets, sacrificed … to save him … whether intentional or not.
Now it was his turn to run, slipping and sliding across the same waxy granite, away from the shooters, twisting, dodging, always contriving to keep the huge stone pillars between him and a similar fate. Lead fragments reached out for him. Bullets splattered against walls and disintegrated with the ricochets that occurred yet none touched him.
The sack of money slowed him but he could not drop it. She had given her life for that sack. He owed her that much, only hoped that the amount might justify the cost, yet in his heart he knew that it never could … never would … and that whatever the outcome of this day it would haunt him to his grave.
Outside now, the wide glass door closing softly behind him he sprinted like an Olympian, feet pounding, heart pumping. He might have held them, his pursuers, had he stopped and fired in their direction but that was not his way. The pistol he carried served only as a last ditch defence. They were coming, boiling out from the open door like wasps angry at having their nest disturbed, intent on stopping him. The sound of sirens screaming, soft at first, grew in volume. Tires squealing a black and white rounded the corner, red and blue roof mounted lights ablaze, the sweeping colours reflecting from the snow-covered Parkade.
They were his saviours though they couldn’t know that then, wouldn’t admit to it had they known. The occupants burst forth from the car, charging out each door, unwittingly cutting between the runner and his pursuers. Yelling at him to stop, brandishing their weapons the pair shielded him from shots that might have been fired by the sharpshooter behind. It was all he needed.
Now safe temporarily, shielded from view by rows of parked autos he really opened his stride. Shoppers laden with bags and parcels ran interference without ever knowing how they contributed as he headed for the down ramp. Almost upon it, more screaming sirens pierced the night. More flashing lights, racing engines, and another police cruiser circled its way against the flow of traffic up toward him. He had no place left to run except for over the side. Pausing he watched, waited. To drop to the pavement on the road below could be fatal at worst, crippling at best.
Then his chance came. In a flash he catapulted over the edge and onto the roof of a passing van. The roof, glittering with the reflection of myriad Christmas lights, caved under the impact yet cushioned his fall. The driver, startled, stopped in panic but it mattered not for by then the runner had gained his feet and raced along the bare pavement, running smoothly once again, legs pumping with unbridled power, his body unscathed, unfettered and on his way to escape.
And so he managed to escape. Pursuit stalled as they looked for him on the upper level threading their way through row after row of cars and pickup trucks, searching under and between but finding nothing. It took twenty minutes before the report of the van with the caved in roof worked its way up to the hunters. By then he was gone and those that hunted him knew they had failed for the moment.
All was not lost for them. They had a body and the body had much to tell. It would be only a matter of time until they picked up the trail once again.
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Bundled clothes, hastily grabbed from drawers and closet, tossed hurriedly into a single case; so much he couldn’t take. No time to pick and choose. The laptop he threw on top of it all, covering the pistols and boxes of ammunition. Whatever had to remain behind worried him. So much abandoned, lost, loaded with clues to aid his enemies, for they were his enemies. He surveyed the room a final time, then picked up the bag with his ill-gotten gains only to change his mind and shake the contents into a conveniently grabbed sports bag. Better to leave the canvass sack that had held the money. No … better to take it … he couldn’t decide. No links with the past, nothing at least to tie him definitively to the robbery.
As an afterthought he grabbed a long unburned candle. She’d loved candles, scented, unscented, it mattered not for the flickering flame was what held the greatest appeal. Quickly he raised the top of the range to snuff the pilot light then lit the candle and placed it on the table. One, two, three … each burner on, gas hissing a soft gentle whistle. That would take care of the fingerprints, the incidentals he could not have otherwise eradicated in a month of cleaning.
He doused the light and closed the door, wondering as he did, how long would it take for the fumes to reach an explosive concentration. Then Robert Earl Stenger headed for his car and, he hoped, for oblivion.
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This is a story I had published in Primitive Archer magazine some years back.
The story that follows is a blend, a merging of fact with fiction. The events that occur in 1999 are true, the places exist today, the names other than for the fictional characters Uluk and his two friends are the actual names of the places mentioned. All exist in the northwest corner of British Columbia and the Yukon territories. All of the information is available from the following web sites, including pictures and even a crude map. The latter part of the story is purely conjecture.
http://www.explorenorth.com/library/weekly/aa082599.htm
Kwaday Dän Ts’inchi: By Garry Schumacher
Somewhere, suspended in time, buried under tons of bluish clear ice lies a body. Defying the natural order of decomposition, sealed in its icy tomb the body waits like an unopened time capsule. Decades tick by, first one then another until finally the decades add up to centuries and still the body lies where it has rested, seemingly forever.
The seasons come and go. The winter snows driven by the harsh blizzards replace that portion of the ice cap lost each summer to the long clear days of bright cheery sun. Then comes the years of El Nino to the Pacific Northwest. During this period the rays of the summer sun beat unmercifully onto the glacial surface. Winter, affected by the warming ocean currents holds back the precipitation. What snow does fall to the high altitudes is quickly melted and gone with the unusual warm spell carried to the high country by the warm dry winds that flow eastward across the mountain ranges.
The glacier is in trouble; it deteriorates rapidly. The snowy cap melts away completely exposing the bluish ice once hundreds of feet thick. Rivulets form from the melt, merging together to cut deeper and deeper into the surface of the glacier, wearing away, changing the surface of it. The forces of nature are hard at work yet the body still lies in wait, high up on an exposed ridge near to the top of the glacier.
It’s August 14th now, 1999. Three hunters move across the glacial cap in British Columbia's Tatshenshini-Alsek Park. All three of the men are teachers from the Nelson, British Columbia area. Just two short weeks away from the start of the fall school season, nearly at the end of their long summer break, the hunters are on a quest for Dall sheep in the remote wilderness park (special permits are available for hunting in the park). Stopping every few minutes as they progress along the ridge they glass the exposed rocky peaks and windswept outcroppings hoping for a sighting of their quarry. One of the men slightly winded from the long steady climb pauses to pick up a piece of wood that has been freed from the ice by the late summer sun. As he picks it up he remarks to his companions how it resembles a walking stick. They examine it closely for wood is an unusual find high up on the glacier, far from its natural sources.
Casting his eyes about, another of the other hunters spots a smaller item. It too is made of wood, but more importantly, there is the wrap of sinew that binds the item to a short sharp stone blade. This is a cutting tool; a crude yet effective stone knife. Suspecting now, that they have made a discovery of tremendous importance, the three men look around excitedly, lusting to find even more artifacts. Within moments they make an even greater, more sinister, discovery.
“Hey guys! Look at this. I think it’s a body!” And the three of them stare in amazement at the object frozen in the ice.
“Geez! I think it is. Look there. That’s gotta be a hand.” And they each peer down, straining to see through the hazy ice, struck silent now by the impact of what they have just discovered.
“I don’t see the head!” The silence is broken. “There is no head!”
“No. ---------- No! But it’s got to be a body. Look there. That’s clothing. I’m sure of it.”
They analyze what they have found nearly exposed on the surface of the glacier. Clearly the hunt must be put on hold. This is a discovery that must be reported. Reluctant to leave but anxious to tell the world, they abandon the site. Facing them is a two-day hike back to civilization, where they report what they have found to the Beringia center at Whitehorse in the Yukon Territories.
Slowly the wheels of government roll into motion. A team of archeologists, a forensic anthropologist, and a glaciologist assemble to handle the recovery process. The R.C.M. Police force has to be called in. After all, it is a body frozen in the ice. Finally after days of preparation, on Aug 22/23 of 1999, the headless body of Kwaday Dän Sinchi is recovered from its centuries old, icy tomb.
Kwaday Dän Sinchi is the name, an aboriginal name, given at this time to the body that has at long last been liberated from the icy grip of the huge glacier. Meaning, “long ago person found”, the name suits the body today. Freed from the clutches of the glacier, peaceful sleep will not be the immediate destiny for Kwaday Dän Sinchi. Before he can be allowed to lay at rest once again, undisturbed through eternity he must undergo a series of tests and examinations for now we want to learn from him what he has to tell.
Science tells us that Kwaday Dän Sinchi has lain in his icy grave for 550 years. Committed to his glacial tomb even before Columbus set foot upon the Americas, Kwaday Dän Sinchi tells his story as scientists pick and probe at his remains, ravenously seeking what information he can provide. When they are finally done, they will have his story, at least what they can piece together from the body, the clothes and the artifacts. Yet for all they learn, it will not be enough. For all that the body and items can tell us they can never reveal to us just how he got there in the glacier, who he was, how he lived, nor what he left behind.
Here then, is the rest of the story:
He had come to Yakutat, and long had he lingered there with the people. For Uluk the traveler, Yakutat had been the highlight of his journey, the shining star among the villages that welcomed strangers to their lands. The Salmon eaters were a friendly carefree lot and he had delayed his departure for as long as he had dared. Too long actually, and he would not have stayed so long had two of his new friends Acutay and Whoilay not volunteered to brave the wrath of the angry seas and ferry him down the coast in their open dugout. It would take a week, perhaps longer, depending on the winds and the deep swells of the open ocean for the strong young men to paddle down the coast then penetrate to the depths of the long fjord that would take him to the mouth of the Tatshenshini River.
Fall was fast approaching and with the fall would come the harsh winds, the rains and the high surf. They might be forced to lie up along the coast for days at a stretch, waiting for the winds to abate and the seas to calm. Both Acutay and Whoilay knew this well, better than did Uluk for their lives had been spent living along the north west coast of America. Still they had not hesitated and their paddles cut soundlessly through the water, their seasoned arms propelling the dugout swiftly through the waves. Near to the shoreline they traveled, close enough that the roar of the surf crashing on the shore was constant and close enough that they might see the coastal bears, the river otters and the abundance of other wildlife that chanced near to the shore.
