Feed
by J.
Reyome
July - August 2009
A pinwheel, a slowly moving windmill…no, more like a
compass, the needle on a compass, slowly moving toward True North…or was it
magnetic north? Or did it really matter anymore?
He
lay there, floating lazily on the filmy surface of the pond, moving as little
as possible. It didn't hurt if he didn't move, he'd discovered painfully, and
in its own way it was almost soothing now, relaxing, as if it—whatever it
was—was somehow anesthetizing him, preparing him in some bizarrely calming, if
awful way for what was to come. Whatever that
might be.
A
faint pink tinge was beginning to redden the waters around his arms, which were
almost grotesque now in their appearance, the hair long gone, the outermost
layers of dermis slowly dissolving, the tendons and capillaries now easily
visible through the holes of what was left of the sleeves of his flannel shirt,
which wasn't much. Funny, his legs didn't seem nearly so affected…maybe the
jeans were holding together better than the rest of his clothing. Those Diamond
Gusset jeans…they were worth the extra money he'd spent on them after all. He'd
had a little buyer's anxiety after having spent nearly a hundred dollars on two
pair, especially when he could've gotten four or five pairs at Wally World for
the same price. Still, they looked good—or, at least they had—and he couldn't deny that they'd held together well. Now more
than ever, in fact. The boots too. Good investments, those. But ultimately…
A
deeply lethargic feeling began to steal over him. The reddish shading of the
water became more of an ochre as the stain spread.
It
was very early in the morning when he left home. He'd planned to get out the
door by 2 AM but it ended up being closer to three…which is pretty much why
he'd aimed for two in the first place. It was a long drive to Monteagle, and he wanted to get there as close to sunrise
as possible. The hike would be a long, hot one, and he wanted to get as many
miles out of the way before it got unbearable down in the Gulf. Which would not
take long; temperatures down there would soar to a gawdawfully
muggy ninety-plus by ten or ten-thirty. He wanted to be on his way out, up the
rugged Stagecoach trail by then. The last time he'd traversed that particular
pair of boulder-strewn ruts laughingly referred to as a "path", it
had taken him over an hour to cover a mile, and he was wholly knackered by the
time he'd staggered to the top, pretty much finishing him for the day.
That
had been an interesting trip. A thirteen mile loop into
He did have a cell phone though, and
somehow managed to get coverage long enough to make contact with his
girlfriend, enabling him to tell her that he wouldn't be able to take her out
for a late dinner as promised. She was not pleased and told him so, never mind
that he was in trouble in the wilderness. He struggled back down into the gulf
in the early evening wearing a headlamp (thoughtfully packed) and across the
boulder crossing in darkness black as pitch. It was scary stuff; crossing the
river on the swinging bridge was downright petrifying, especially laden as he
was…the high center of gravity made him swing perilously with each step. The
lights of the park rangers coming to…well, rescue
him…not long after were welcome indeed. One of them, now a friend, even carried
his pack on the way out.
He’d
learned, though. No full pack this time, only the essentials in a "lumbar"
pack: two water bottles and a water filter for refilling them, food for two
meals, a couple of packs of energy
"goo" (horrible-tasting, but undeniably
effective) a first aid kit and other essentials along with, of course, the
headlamp which he sincerely hoped he wouldn't need this time. Less than five
pounds as opposed to nearly forty, and he was in
significantly better shape now too. He planned to make good time.
And,
of course, the early start. The nightmare trip had been in November, when the
days were cooler, but shorter. In June it was pretty much the opposite in the
The
parking lot was deserted. No big surprise there. Spectacular as this place was,
it was infrequently visited except for the truly hard-core types. You see it once, you're only hammering
yourself if you go see it again was the general perception…and it couldn’t
have been farther from the truth as far as he was concerned. Cagle Gulf was in
a constant state of flux, whether it was the variety of foliage from one part
of the year to the next, the towering rock formations which seemed to look
different each time he went…even something as simple as a couple of hours of
rain would turn waterfalls from gurgling trickles to thundering cascades. No,
it was never the same, and that was
why he kept coming back.
He
checked his watch. He'd made good time in the trip from
A
small square of blue cloth drifted past his face, a faint trail of bubbles in
its wake. A bit of his flannel shirt, he figured, detached from the whole now
and slowly coming apart as it passed. Was the fluid (for it was not water,
surely) more caustic to organic materials than synthetics? Should he have worn
the sweatpants after all? Would it have made a difference? Probably not.
A
bowling shirt, that was what he was wearing over the
flannel. Lord, how he had loved bowling—and wasn't it odd how he was already
thinking in past tense?—he had taken it up seriously a little later in life
than most folks, seeing it as a good way to get out and do something with his
son, something that they both enjoyed. Turned out it was good exercise too.
They bowled as a team, competing in a local league. As a lark, they'd had
shirts made with their team name on the front, and their names embroidered on
the back. It was over the top, silly, and expensive, but it was fun too, and it
gave them just a little lift when they came out to play. They did pretty well
too for a couple of rank amateurs, and by the time they had played out their
second season they were playing in local tournaments, both as a team and
individually. It had always pleased him to know that Jim seemed to enjoy
himself so much. God knows I didn't have
a whole lot in common with him otherwise…
More
cloth now, whole swatches of the robin's egg blue of what was left of the
sleeve, a Professional Bowler's Association patch still mostly intact. Not so
intact was the dermis of his arms, almost gone now, almost transparent, in
fact, the tiny blood vessels now spectacularly laid bare, an anatomy student's
dream. Still carrying their meager bits of blood to its destination, for a
little while longer, at least, they pulsed just a bit under their loads, like
wires singing in a breeze. They would be silent soon enough. He supposed that
were he to move his arms, just a bit, he could probably see the bones at the
join of his elbows, the tendons connecting them. They'd always given him
trouble, especially after eight or nine games of bowling. No more.
Weaker.
He was getting weaker. Must be the blood loss, he thought. It was an off-hand
kind of thing, not panicked at all, more of a musing sort of thought. So this
is what it's like to die. Maybe it isn’t so bad after all.
He'd
always wondered, of course. Who doesn't? What is death, what is beyond?
Granted, this was a hell of a way to find out—not at all what he'd
expected—but, be fair, there were worse ways to go, sillier reasons for passing
on. And then there was the thought that perhaps there was a greater purpose at
work. That was what Ellen had told him, wasn't it? Or was it? He wasn't so sure
now, the thoughts were coming more slowly now, a little confused. Something of
a sense of intoxication now, the weakness combined with the insidious fluid in
which he lay suspended, the odor, slightly sweet, that rose to the top of his
head, had made it reel so.
A
purpose, yes. A purpose. To everything, a purpose. That was Nature's way, after
all. Nothing happened without a reason.
He
was signing in at the trailhead kiosk when a set of headlights approached from
out of the gloom. He was about to cuss—he really wanted to have the trail to himself—when
he identified the vehicle as a State Park truck. Probably out to refill the
register, he thought. Good. It might be…yes, that was Ellen behind the wheel,
Ellen Jamieson-George (he’d located her name on the internet) and they knew
each other, had known each other since that ill-fated trip last November. He
smiled at the ranger through the windshield, and the younger woman lifted a
hand off the wheel in greeting.
He
returned to the car as Ellen got out of the truck, a stack of register cards in
her hand. "G'mornin' Dave," the ranger said
cordially. "Nice to have you back."
He
nodded. "Good to be here. You getting much
business anymore?"
She
smiled. "Not like you, Dave. At
least you walked out on your own. You ever sell that pack?"
"Matter
of fact, I did. You shoulda bit that night." As
Ellen and her trail partner were guiding Dave out of the gulf in the dark last
fall, he had offered to sell them his Kelty frame
backpack…cheap. It was a spur-of-the-moment reaction to a bad trip, but had
they offered him cash at that particular instant, they would've gotten a nice
bargain on what was a fine pack. As it was, he sold it on eBay a few months
later for a lot less than he'd paid for it. Not that he was so anxious to get
out of backpacking, but he had decided subsequent to the trip that he just
didn't like sleeping in the open. No need for such a pack, then. He bought a
smaller one that could carry what he needed for day hikes, which was about all
he ever did anyway, and it went everywhere with him.
The
ranger eyed his register card. "
He
grinned. "We did. No pack this time, though. Plus, I'm earlier." He
pulled a bag from the car. "Here. I kinda figured I'd see you out here. A
burger and fries from Steak n Snake. Breakfast of champions."
"Son-of-a-gun."
Ellen smiled and took the bag from him. "I didn’t get breakfast this
morning. You must be a mind reader or something. Thanks, Dave."
"De nada. You don't get paid enough for
what you do." He clicked his pack strap in place and took up his walking
staff. "Gots to go now. I want to hit the trail
as early as I can."
Ellen
nodded. "Well, that's great Dave, but you know, it's not the…best time, to
be out." There was a peculiar hesitation in her voice. "If you know
what I mean. Lots of rain lately, the trails are slick
as snot, especially along Rocky Creek.
"Well,
I really wanted to do this today," Dave replied. "It's like, I have
something unfinished here, know what I mean?"
"Well,
it's not as if it's going anywhere, Dave. How about the Gizz?
You been up there? I hear the wildflowers down in the Fruit Bowl are just
amazing this year."
He
raised his eyebrows, a gesture lost in the darkness. "Been there, done
that, nailed it shut. Three times, last time in a thunderstorm. Besides, it's
summer. Think I'll stick to this one today…unless you're telling me it's off
limits or something."
For a
moment it seemed like Ellen was considering saying just that, then she seemed
to relent…or, perhaps, resign. "All right Dave, suit yourself.
Just…be careful. Especially around Fall Creek. Water's been way up there these
past few days. Not a good place to…lose yourself, if you know what I
mean."
He
didn't, but that was okay. He knew the area well, had made three trips there
already, and he knew of several alternate routes he could take around it if the
water really was up. "Thanks, Ellen. Bon appétit. I'll check in after I'm
done."