Soon the trio found themselves deep within the fjord and at long last at the mouth of the Tatshenshini River. Here came the parting of the ways, the goodbyes that each had postponed for as long as they could. Uluk was returning to his homeland, heading eastward first, then North across the glacier and the mountain peaks following a little-used pathway that would take him back to the rocky shore of Dezadeash Lake. Well provisioned for his journey, equipped with many pounds of smoked and dried fish thanks to the generosity of his hosts; Uluk was free to travel quickly. There would be no need for him to hunt for food. He wore his last pair of new moccasins carried with him from his home and for protection from the rains he had his prized hat, tightly woven from cedar roots. This hat he had traded most of his atlatl darts for as well as the spare atlatl he had carried with him.
The coastal forest was lush, the undergrowth thick. Travel by foot along the river was slow and also very dangerous. Huge bears prowled the banks and waded the rapids scooping out the spawning salmon, catching the slow and the unwary, gorging on the rich flesh seemingly insatiable in their need to layer their bodies with fat for the long season of hibernation that lay ahead. These bears harbored no fear of man, they seldom saw one and when they did, the man creatures stepped aside allowing the mighty bear to have his way.
Uluk unerringly knew the direction that he must travel so it was a simple matter for him to avoid walking the banks of the river, wiser too for rivers don’t run straight and following the bank of the Tatshenshini River would add miles and days to his travel. Now that he was in the forest again, afoot in the land, he felt at home and anxious to reach his destination, to see his people, and to taste once again the caribou and the moose that sustained them through the long cold winters.
The days passed by quickly and he climbed slowly in elevation never far from the river. Game was plentiful though he need not hunt for the supply of salmon that he carried in his backpack was all he needed. The salmon, rich in nutrients provided all that was necessary to maintain his strength and though growing tired of the flavor Uluk was reluctant to pause long enough to hunt. Finally, he reached the place where he must abandon the river valley entirely for the deep narrow gorge where the river channeled through the mountain was impossible for a man on foot to travel. Here was the beginning of the greatest obstacle to crossing the mountain range. For the next miles he must negotiate the steep rocky, mountain terrain slick with moisture from the rains that constantly pounded the western slope. Worse yet, this late in the season, the rains that slicked the rocky slope down near the base could turn to freezing sleet and snow well before he reached the top.
He camped that evening not far above the base, still well below the tree line. Able to coax a fire with his fire bow, Uluk lolled, beneath a rocky overhang sheltered from the steady drizzle that slowly saturated the soil and vegetation beyond the fires glow. As he relaxed, he peeled the bark from the long straight stick that he had cut earlier in the day. The stick would aid his walk across the glacier that waited high up on the mountain. Tired of the daily fare of smoked fish, he ate little, saving the remainder for the next few days upon the trail. In the morning he would begin the difficult part of his ascent. For the moment he would relax enjoying the warmth of the fire. He tossed on a few more sticks to gorge the flames, relishing the radiated warmth on his skin. He removed his heavy coat and lay upon it basking in the heat, drying his leggings. The steam rose from his moccasins, and he felt the heat work its way through the heavy leather into his soles.
Lulled by the crackling flames that drowned the steady drip of water from the rocks and limbs out in the forest, Uluk slept. Tired from the days of difficult walking, his was the sleep of the exhausted, a dreamless, sound and motionless sleep. While he slept the drizzle softened then stopped. The westerly winds far above, broke apart the dense gray clouds scattering them eastward, clearing the sky in preparation for the dawning of a bright and sunny day.
Suddenly his eyes snapped open. It was well into the night. The firelight was gone. Something had awakened him. Uluk remained motionless, instantly alert and listening, tuned to ferret out the soft night sounds. Save for the sighing of the wind whispering through the cedars, there was no sound at first. Then at last he heard it. A snuffling, accompanied by a scuffling noise. Something large moved just outside his shelter, beyond the protection of the overhanging ledge. A tremor of fear rattled him. No time to fan life into the fire, to coax back the strong orange flames. It was too dark, the danger too near, there was naught to do but run. And so he did. Grabbing at the pack that contained his belongings Uluk leapt from the shelter and scurried away along the rock wall heading up the slope.
Behind him he heard the loud grunt, the scratch of sharp claws that tore at the earth and rocks. If he had paused to listen he would have heard the sniffing, the coughing as the large bear tore apart his camp, ripping through his coat. His coat! The coat that he had slept on. The warm heavy coat that he had abandoned in his haste to escape.
Uluk ran, surprised that he could see so well, realizing just then the brightness of the full autumn moon. He dodged past boulders, weaving through the trees and the branches that reached out to claw at him in his haste. Behind him he heard no sound. Beyond the harsh ragged puff of panicked breath and the soft pounding of his feet upon the earth there was nothing. He stopped running; turning back he listened, straining to hear above the pounding of his heart. Nothing! Had the bear followed? Or was the bear still at his night camp? There was little there to hold the bear. Just his coat! His coat! He would need that coat. Somehow, someway he would have to recover the coat. Surprisingly he still had his hat. The hat, woven from cedar roots remained perched upon his head.
How close till dawn? He glanced up, trying to see the sky through the branches, yet too little of it was visible for him to read the time. What to do? Should he go back? Better to wait till morning. Would the bear stick around the camp? Not likely, Uluk thought. Once the bear found the camp to be empty, he should be moving on. Then he heard the sound that chilled him to the core: the loud woof, the challenge from the bear. It was close! The bear was following!
What should he do? He could hardly stand his ground. Certainly he had three darts left, and his atlatl. They could kill the bear, but slowly, unless he made a perfect shot. Anything less than a perfect heart shot would mean that the bear could live for several hours before dying. He heard the woof again, now sounding closer than before. Which way? He wasn’t certain. He searched the trees as best he could in the dark. If he could locate a large tree with low branches, he might climb above the bear. That would work but only if the bear was one of the large coastal bears, the grizzled bears.
He started up a promising tree. Grasping the bottom branch he swung himself above the ground reaching to the next branch straining to gain height. If the bear was not a grizzled bear! If the bear was a black bear! Uluk chose not to think of that. Surely it had to be a grizzled bear, a large coastal bear, huge in bulk, powerful and deadly and because of its very bulk, unable or at least unlikely to climb trees.
A harsh snort sounded loud just under him, lending strength to his arms to propel him upward to yet another higher branch. He heard the bear claw at the tree, felt the tree shake as the monstrous brute stood and shook the tree to its very roots when it pounded in rage at the trunk. It was a grizzled bear. A huge one! Definitely much to large to easily climb such a tree. Just a yard above its highest reach Uluk paused and looked down through the darkness at the enraged mass beneath him, smelling the rankness of the bear. He tore off a small limb and hurled it at the brute, defying it, cursing it. The huge beast dropped down to all fours and peered upwards through the branches, its weak eyes searching for his prey. Then the bear started slowly circling the tree. Uluk watched the dark shape as around and around the bear circled, pausing at times to stare up into the darkness among the thick branches. Then suddenly, the bear was gone. No longer under the tree, the bear had disappeared into the forest.
Silence reigned. Except for the low moan of the wind through the branches, driven by the occasional gust, there was no other sound. Like a silent spirit, the bear had gone. But was it gone? Did it wait in silence just beyond view? There was no way that Uluk could know, not now, not in the darkness. He shivered in the dampness of the cool predawn air, feeling the wetness of the rain soaked tree as his body pressed against the scaly trunk. He had no choice. He would have to endure the chill, the cold wind until the dawn. He would have to wait for morning light.
It had been light for some time before Uluk dared to descend from the tree. As softly and noiselessly as possible he climbed down, shivering violently from the chilling hours spent in the tree. Momentarily he paused on the lowest branch, listening, looking about, searching the undergrowth for signs of danger. There was nothing, no sounds beyond the chatter of the birds, the distant bark of a squirrel from somewhere back along the trail. He dropped to the ground. Desperate to retrieve the coat abandoned at his camp as he had fled in panic, he armed his atlatl, nocking a long stone tipped dart into position on the throwing stick. A poor defense against the large bear, it was all that he had to bolster his courage as he crept noiselessly down toward the place where his camp had been.
The shelter under the rock outcrop was silent, still cloaked in shadow, hours away from the warming rays of the sun. The circle of stones in which he had built his fire was torn asunder. The bear had clawed and scratched the ashes obliterating nearly all evidence of the fire. Tattered remnants of the heavy coat, torn now into ragged scraps lay scattered through the rocks. The grizzled bear had destroyed his coat, ripped it to shreds, chewed and likely devoured pieces of the hide. All that remained untouched was the stick, his fresh cut walking stick.
Wracked with disappointment, Uluk raised his gaze to the sky, knowing how serious his plight was at this moment. The sky was clear, the day would be warm. If he hurried, if he was quick and traveled late. He could make it. He could cross the glacier and descend into the forest on the other side. If he kept moving he could endure the cold, create his own warmth and once over the top and back into the forest he could get a fire started. There would be dead dry branches under the thick spruce trees and plenty of “old mans beard” to start a fire. It could be done. He, Uluk, could do it.
He hurried now, eating on some of the dried fish as he walked, trotting when he could, wherever the slope was shallow enough to allow it. Out in the open as he approached the packed ice, the warmth of the sun felt good, drying his clothing as he moved. The cool northwesterly wind had less bite once his clothes had dried and he perspired slightly with the exertion of the pace he forced himself to maintain. There was danger if he hurried once out upon the glacier. Hidden crevices bridged with layered snow posed deadly traps. If he slipped into one, there would be no escape. This he knew and he would probe carefully with his walking stick as he moved across the surface. He would need the daylight to make it safely across. He glanced at the sky, concerned, gauging the amount of daylight left. Once again he picked up the pace, forcing himself to move even faster.
Then he was on the glacier, moving quickly. There were places where the snow had been swept free from the icy surface. Here he could see any danger that lay ahead and could move with good speed. Wherever there were dips and depressions his travel was slow and tortuous. These areas required careful probing as he moved, reluctant to risk the fall into a hidden crevice. In the distance he could see the crest of the massive glacier. Soon, he told himself, soon he would be on the downward side. From there it was not so far to the forest. He realized that he had made good time, better than he had hoped. Ahead, he could see the fresh blanket of snow that covered the glacial cap, a minor obstacle that would slow him for a short time. Anxiously he glanced once again at the sky.
Finally at last he neared the crest. He was pleased with his progress, realizing he was nearly to the finish. He would have time to pause, to take a short rest, maybe grab a bite of salmon and then he would be off again. He stretched his arms, flexing his shoulder blades to relieve the knot between them that had grown harder the past hour. It would be nice to shed the pack for a few moments. Uluk slipped it from his shoulders then setting the pack on the snow; he turned for a moment wanting to catch the view of the land behind him as it dropped away to the fjord and the ocean beyond. The view from here was breathtaking. He savored the moment, ignoring the sharp bite of the wind, enjoying the bubbles of autumn colors interspersed among the distant evergreens. In a moment he would be over the crest and once over the glacier itself would cut the sharpness from the wind.
Rested and anxious to be on his way Uluk hoisted the pack and turned to glance back down the trail from where he had come. His heart skipped; first one beat then another. He could not believe his eyes, yet he felt the warmth of panic wash over him. Not one hundred yards from him was a great huge grizzled bear, and nose down, the bear followed on Uluk’s tracks!
The bear moved slowly, not from caution but from obvious distress. The great bear was suffering, wounded, injured in some accident or the victim of a terrible fight. The bear spotted Uluk and seemed to pick up his pace as he surged forward with anticipation. This had to be the bear that had chased him from his bed during the night. It was easy to see why for the bear was in poor condition, unable to fend for himself among the other bears. And now the bear was fast approaching for an easy kill.
Uluk was lost. He could not run for to run was to court death in one of the hidden crevices of the glacier. His only option was to stand and fight. Uluk nocked a dart to the atlatl, preparing himself for the throw. A good direct hit, right in the heart, that was what he would need. If he had a fire he could ward the animal off with a burning brand. But there was no fire, no burning brand. He stood there poised, waiting, prepared to take the shot, and then he threw. The dart arched through the air. Uluk was good with the atlatl but the distance was far and the bear was lumbering forward certain of his prey.
The dart struck the mighty bear, sliding along the massive head. Then the stone point cut deep into the shoulder of the bear. The huge grizzled bear shrieked in rage and angrily tore at the shaft with blunted teeth, wrenching it from the muscle of the shoulder. Not good enough!
Uluk nocked his second dart. The bear was moving forward again, this time bellowing loudly in his rage, creating a fearsome roar. Uluk waited, trembling, he must hit just below the chin so that the feathered shaft could slip between the bear’s front shoulders and penetrate to the heart of the beast. This dart must fly true!
Then the dart was on its way. He watched the feathers flash as the dart sped through the air. It too missed the mark for the bear had slowed briefly from his forward dash. The atlatl dart ripped through the flesh of the great bears leg, opening a wound, causing a crimson splash of blood to spray out onto the fresh whiteness of the snow.
“No good! No good!” His mind screamed silently. He had just the one dart left and now the bear was closing on him. Uluk nocked the dart to the atlatl for this last time. He must wait for the bear to make his final charge then he must lunge to the side and launch the dart into the ribs and lungs of the mighty bear. Then he would run, back along the way he had come. He must hold out long enough for the stone point on the dart to do its work, to slash through the lungs, collapsing them, suffocating the bear. Then, if his shot was true. If the gods favored him today. Just maybe he might survive!
The great bear was nearly on him. He could see the vapor from its hot breath as the bear rushed toward the man creature oblivious to the pain from the atlatl darts. Uluk shifted his weight, stepping sideways slightly, preparing to make that hard sideways lunge and launch the shaft. He would only have the one chance; the timing must be perfect. The bear closed the distance. Uluk shifted right a little farther!
Suddenly the glacier crumbled. The snow surface, frozen and thawed for so many times through the past summer, gave way. Uluk felt his body falling. He threw the shaft, fighting for his balance as he felt his body plunging down into the crevice. The bear lunged by but Uluk did not see. He was suspended in the crevice just below the surface of the glacier, wedged tightly into the ice. He could hear the roar of the mighty bear as the beast stood above him. He did not see the wicked swipe of the powerful paw that slapped along the side of his head. He heard only the crack made by the breaking of his neck. Then silence, a black numbing silence.
The huge bear had won, or so it thought. The man creature lay dead before him, yet he could barely reach it. He pawed at it with his long claws extended. No good. It would not move. Then laying on its belly the wise old bear gripped the man creature’s head between his teeth, wrenching savagely in his attempt to withdraw the limp body from the crevice. The bear twisted and pulled, straining to remove the body yet he could not. Harder now the bear pulled, exerting his maximum effort. With a loud ripping sound the head tore free, separating from the body, bright crimson blood splashing on the ice to mingle with the blood that still drained from the wounds on the great bear. That would have to do. He would settle for the head, a meager meal at best yet the rest was beyond his reach. Limping painfully, blood still draining from where the atlatl darts had torn his flesh the huge bear continued on, passing over the crest, carrying his prize with him. Now to find a place to curl up and lick his wounds, for he was old and hurt, and he was tired.
The sun slowly set over the Tatshenshini-Alsek glacier. Even before the sun had completely gone, the westerly wind was herding in the dark billowy clouds that had formed out over the ocean. On the low land near to the base of the mountain, a soft rain had started falling once again. Higher, among the peaks and across the glacier it changed from rain to snow, huge damp flakes of soft white snow. Buffeted by the winds the snow swirled and spun across the surface of the glacier, polishing the exposed ice, filling in the dips, the cracks and the crevices.
Let's try a shorter story.
A Blind man's walk: G Schumacher
So I am blind. So what? My eyes cannot see but the world around me is vibrant and alive. I know it, do you? Do you hear the sprinkler running in the neighbors yard? Or is the sound of it washed away by the trilling of the birds that busily search for insects in the nearby foliage. I know they’re there. My senses are keen so I hear them clearly. Do you even notice?
Tap. Tap. Tap. My cane rattles along, testing the curb as I walk, waving back and forth to check for obstructions in my path. I drag the cane against the curb to verify that I am where I think I am on the sidewalk. For a brief moment I regret my lack of vision, for my nose has picked up the odor of flowers from a nearby fruit tree. Wouldn’t it be delightful if I could see the blossoms? There is another fragrance on the breeze too, one I cannot at first decipher, tantalizing, seductive. I raise my head and sniff not unlike a wild dog searching for the origin but the breeze is vague and the odor frustratingly subtle. Then it is gone, vanished from the air, leaving me puzzled as to its origin.
Still moving forward but slowly, I almost forget my mission, overwhelmed as I am by the proliferation of smells and sounds from around me. The sounds of traffic I ignore. For me they hold no interest except for the occasional siren in the distance. The sirens pique my curiosity for I am just like you, sometimes so intrigued that I am unaware that I cannot actually see.
“Hey old man.” The high pitch of a woman’s voice shatters my reverie. “Watch you don’t smack me with that stick.”
I detect the air of amusement in her tone. She is laughing as she speaks, her voice like sensual music to my ear. She is close. She is tall also for a woman. I know that from the direction of the sound. I wonder if she is shapely too. She sounds delightful and triggers my momentary interest but I don’t speak though I think that I would like her.
Self-consciousness keeps me mute, afraid to talk. I might say something stupid, or that sounds stupid. I taste the bitter tang of disappointment on my tongue, wishing for a moment I could be what I am not. The air currents are once again alive with that irresistible smell and I waver for an instant.
The breeze shifts away then swings back to me for another moment, the perfume stronger now, more tempting. Tap. Tap. Tap. I move on, disgruntled with my cowardice but satisfied at least that I have discovered the source of that delightful fragrance.
A Blind man's walk: G Schumacher
So I am blind. So what? My eyes cannot see but the world around me is vibrant and alive. I know it, do you? Do you hear the sprinkler running in the neighbors yard? Or is the sound of it washed away by the trilling of the birds that busily search for insects in the nearby foliage. I know they’re there. My senses are keen so I hear them clearly. Do you even notice?
Tap. Tap. Tap. My cane rattles along, testing the curb as I walk, waving back and forth to check for obstructions in my path. I drag the cane against the curb to verify that I am where I think I am on the sidewalk. For a brief moment I regret my lack of vision, for my nose has picked up the odor of flowers from a nearby fruit tree. Wouldn’t it be delightful if I could see the blossoms? There is another fragrance on the breeze too, one I cannot at first decipher, tantalizing, seductive. I raise my head and sniff not unlike a wild dog searching for the origin but the breeze is vague and the odor frustratingly subtle. Then it is gone, vanished from the air, leaving me puzzled as to its origin.
Still moving forward but slowly, I almost forget my mission, overwhelmed as I am by the proliferation of smells and sounds from around me. The sounds of traffic I ignore. For me they hold no interest except for the occasional siren in the distance. The sirens pique my curiosity for I am just like you, sometimes so intrigued that I am unaware that I cannot actually see.
“Hey old man.” The high pitch of a woman’s voice shatters my reverie. “Watch you don’t smack me with that stick.”
I detect the air of amusement in her tone. She is laughing as she speaks, her voice like sensual music to my ear. She is close. She is tall also for a woman. I know that from the direction of the sound. I wonder if she is shapely too. She sounds delightful and triggers my momentary interest but I don’t speak though I think that I would like her.
Self-consciousness keeps me mute, afraid to talk. I might say something stupid, or that sounds stupid. I taste the bitter tang of disappointment on my tongue, wishing for a moment I could be what I am not. The air currents are once again alive with that irresistible smell and I waver for an instant.
The breeze shifts away then swings back to me for another moment, the perfume stronger now, more tempting. Tap. Tap. Tap. I move on, disgruntled with my cowardice but satisfied at least that I have discovered the source of that delightful fragrance.
The Spirit Bear
The old bear stepped silently out of the forest onto the edge of the tiny clearing. Massive paws depressed the soft soil, for each foot carried a tremendous weight. His muzzle, whitened by the years, capped with gloss black nostrils swept the air, searching for more than his eyes could tell him. He heard the crackle of the fire, the whisper of the flames, caught the red glow of smoldering coals as he paused to assess the situation. With the acidic smell of smoke came the man smell. The odor of sweat, stale and pungent carried on the breeze stirring the loathing in his heart that he had learned long ago to feel for the man creatures.
The huge bear did not turn away. Instead, he raked the soil with steel strong claws. Worn and chipped from years of misuse they left a ragged gash in the surface, scattering the leaves and needles that decomposed on the forest floor. Neither fear nor anger clouded his judgment though he had spent the majority of his life avoiding exactly this type of contact. Today something was different; he sensed it. Some unknown sensation guided him and thus the bear stood his ground.
He could see nothing in the soft shadows beyond the fires glow. His vision had dimmed with the years and hence the huge bear relied upon his nose and ears and seldom trusted just his sight to ascertain things he sought to know.
The smell came again, mixed with the smoke, both odors repugnant to his taste. A calloused tongue wetted his lips and played over his nostrils as he paused, uncertain of his next move. After a lengthy wait, the bear ventured further into the clearing, ignoring his instinctive fear of fire. The flames burned soft and low, little more than coals, for the wood that fueled the fire had given the majority of substance to sustain combustion.
Across the flames, opposite from the large shaggy creature, the old man squatted on worn moccasins, the spot where he waited chosen for its location between the fire and the breeze. Beside him, the young man stiffened as he sensed the presence of the great beast. The night dark, with only a one-quarter moon, there was nothing to be seen. Shadows of the surrounding trees cloaked the clearing, masking the silhouette of all protuberances.
The old man, weakened by time, looked up, knowing before he did that the bear stood there, just within the circumference of the glade. Across the dwindling fire, two red orbs reflected the diminishing light, like dull red rubies under grayish skies. Beyond that the old man’s dim eyes could see nothing of the beast.
The youth, powerful and arrogant rose to his full height without a sound. In his hand, he clutched the hardened shaft with time-tempered flint point that he carried for protection. He could not see the glowing eyes from where he stood, only his senses, keen from living with nature, warned him that they were not alone.
Just then, the huge bear snorted, the exhalation more to clear the acrid smoke than as a warning. But it was warning enough to the youth and with a bloodcurdling screech, the young man leapt over the fire to face his foe. The move proved futile, the scream intended to frighten, had no such affect on the veteran of many hard fought battles.
The bear struck without warning. Razor like claws swiped across the chest of the valiant warrior, breaking bones and baring those it didn’t. In the darkness, the man failed to see the brutal swipe of the powerful claws that tore his body to the core. As a last effort, he thrust with all his fading strength, driving the spear point forward, hard into the body of the beast. The sharpened point, capable of shaving hairs from tender skin, sliced cleanly through the abdomen and into the chest, creating a mortal wound.
The bear scarcely felt the sting of the stony point as his massive jaws clamped tightly to his enemy’s head, crushing the last vestige of life from his opponent. With a final shake of the victim’s body, the bear dropped the torso, loosing all interest in the corpse. His attention turned now to the other man creature, the old one, who waited across the glowing coals. Strangely, the bear felt no pain though his lifeblood spilled to the earth at his feet. He sensed no threat from the other, as he stood upright to roar in defiance, both at the man and to announce his conquest. Then he folded to the earth to lie gently upon the body of the one he had just killed.
The old timer, tottered to his feet, then reaching to his medicine pouch, he pulled out a fistful of dark powder, which he cast upon the coals. A brilliant flash lit the clearing for the briefest of instants, during which, neither man nor beast moved. The gigantic bear lay as though sleeping, completely unconcerned.
In his finest buckskin clothing, the old man presented a pitiful figure. Long white hair flowed past his shoulders, stringy and carelessly kept. Across his forehead and around his skull a leather band with a single eagle feather kept the hair from falling in his eyes. His adornment simple and reasonably clean, the man now puzzled at the strange manner in which fate had dealt with him.
The youth was dead, when it should have been he that had died, for this had been his journey, the last a man of his people would take. Tears of grief trickled down his cheek, grief for the youth and the loss of a young life, grief for the bear though he knew full well that the bear’s time would soon have come regardless, for the huge creature too had grown old and soon would have withered away only to be beaten by a younger member of his species.
He prayed for the fallen warrior, prayed for the bear and cried in frustration for himself. Just then, he felt a tightening in the muscles of his chest. A sharp pain lanced through his heart and he exclaimed loudly with the sensation. He looked to the bear, thinking that the creature had risen and clawed him with his worn and chipped nails. But it was not so, for the animal lay as it had fallen, never to rise again.
A sighing overhead drew his attention. The breeze shifted through the trees, catching the smoke from the fire, wafting it upward. The moon illuminated the thin drifting cloud. At the same time the fire flared, fanned by the gust of air, brightening the ghostly vision that hovered overhead. Smoke formed the image of a great bear, arms outstretched, claws extended as though offering a final embrace. The apparition wavered with the movement of the wind yet never entirely disappeared. Two stars, visible through the thin haze created eyes for this ghostly apparition.
Though it was late into the night, the old man heard the distant screech of the bald eagle, heard the nuisance cry of the raven. These sounds puzzled him for they were sounds associated with the day, rarely heard in the dark. He watched the phantasmagoria float above, saw the outstretched paw reach to touch him and once again he felt the lancing pain through his body.
He understood.
For this moment he had endured the cold of many winters, the heat of an equal number of summers, the sorrows and the joys of raising a family. The time had come to complete his final journey.
The smell of raw earth pervaded his consciousness. His body had crumpled to the ground and refused to respond to subconscious commands. He held no misgivings. After all, he was old and tired and more importantly, he was ready.
The ghostly arms entwined his torso and seized his spirit yet he felt no fear. To guide his way, he had the spirit bear to follow.
{Phantasmagoria: A fantastic sequence of haphazardly associative imagery, as seen in dreams or fever.}
Allen
Is there a place where you can go to hide and loose the hurt that tears at your insides? A place of peace and tranquility that offers solace for an abused soul in need of restoration. I don’t mean a place where the mind is pickled by alcohol or ravaged by numbing drugs, but rather some place where solitude alone exists and nature exerts her magic letting relaxation flow over the body like living tentacles of compassion and understanding.
If there is indeed such a place I desperately need to find my way there, to allow my body to be swallowed by some overwhelming influence that can direct my destiny and relieve my concerns about my mortality. Yet I fear that such a place exists only for dreamers and romantics and I am neither. My needs are simple for the moment. My loss seems great and represents a burden I do not wish to carry.
I don’t blame Allen though he alone is the sole reason for these unfamiliar feelings that torture me. If I knew Allen at all, I realize that this is not the reaction that Allen would want to evoke.
Allen was a Mongoloid according to my mother. Sometimes called a “Blue-baby” she had said, suffering from deprivation of oxygen during or before birth and destined to always be incapable of living what the majority of us might term a normal life. A retard, the other children classified him and in many ways he was but to me he was mainly just a pest. That’s how younger brothers are whether they are capable of speech or not.
Allen didn’t talk. He couldn’t. Though he never learned to speak he was certainly not mute and certainly not reluctant to express his point of view despite the fact that whatever he vocally expressed was indecipherable. He would yell! Loud shrieks exclaimed his displeasure when he perceived a need. He used this solution when things failed to go his way but was quiet and reserved when content. Unfortunately when it came to competing with me, Allen seldom seemed to be content.
Things just had to go his way. If it was a toy I had, Allen would want it. A treat? Allen must have a larger or better one or he would want mine. The rules were that simple for him. It didn’t matter that he never attended school, not to him at any rate, for by staying home he had the undivided attention of his mother. He worshiped her and maybe that’s just how it should have been for nature had contrived to deny him so many other things in life.
Allen loved our father too but not the same. Dad was busy much of the time running a small business, working long tiresome hours, coming home to the family just before our regular bedtime. As a lad I never questioned this, just accepted it. It never once entered my head that our father might have stayed away for the main part of the day partly because of Allen, or me. Later when Allen was sent away to a school for people like him, my father continued with his long time habit.
When Allen reached the age of seven, my parents decided that for his own benefit, Allen should attend a nearby institute that existed to help people with disabilities such as he had. I was delighted at first when I heard he would be going. I envisioned peace at last in my home, for me at least. No having to always give up whatever I had, to Allen’s whim. No having to endure as he trudged along with me wherever I might go after school. No sharing my friends with Allen.
I was at school the day he left. My parents took him and nothing much was said when they returned. I never did know how he took it until the weekend when he was allowed to come home. Somehow he seemed to gain a measure of contentment and in his way he tried to tell me how it was. I knew from what my mother said that Allen was making friends in the institute and learning. Perhaps that was the most important thing for us, Allen was learning.
Allen returned each weekend, and spent the holidays with us just as any normal school child might. He returned for the summer months during which I had to once more endure his constant company. Yet he had changed. He still could throw a wicked tantrum when he felt he needed to but mainly he had matured in his personality and had become more tolerant of each of us.
Summer lasted only a brief time and then Allen once again went back to school. The cycle repeated over the following years until I graduated and went away to a distant College. Now it was Allen’s turn to miss my company over the weekends for I seldom had time to return as he did each Friday night. Surprisingly it took him a long time to get used to my absence. By this time he had learned to speak a reasonable representation of my name and Mom told me that he often called it aloud for seeming endless periods.
Away from home as I was, I didn’t realize that my brother had begun to fail in health. My parents spared me that grief. Perhaps if I had known, I might have made a greater effort to return the long miles, at least on the longer weekends.
Then suddenly, the day I finished my final exam, Allen was gone. During the night his heart stopped and his soul had slipped silently away. A burden of sorrow wrapped my body and tore at my insides leaving a vacant emptiness. Allen gone? It seemed so difficult to accept, and with it came the guilty feeling I might have done more for him, spent more time with him.
I know though that he would not have had it this way, nor would he want to see my sorrow and hurt. If he were here he would be the first to grip my hand and lead me to that place I now seek, that tranquil place filled with solitude where I can begin to heal the hurt that tears at me. That would be Allen’s way, for he was a determined independent soul. And after all he was my brother.
Andy's Treasures
What To Do With a Stack of Playboys.
When my brother, Andy, went away to college, he left me his fishing pole, a well-read copy of The Wind in the Willows, and a stack of Playboys.
Pretty funny really.
The fishing pole I could use or would given the opportunity, in fact I already had several times without Andy’s knowledge. Bagged the biggest trout of my life with it too, his luck became mine once the tempered bamboo shaft made it into my hands. One thing about Andy, besides being a first class fisherman he bought only the best of equipment.
The book “Wind in the Willows” held no interest for me. A child’s story … the characters, rats, rabbits, moles and the like. Not that I’d ever read it, nor planned to. Somehow Andy had cherished that book for reasons I’d never understood. In fact it surprised me that he passed it along with the other items. My ownership of the hardcover issue came with a small caveat. He went so far as to extract a promise that I’d keep it. I couldn’t give it away.
Imagine.
Now, the stack of Playboys probably caused me the most consternation. Somehow I didn’t feel the passion that guys typically did about either centerfolds or the less auspicious other pictorial presentations. Perhaps I didn’t like art enough to appreciate the quality of the photos and it’s a sure thing I wasn’t into girls, or in this case women, regardless of how sexy and alluring they might be. Besides, just as with the fishing pole, I’d already had my peek through Mr. Hefner’s offering. Ya seen one, ya kinda seen em all the way I saw it.
Funny thing about college. It started a good week after high school commenced. That meant I was already into homework and studies when the goods were bestowed on me. During Andy’s whirlwind departure I wasn’t given a great deal of time to appreciate his gifts. Not until after he left did I find opportunity to ponder the items.
No use for the fishing pole, not this time of the year and no interest among my friends for fishing either. The pole made it to the back corner of the closet.
The playboys? Well I wasn’t sure what to do with them. They ended up in the closet as well. A temporary measure until I decided what else fate had in store for something I didn’t value all that highly. I had to confess surprise at the sheer number of issues, some dating back a good many years. Andy had packaged each individually in a sealed plastic bag. That should have been my first clue, but my mind must have been focused elsewhere.
I had the last of the three items in hand and curiosity about the importance that Andy placed on the silly book occupied my thoughts. There didn’t seem to be anything special, just a gray-jacketed hard cover issue. So like dozens of other publications.
The title, done in large print, dwarfed the author’s name; both printed using the same type of metallic looking letters. Gold on a gray background. A red border, basically just a narrow line, set it off. Like I said, nothing outstanding. Well-read, in excellent condition. So what about it had fascinated my brother so? Come to think of it, I couldn’t recall him ever reading the thing.
Looking for answers, I flipped the cover open. The first page was blank, except for an elegant scrawl followed by a signature. A dedication by the author, but not to Andy, to someone I didn’t know.
To Monica, my dear friend, signed by Kenneth Grahame. Who was Monica, what role did she have to play?
The next pages did nothing to shed light on that, just standard book fare. Another dedication, this time in print, dated 1908, then on to chapter one. I read the first little bit. About a mole cleaning house, a house that turned out to be a den in a riverbank. Andy couldn’t have been interested in this crap. I knew him as a worldly young adult, before that a worldly teenager.
I riffled the pages then stopped at one particular point where a small paper provided unnatural separation. A folded page. A note. Addressed to me no less. Interesting. Just like Andy, he had such a sense of intrigue.
“Hey Kiddo” it read. “I want you to have this. Keep close tabs on it. The military is paying for my college so this book is for you. For your college. I’ll tell you about it later.”
For my college? What in heavens name was Andy talking about? Sure, I had plans to attend college but a kid’s book didn’t figure in those plans.
“Keep it in good shape. Don’t loan it out, don’t let anyone read it.” The note contained no signature, just the letter A.
Who did he think he was kidding? Don’t let anyone read it. I couldn’t think of a single soul I knew that would want to do that least of all me. Unless I happened to be missing something I wouldn’t need it at college.
I closed the book, note inside, just where it had been when I found it and slipped the thing into the bottom drawer of my dresser. If Andy wanted me to treat his doggone treasure so carefully, that seemed the most likely place to store it. There it would be undisturbed and basically forgotten. I might even return it to him someday, certainly he thought more of it than I ever would.
Somehow, as the days slipped past while I waited to hear from my brother, The Wind in the Willows kept coming to mind. Silly things like an ad on Google mentioned the publication. Can you believe it? The name Kenneth Grahame came up in literature class. Who’d have ever thought? Here was an author I’d never really heard about and his name, his novels kept popping up, in spite of my lack of interest. What was Andy doing to me?
One day out of sheer curiosity I did an Internet search for Kenneth Grahame. First thing to show, a page about his novel, The Wind in the Willows, first published 1908. The date seemed somehow significant so out from the bottom drawer came the real item. Sure enough, 1908, the publishing date as well as time of copyright. No other dates anywhere on the cover or with the publisher’s data.
The search for information on Google had netted three thousand hits so I kept looking for more in-depth info. Then I found a site that listed first editions. Guess which book had placed in the top one hundred most collectible. The Wind in the Willows.
Interest peaked now; I hungrily scanned the page. A copy, in good to excellent condition … four thousand dollars. My heart beat faster. You sly devil Andy. How could I ever have doubted you? I began to laugh until my eyes caught a figure on a sentence lower down. A dedicated autographed copy of Wind in the Willows, very rare, only a few known to exist, value in excess of twenty thousand dollars. Mind boggling! Suddenly this plainly bound; simple children’s tale took on a new appearance.
It didn’t belong in a lower drawer; it belonged in a safety deposit box along with … the realization slowly began to sink in. What guy would pass on a collection of Playboys to his little sister unless … Very carefully I removed the first magazine from its plastic cover. December 1953 with Marilyn Monroe debuting as the world’s first playmate.
Andy, you son of a gun.
I could have kissed him.
The Secret
The sun poised just over the horizon. Golden clouds surrounded the bright yellow orb but failed to conceal it from view. In a strange manner they created the impression of a billowy frame crafted by nature to highlight the natural beauty for a brief second if not for eternity.
Eternity. That’s why I stood here today; spraddle legged in front of the single window, gazing across the distance past the forest. My thoughts focused on the abstract, a wisp of nothingness beyond the purple haze that cloaked the blue mountains. Those magnificent mountains were a marvel of interlaced shadows thrusting upwards like grasping fingers; fading with the light until eventually they disappeared beyond the horizon.
The old man was facing eternity.
If only he could see them one last time, especially now, highlighted as they were by the glowing sunset.
His breathing ragged, the loudest sound in the room we waited for my brother Roger to show. Roger, the last born of my siblings. Life had taught him it was okay to be last as well as to be late. Thus, Roger was forever late. Judging from past experience, he’d no doubt show, could the old man hold out for a few more hours?
He might just get his wish. To talk to us all together, he had said. I looked over to him noting the tired and wrinkled face, the gray stubble accenting the pallor of his skin. Eyes closed, his chest rose and fell with each labored breath. I scarcely recognized him.
He seemed so alone.
Yes we were there, and likely would stay till the end, until the breathing was silenced and the body vacant of life. Yet in spite of our presence he was still basically alone, as he had always been. Alone in life and in the end, alone facing death.
You had to believe he had wanted it that way. Why else would he have fulfilled his obligation to us, raised us, and then disappeared from our lives. Who could imagine the reason? Surely not I, for you have to know someone like him to understand and I for one did not know him, had never be able to comprehend this man who had labored to feed and clothe us until we had grown.
Nor did my siblings know him. Until two days prior we had no idea if he were dead or alive. Then came the call from the lawyer. Representing our dad’s interests the soft voiced attorney had said. Our father needed us. We must all gather our strength and come quickly; for time was now of the essence, the old man was dying.
Roger came through the door at last, almost tiptoeing in an effort to be quiet. He looked to me and gave a quizzical shrug of his shoulders, his expression asking, what gives, without his mouth ever once forming the words.
It fell to me to explain. Liz was not speaking to Roger and hadn’t now for six years. They had never cared for each other and the passage of time had done little to erase the perceived hurts and humiliations that separated the two. I motioned toward the still figure occupying the bed.
“It’s him, he wants to talk to us. All of us. Together he said.”
Roger moved on silent feet to the bed, peering down self-consciously at the dying man. How long since he had seen the old man I wondered, ten years, twelve perhaps? The resolve in his eyes softened as his gaze drank in the first look at the father who had never been during all that time. I understood. I too had felt resentment and anger when I had first arrived.
It was difficult to continue to hate at a time like this. Perhaps that was the purpose behind this exercise in futility, the actual intent of the dying man that wasted away before us. Could it be he sought forgiveness after all this time? Absolution?
My words, though soft and quietly spoken roused the prone figure on the bed. His eyes opened, first traveling to the display on the monitor as if to confirm that he still maintained a pulse, then flicking to lock on me.
“We’re all here sir.” I hesitated then rephrased the sir to dad. “We’re all here … Dad.” It was difficult to say it with out resentment showing through.
He had strength enough to turn his head. It rotated slowly over to Liz first for a silent moment then finally his gaze fixed on Roger.
“Come closer.” His voice trembled, scarcely over a whisper. I doubted he had the strength left to beckon. We moved to surround him like vultures waiting for a meal.
“I want to thank you for coming to see me. I know I don’t deserve to have you here but I need to explain to you why I did what I did to you. And to tell you I’m sorry. I don’t ask you to forgive me; don’t expect you to for you’ll never understand; all I ask is that you listen. When I have finished, if you wish, you may go.” He sucked in a long drawn out breath.
“I have been a terrible father for you. When your mother died, I was left to raise you and I did, with your help Kevin.”
He looked to me. I was the oldest and it was true, I had done my share to hold the family together, probably more than my share, for he had worked to earn a living for us and to me had fallen much of the responsibility of running the household, in spite of my youth. We waited for a moment as he gathered the last reserves of his strength to continue. Then he did, in a hoarse gasping whisper.
“Liz. You look like your mother. You seem to have grown to be a fine young lady. You will go far, at least I hope you will.
Roger, you most of all have reason to hate me, you are the youngest and you are the one that had the most need for what I was unable to provide. For that I apologize. I could not give to you what I no longer had in me.” We were leaning in closer, his voice becoming weaker with each word nearly to the point of inaudibility.
It could scarcely be long now, I thought. He closed his eyes for a moment, recovering from the exertion then began once again, barely audible now.
“I cannot die without telling you. I know that you have no reason to love me and certainly you won’t once I am done telling you this, but I must. Please understand I must.” He paused again, collecting his thoughts or resting briefly, fighting for the few remaining lucid minutes left to him.
“I killed your mother.” The words hissed passed his lips. His voice now so faint I wondered if I had heard correctly, or if I had even heard it at all. “It was me … me… I … I” … and then he lapsed into silence, unconscious perhaps. In a moment his chest ceased movement; death claimed him.
We stood back and looked at each other. The others hadn’t heard the words clearly and were uncertain as to what he had said.
“So? What was it? What did he say?” Roger appealed to me. I saw the pleading look in his eyes, the yearning for that which would never come. The old man had failed him once again. The pattern of his life held true to form.
“Kev?” Liz looked to me too, but I was speechless, unable to respond. The silence hung heavy in the air.
Should I tell them? What good could come of it?
I shook my head in disbelief. Why had this miserable old man felt the need to shatter our lives once again? Why had this burden been thrust upon my tired shoulders? How could his final act be the ultimate cruelty?
Finally I spoke.
“Come. It’s time to go now… I don’t know what he said. It was too faint, … perhaps just the whisper of air from a dying mans lips.”
Now it was my secret. I would take it with me to my grave.
Suicide Hill (added Dec. 4 2023)
Suicide Hill
By Garry Schumacher
We peered down the hill. Eyes large, lips pursed tightly, the steamy breath from our nostrils curling upwards, whisked by the breeze, away from our faces. For longer than a minute we stared and no one spoke. Finally, Bob, in a rather hushed voice expressed our thoughts in one exclamation. “Woweeeeeeee!
“Suicide Hill”, lay before us. “Suicide Hill”, the legendary hill that we had heard so much of over the past few weeks.
The North winds, as though wishing to ensure our acceptance of winter, had ushered in the heavy snow that now carpeted the countryside. The first snowfall, on October 30 had dumped 16” of soft white fluff at our feet. Then later came an additional 14” of white. The toboggans had made their annual appearance. It was after we had hit the slopes that we first heard talk of “Suicide hill”.
We were three, Ron and Bob and me. Those two were brothers and I almost like a brother so inseparably were we. Ron was the oldest at nine. Brother Bob was seven and I squeezed snuggly right in between the two.
At our age, boys never admit to fear, but as we looked down the steep narrow trail that lay before us, each of us was feeling the first icy tickle of fright working its way along the length of his spine. We had made our brag and soon we would have to make good that brag. Just this morning we had boasted that we would toboggan down the narrow slope of Suicide hill.
Describing what we saw is not difficult for it was a perfectly straight, narrow corridor that had been cut from the forest to link the flat lands at the top with the lowlands below. To describe what we felt at that moment is a different matter. We had thought that the long steep incline would be covered with the 30 “ of snow that had fallen this season. A heavy cushion of the powdery stuff would have created an ideal setting to limit the speed of the toboggan, making the ride down the hill a piece of cake. It should have been easy.
Sadly, it wasn’t so. Hundreds of feet had packed that grade solid. Dozens of school children used the hill as a shortcut to school each day. We hadn’t known. We didn’t attend the school at the top and had never been to Suicide hill before
At the base there was a vacant lot filled with unpacked snow to allow us to burn off speed and stop. The run was do-able, but the real reason that the hill was named suicide was because of the road that crossed just at the base. Just where the toboggan would be at maximum speed and stopping would be impossible, the street crossed.
We knew there was not a lot of traffic, yet you could never know when a car might pass by. Worse yet, once under way and up to speed the street was not visible until the final second before we would cross it.
“ I guess if we dig in our heels as we go.” Ron was speaking and I wondered if his throat was as dry as mine and how could he talk if it was? Ron had thrown down the gauntlet as far as Bob was concerned and Bob was not going to back away. I could only shrug and go along with them.
“I’ll take the back,” said I, thinking that I could always bail off if things looked too bad and I was certain it would be bad. We lined up on the toboggan. Ron took the front since he wanted to steer, Bob the middle and I got my choice, the tail end.
Ron sat down digging in his heels to hold the toboggan against the downhill pull. Bob climbed on next, gripping the ropes that ran down either side. I assumed the same position as Bob with my heels dug into the crusted snow. Once in place, the toboggan didn’t move but sat anchored by our heels, defying the pull of gravity.
“Ok! But easy though” commanded Ron and we lifted our heels slightly allowing the toboggan to inch ahead, slowly at first, then gaining some momentum as our confidence grew. No problem! We could hold it! The toboggan slipped forward, gaining speed.
Shortly after we commenced the run we lost control. The toboggan began to rocket toward the bottom. Our heels clawed frantically for purchase, yet it was no use. Our visibility became obscured. The snow spraying up from our boots as they scraped the surface obliterated everything.
“Dig in! Dig in!” Ron screeched and we tried to no avail. Suddenly there was a sharp bump, and the toboggan became airborne. Now, for a moment, we could see, not that we wanted to just then.
Gone was any thought of bailing off.
Control? We had no control for we were airborne as much as we were on the ground and picking up speed every inch of the way. Then the toboggan shot across the road, and there was no car though if there had been we would never have seen it.
Into the vacant lot the toboggan streaked, loose snow billowing everywhere, sending up a great cloud. Then came a loud bang and a hard thump as we smashed through the picket fence at the end of the lot and slammed into the wood frame house just beyond.
Coated with white, like three ghostly apparitions we picked ourselves up, shaking and laughing at the same time, as we looked at each other, surprised I think, to find that we were all uninjured. Remarkably, though we had completely destroyed a section of fence, we were all in one piece.
Suicide Hill? No question. It was.
But we survived!
Is there a place where you can go to hide and loose the hurt that tears at your insides? A place of peace and tranquility that offers solace for an abused soul in need of restoration. I don’t mean a place where the mind is pickled by alcohol or ravaged by numbing drugs, but rather some place where solitude alone exists and nature exerts her magic letting relaxation flow over the body like living tentacles of compassion and understanding.
If there is indeed such a place I desperately need to find my way there, to allow my body to be swallowed by some overwhelming influence that can direct my destiny and relieve my concerns about my mortality. Yet I fear that such a place exists only for dreamers and romantics and I am neither. My needs are simple for the moment. My loss seems great and represents a burden I do not wish to carry.
I don’t blame Allen though he alone is the sole reason for these unfamiliar feelings that torture me. If I knew Allen at all, I realize that this is not the reaction that Allen would want to evoke.
Allen was a Mongoloid according to my mother. Sometimes called a “Blue-baby” she had said, suffering from deprivation of oxygen during or before birth and destined to always be incapable of living what the majority of us might term a normal life. A retard, the other children classified him and in many ways he was but to me he was mainly just a pest. That’s how younger brothers are whether they are capable of speech or not.
Allen didn’t talk. He couldn’t. Though he never learned to speak he was certainly not mute and certainly not reluctant to express his point of view despite the fact that whatever he vocally expressed was indecipherable. He would yell! Loud shrieks exclaimed his displeasure when he perceived a need. He used this solution when things failed to go his way but was quiet and reserved when content. Unfortunately when it came to competing with me, Allen seldom seemed to be content.
Things just had to go his way. If it was a toy I had, Allen would want it. A treat? Allen must have a larger or better one or he would want mine. The rules were that simple for him. It didn’t matter that he never attended school, not to him at any rate, for by staying home he had the undivided attention of his mother. He worshiped her and maybe that’s just how it should have been for nature had contrived to deny him so many other things in life.
Allen loved our father too but not the same. Dad was busy much of the time running a small business, working long tiresome hours, coming home to the family just before our regular bedtime. As a lad I never questioned this, just accepted it. It never once entered my head that our father might have stayed away for the main part of the day partly because of Allen, or me. Later when Allen was sent away to a school for people like him, my father continued with his long time habit.
When Allen reached the age of seven, my parents decided that for his own benefit, Allen should attend a nearby institute that existed to help people with disabilities such as he had. I was delighted at first when I heard he would be going. I envisioned peace at last in my home, for me at least. No having to always give up whatever I had, to Allen’s whim. No having to endure as he trudged along with me wherever I might go after school. No sharing my friends with Allen.
I was at school the day he left. My parents took him and nothing much was said when they returned. I never did know how he took it until the weekend when he was allowed to come home. Somehow he seemed to gain a measure of contentment and in his way he tried to tell me how it was. I knew from what my mother said that Allen was making friends in the institute and learning. Perhaps that was the most important thing for us, Allen was learning.
Allen returned each weekend, and spent the holidays with us just as any normal school child might. He returned for the summer months during which I had to once more endure his constant company. Yet he had changed. He still could throw a wicked tantrum when he felt he needed to but mainly he had matured in his personality and had become more tolerant of each of us.
Summer lasted only a brief time and then Allen once again went back to school. The cycle repeated over the following years until I graduated and went away to a distant College. Now it was Allen’s turn to miss my company over the weekends for I seldom had time to return as he did each Friday night. Surprisingly it took him a long time to get used to my absence. By this time he had learned to speak a reasonable representation of my name and Mom told me that he often called it aloud for seeming endless periods.
Away from home as I was, I didn’t realize that my brother had begun to fail in health. My parents spared me that grief. Perhaps if I had known, I might have made a greater effort to return the long miles, at least on the longer weekends.
Then suddenly, the day I finished my final exam, Allen was gone. During the night his heart stopped and his soul had slipped silently away. A burden of sorrow wrapped my body and tore at my insides leaving a vacant emptiness. Allen gone? It seemed so difficult to accept, and with it came the guilty feeling I might have done more for him, spent more time with him.
I know though that he would not have had it this way, nor would he want to see my sorrow and hurt. If he were here he would be the first to grip my hand and lead me to that place I now seek, that tranquil place filled with solitude where I can begin to heal the hurt that tears at me. That would be Allen’s way, for he was a determined independent soul. And after all he was my brother.
Andy's Treasures
What To Do With a Stack of Playboys.
When my brother, Andy, went away to college, he left me his fishing pole, a well-read copy of The Wind in the Willows, and a stack of Playboys.
Pretty funny really.
The fishing pole I could use or would given the opportunity, in fact I already had several times without Andy’s knowledge. Bagged the biggest trout of my life with it too, his luck became mine once the tempered bamboo shaft made it into my hands. One thing about Andy, besides being a first class fisherman he bought only the best of equipment.
The book “Wind in the Willows” held no interest for me. A child’s story … the characters, rats, rabbits, moles and the like. Not that I’d ever read it, nor planned to. Somehow Andy had cherished that book for reasons I’d never understood. In fact it surprised me that he passed it along with the other items. My ownership of the hardcover issue came with a small caveat. He went so far as to extract a promise that I’d keep it. I couldn’t give it away.
Imagine.
Now, the stack of Playboys probably caused me the most consternation. Somehow I didn’t feel the passion that guys typically did about either centerfolds or the less auspicious other pictorial presentations. Perhaps I didn’t like art enough to appreciate the quality of the photos and it’s a sure thing I wasn’t into girls, or in this case women, regardless of how sexy and alluring they might be. Besides, just as with the fishing pole, I’d already had my peek through Mr. Hefner’s offering. Ya seen one, ya kinda seen em all the way I saw it.
Funny thing about college. It started a good week after high school commenced. That meant I was already into homework and studies when the goods were bestowed on me. During Andy’s whirlwind departure I wasn’t given a great deal of time to appreciate his gifts. Not until after he left did I find opportunity to ponder the items.
No use for the fishing pole, not this time of the year and no interest among my friends for fishing either. The pole made it to the back corner of the closet.
The playboys? Well I wasn’t sure what to do with them. They ended up in the closet as well. A temporary measure until I decided what else fate had in store for something I didn’t value all that highly. I had to confess surprise at the sheer number of issues, some dating back a good many years. Andy had packaged each individually in a sealed plastic bag. That should have been my first clue, but my mind must have been focused elsewhere.
I had the last of the three items in hand and curiosity about the importance that Andy placed on the silly book occupied my thoughts. There didn’t seem to be anything special, just a gray-jacketed hard cover issue. So like dozens of other publications.
The title, done in large print, dwarfed the author’s name; both printed using the same type of metallic looking letters. Gold on a gray background. A red border, basically just a narrow line, set it off. Like I said, nothing outstanding. Well-read, in excellent condition. So what about it had fascinated my brother so? Come to think of it, I couldn’t recall him ever reading the thing.
Looking for answers, I flipped the cover open. The first page was blank, except for an elegant scrawl followed by a signature. A dedication by the author, but not to Andy, to someone I didn’t know.
To Monica, my dear friend, signed by Kenneth Grahame. Who was Monica, what role did she have to play?
The next pages did nothing to shed light on that, just standard book fare. Another dedication, this time in print, dated 1908, then on to chapter one. I read the first little bit. About a mole cleaning house, a house that turned out to be a den in a riverbank. Andy couldn’t have been interested in this crap. I knew him as a worldly young adult, before that a worldly teenager.
I riffled the pages then stopped at one particular point where a small paper provided unnatural separation. A folded page. A note. Addressed to me no less. Interesting. Just like Andy, he had such a sense of intrigue.
“Hey Kiddo” it read. “I want you to have this. Keep close tabs on it. The military is paying for my college so this book is for you. For your college. I’ll tell you about it later.”
For my college? What in heavens name was Andy talking about? Sure, I had plans to attend college but a kid’s book didn’t figure in those plans.
“Keep it in good shape. Don’t loan it out, don’t let anyone read it.” The note contained no signature, just the letter A.
Who did he think he was kidding? Don’t let anyone read it. I couldn’t think of a single soul I knew that would want to do that least of all me. Unless I happened to be missing something I wouldn’t need it at college.
I closed the book, note inside, just where it had been when I found it and slipped the thing into the bottom drawer of my dresser. If Andy wanted me to treat his doggone treasure so carefully, that seemed the most likely place to store it. There it would be undisturbed and basically forgotten. I might even return it to him someday, certainly he thought more of it than I ever would.
Somehow, as the days slipped past while I waited to hear from my brother, The Wind in the Willows kept coming to mind. Silly things like an ad on Google mentioned the publication. Can you believe it? The name Kenneth Grahame came up in literature class. Who’d have ever thought? Here was an author I’d never really heard about and his name, his novels kept popping up, in spite of my lack of interest. What was Andy doing to me?
One day out of sheer curiosity I did an Internet search for Kenneth Grahame. First thing to show, a page about his novel, The Wind in the Willows, first published 1908. The date seemed somehow significant so out from the bottom drawer came the real item. Sure enough, 1908, the publishing date as well as time of copyright. No other dates anywhere on the cover or with the publisher’s data.
The search for information on Google had netted three thousand hits so I kept looking for more in-depth info. Then I found a site that listed first editions. Guess which book had placed in the top one hundred most collectible. The Wind in the Willows.
Interest peaked now; I hungrily scanned the page. A copy, in good to excellent condition … four thousand dollars. My heart beat faster. You sly devil Andy. How could I ever have doubted you? I began to laugh until my eyes caught a figure on a sentence lower down. A dedicated autographed copy of Wind in the Willows, very rare, only a few known to exist, value in excess of twenty thousand dollars. Mind boggling! Suddenly this plainly bound; simple children’s tale took on a new appearance.
It didn’t belong in a lower drawer; it belonged in a safety deposit box along with … the realization slowly began to sink in. What guy would pass on a collection of Playboys to his little sister unless … Very carefully I removed the first magazine from its plastic cover. December 1953 with Marilyn Monroe debuting as the world’s first playmate.
Andy, you son of a gun.
I could have kissed him.
The Secret
The sun poised just over the horizon. Golden clouds surrounded the bright yellow orb but failed to conceal it from view. In a strange manner they created the impression of a billowy frame crafted by nature to highlight the natural beauty for a brief second if not for eternity.
Eternity. That’s why I stood here today; spraddle legged in front of the single window, gazing across the distance past the forest. My thoughts focused on the abstract, a wisp of nothingness beyond the purple haze that cloaked the blue mountains. Those magnificent mountains were a marvel of interlaced shadows thrusting upwards like grasping fingers; fading with the light until eventually they disappeared beyond the horizon.
The old man was facing eternity.
If only he could see them one last time, especially now, highlighted as they were by the glowing sunset.
His breathing ragged, the loudest sound in the room we waited for my brother Roger to show. Roger, the last born of my siblings. Life had taught him it was okay to be last as well as to be late. Thus, Roger was forever late. Judging from past experience, he’d no doubt show, could the old man hold out for a few more hours?
He might just get his wish. To talk to us all together, he had said. I looked over to him noting the tired and wrinkled face, the gray stubble accenting the pallor of his skin. Eyes closed, his chest rose and fell with each labored breath. I scarcely recognized him.
He seemed so alone.
Yes we were there, and likely would stay till the end, until the breathing was silenced and the body vacant of life. Yet in spite of our presence he was still basically alone, as he had always been. Alone in life and in the end, alone facing death.
You had to believe he had wanted it that way. Why else would he have fulfilled his obligation to us, raised us, and then disappeared from our lives. Who could imagine the reason? Surely not I, for you have to know someone like him to understand and I for one did not know him, had never be able to comprehend this man who had labored to feed and clothe us until we had grown.
Nor did my siblings know him. Until two days prior we had no idea if he were dead or alive. Then came the call from the lawyer. Representing our dad’s interests the soft voiced attorney had said. Our father needed us. We must all gather our strength and come quickly; for time was now of the essence, the old man was dying.
Roger came through the door at last, almost tiptoeing in an effort to be quiet. He looked to me and gave a quizzical shrug of his shoulders, his expression asking, what gives, without his mouth ever once forming the words.
It fell to me to explain. Liz was not speaking to Roger and hadn’t now for six years. They had never cared for each other and the passage of time had done little to erase the perceived hurts and humiliations that separated the two. I motioned toward the still figure occupying the bed.
“It’s him, he wants to talk to us. All of us. Together he said.”
Roger moved on silent feet to the bed, peering down self-consciously at the dying man. How long since he had seen the old man I wondered, ten years, twelve perhaps? The resolve in his eyes softened as his gaze drank in the first look at the father who had never been during all that time. I understood. I too had felt resentment and anger when I had first arrived.
It was difficult to continue to hate at a time like this. Perhaps that was the purpose behind this exercise in futility, the actual intent of the dying man that wasted away before us. Could it be he sought forgiveness after all this time? Absolution?
My words, though soft and quietly spoken roused the prone figure on the bed. His eyes opened, first traveling to the display on the monitor as if to confirm that he still maintained a pulse, then flicking to lock on me.
“We’re all here sir.” I hesitated then rephrased the sir to dad. “We’re all here … Dad.” It was difficult to say it with out resentment showing through.
He had strength enough to turn his head. It rotated slowly over to Liz first for a silent moment then finally his gaze fixed on Roger.
“Come closer.” His voice trembled, scarcely over a whisper. I doubted he had the strength left to beckon. We moved to surround him like vultures waiting for a meal.
“I want to thank you for coming to see me. I know I don’t deserve to have you here but I need to explain to you why I did what I did to you. And to tell you I’m sorry. I don’t ask you to forgive me; don’t expect you to for you’ll never understand; all I ask is that you listen. When I have finished, if you wish, you may go.” He sucked in a long drawn out breath.
“I have been a terrible father for you. When your mother died, I was left to raise you and I did, with your help Kevin.”
He looked to me. I was the oldest and it was true, I had done my share to hold the family together, probably more than my share, for he had worked to earn a living for us and to me had fallen much of the responsibility of running the household, in spite of my youth. We waited for a moment as he gathered the last reserves of his strength to continue. Then he did, in a hoarse gasping whisper.
“Liz. You look like your mother. You seem to have grown to be a fine young lady. You will go far, at least I hope you will.
Roger, you most of all have reason to hate me, you are the youngest and you are the one that had the most need for what I was unable to provide. For that I apologize. I could not give to you what I no longer had in me.” We were leaning in closer, his voice becoming weaker with each word nearly to the point of inaudibility.
It could scarcely be long now, I thought. He closed his eyes for a moment, recovering from the exertion then began once again, barely audible now.
“I cannot die without telling you. I know that you have no reason to love me and certainly you won’t once I am done telling you this, but I must. Please understand I must.” He paused again, collecting his thoughts or resting briefly, fighting for the few remaining lucid minutes left to him.
“I killed your mother.” The words hissed passed his lips. His voice now so faint I wondered if I had heard correctly, or if I had even heard it at all. “It was me … me… I … I” … and then he lapsed into silence, unconscious perhaps. In a moment his chest ceased movement; death claimed him.
We stood back and looked at each other. The others hadn’t heard the words clearly and were uncertain as to what he had said.
“So? What was it? What did he say?” Roger appealed to me. I saw the pleading look in his eyes, the yearning for that which would never come. The old man had failed him once again. The pattern of his life held true to form.
“Kev?” Liz looked to me too, but I was speechless, unable to respond. The silence hung heavy in the air.
Should I tell them? What good could come of it?
I shook my head in disbelief. Why had this miserable old man felt the need to shatter our lives once again? Why had this burden been thrust upon my tired shoulders? How could his final act be the ultimate cruelty?
Finally I spoke.
“Come. It’s time to go now… I don’t know what he said. It was too faint, … perhaps just the whisper of air from a dying mans lips.”
Now it was my secret. I would take it with me to my grave.
Suicide Hill (added Dec. 4 2023)
Suicide Hill
By Garry Schumacher
We peered down the hill. Eyes large, lips pursed tightly, the steamy breath from our nostrils curling upwards, whisked by the breeze, away from our faces. For longer than a minute we stared and no one spoke. Finally, Bob, in a rather hushed voice expressed our thoughts in one exclamation. “Woweeeeeeee!
“Suicide Hill”, lay before us. “Suicide Hill”, the legendary hill that we had heard so much of over the past few weeks.
The North winds, as though wishing to ensure our acceptance of winter, had ushered in the heavy snow that now carpeted the countryside. The first snowfall, on October 30 had dumped 16” of soft white fluff at our feet. Then later came an additional 14” of white. The toboggans had made their annual appearance. It was after we had hit the slopes that we first heard talk of “Suicide hill”.
We were three, Ron and Bob and me. Those two were brothers and I almost like a brother so inseparably were we. Ron was the oldest at nine. Brother Bob was seven and I squeezed snuggly right in between the two.
At our age, boys never admit to fear, but as we looked down the steep narrow trail that lay before us, each of us was feeling the first icy tickle of fright working its way along the length of his spine. We had made our brag and soon we would have to make good that brag. Just this morning we had boasted that we would toboggan down the narrow slope of Suicide hill.
Describing what we saw is not difficult for it was a perfectly straight, narrow corridor that had been cut from the forest to link the flat lands at the top with the lowlands below. To describe what we felt at that moment is a different matter. We had thought that the long steep incline would be covered with the 30 “ of snow that had fallen this season. A heavy cushion of the powdery stuff would have created an ideal setting to limit the speed of the toboggan, making the ride down the hill a piece of cake. It should have been easy.
Sadly, it wasn’t so. Hundreds of feet had packed that grade solid. Dozens of school children used the hill as a shortcut to school each day. We hadn’t known. We didn’t attend the school at the top and had never been to Suicide hill before
At the base there was a vacant lot filled with unpacked snow to allow us to burn off speed and stop. The run was do-able, but the real reason that the hill was named suicide was because of the road that crossed just at the base. Just where the toboggan would be at maximum speed and stopping would be impossible, the street crossed.
We knew there was not a lot of traffic, yet you could never know when a car might pass by. Worse yet, once under way and up to speed the street was not visible until the final second before we would cross it.
“ I guess if we dig in our heels as we go.” Ron was speaking and I wondered if his throat was as dry as mine and how could he talk if it was? Ron had thrown down the gauntlet as far as Bob was concerned and Bob was not going to back away. I could only shrug and go along with them.
“I’ll take the back,” said I, thinking that I could always bail off if things looked too bad and I was certain it would be bad. We lined up on the toboggan. Ron took the front since he wanted to steer, Bob the middle and I got my choice, the tail end.
Ron sat down digging in his heels to hold the toboggan against the downhill pull. Bob climbed on next, gripping the ropes that ran down either side. I assumed the same position as Bob with my heels dug into the crusted snow. Once in place, the toboggan didn’t move but sat anchored by our heels, defying the pull of gravity.
“Ok! But easy though” commanded Ron and we lifted our heels slightly allowing the toboggan to inch ahead, slowly at first, then gaining some momentum as our confidence grew. No problem! We could hold it! The toboggan slipped forward, gaining speed.
Shortly after we commenced the run we lost control. The toboggan began to rocket toward the bottom. Our heels clawed frantically for purchase, yet it was no use. Our visibility became obscured. The snow spraying up from our boots as they scraped the surface obliterated everything.
“Dig in! Dig in!” Ron screeched and we tried to no avail. Suddenly there was a sharp bump, and the toboggan became airborne. Now, for a moment, we could see, not that we wanted to just then.
Gone was any thought of bailing off.
Control? We had no control for we were airborne as much as we were on the ground and picking up speed every inch of the way. Then the toboggan shot across the road, and there was no car though if there had been we would never have seen it.
Into the vacant lot the toboggan streaked, loose snow billowing everywhere, sending up a great cloud. Then came a loud bang and a hard thump as we smashed through the picket fence at the end of the lot and slammed into the wood frame house just beyond.
Coated with white, like three ghostly apparitions we picked ourselves up, shaking and laughing at the same time, as we looked at each other, surprised I think, to find that we were all uninjured. Remarkably, though we had completely destroyed a section of fence, we were all in one piece.
Suicide Hill? No question. It was.
But we survived!