Ellen's
expression was difficult to read, but it looked almost forlorn. But she
shrugged and said, "No need. Just leave a note here." And without
another word, the ranger got in her truck and left.
It
was almost a metaphor for his strangely misbegotten life, this situation. How
many times had he ignored warnings, warnings less subtle than the one he'd
gotten this morning? How often had he strayed from a path—paths, really, as in
plural—that would've led him to a comfortable living, a job, an education, a
good woman who truly loved him? All too often, really. So it shouldn't come as
such a surprise that he found himself in such a fix.
Other
times, there may have been possibilities for rescue. His parents had helped
with support, both moral and financial. A brother, a sister, the odd friend
here and there…all had come through at one time or another, guiding him back to
what passed for normal in a life that was usually anything but. Lately it had
been his father. Call it a bad run of luck, Dave just couldn't seem to stay
solvent. The child support was a big part of it, but he didn't mind that. The
situation was what it was, he'd been unfaithful and his marriage had collapsed,
leaving a child in the middle. Dave was determined the boy would lack for
nothing, and so what if a bill or two had to remain unpaid because Jimmy had to
have school clothes or new shoes or whatnot?
He
often wondered if it be something basic wrong with him or his nature. Could it
be blamed on any one incident in his life, something glaringly obvious, or was
it something more subtle? A word not spoken, a gesture of some sort…what?
Responsibility, his father had said, or rather, a lack of it. Take charge, take
the blame, accept the consequences. Well, here he was,
and he was doing nothing now if not accepting the blame for the situation and
the consequences which now seemed inevitable.
It
was with a light heart that he had set off down the trail, not thirty seconds
after the headlights of Ellen's truck had disappeared down the chert lane. The
The
first half mile was easy travel over a jeep trail that served as access for
Park vehicles to the campsite ahead on the west side of the Gulf. A pleasant if
unremarkable stroll, he took it at as fast a pace as he could manage. Time
saved here could be critical later, as he'd found out last year. He even walked
past the bright red sign reading, "Warning: Copperheads often seen
here" without a second glance. This was his fourth trip and either the
venomous snakes were truly as shy as their reputations asserted, or they simply
took no interest in him. He wasn't sure if he liked being an object of
ignorance, but then he liked snakes and never had a problem with encountering
one on the trail.
A
bouncy reel by Clannad went through his head as he
turned left at the trail junction and began down the long climb down into
It
used to be, and not so long ago, that this area was remote, very remote, to the
point where there were comparatively few ways in and out. The Stone Gate, on
the western arm of
Onward
then, past
Muscle
tissue unwinding now, tendons stretching, loosening. Loosen up, why don't you,
you're so tight. That's what his friends used to say to him. Look at me now, he
thought with a wry grin. I won't get much looser than this…and when I do, it
won't matter a whole lot by then…
At
what point would he lose consciousness? He figured were he able to feel pain he
probably would've passed out a long time ago, but he didn't, and he hadn't, so
perhaps he would just gradually fade away. Gray out, he'd heard. Maybe that
would be the end for him. Could be worse, he supposed.
His
buoyancy did surprise him. Once the adipose tissue had dissolved away, as it
mostly had already, he figured he would slip beneath the surface of the pond
(or whatever) and drown. That would be painful, he supposed, but for how long?
In his day as an EMT he'd had to recover a few drowned bodies, and they were
rarely pretty, the faces frozen in an awful rictus of
horror, obvious signs of a struggle in the vicinity. Not a way he particularly
wanted to go. Somehow though, he knew that would not be a concern. He was
certain he'd float as long as he needed to, perhaps for the last bit of
consciousness to be drained from his psyche, and then…what?
Well,
death, obviously. But then what?
And
that was the question, wasn't it?
From
Stable Branch (named for a horse pen which used to be sited at the base of the
falls) he continued roughly north, the trail skirting the western wall of
Oh, there
was plenty of water. That was never a worry. No, it never stayed on the surface
for very long, but long enough. And as he stepped into a broadening arena of water,
valley, and stone, he saw plenty of it.
Ellen
hadn’t been joking. The water really was
up here in Fall Creek, where a usually small stream came down from the plateaus
to the west, tumbled down a series of stairstep
waterfalls, and eventually sank beneath the surface via a choked cave entrance
on the north side of the valley. Wide open and spacious as it was, the cove was
picturesque in a rugged sort of way, but he had always had a queer sense of
unease here, as if something wasn't quite right, a prickling of the senses that
usually told him to hasten along, ease on down the trail without a pause. He'd
stopped long enough on one trip to take a few pictures, but none of them ever
seemed to come out very well. An odd coincidence. But nothing more than that.
He chuckled
and shook his head. Almost fifty years old and here he was seeing ghosts behind
every rock. And in broad daylight.
Well,
not exactly broad daylight. The thin clouds overhead had thickened somewhat,
cutting the ambient light down, making the scene more gray than sunny. If it
stays like this I might have to cut this short, he thought. There wasn't any
rain in the forecast, and it didn't look threatening at all, but you never knew
up in the
He
sat on a felled tree for a momentary respite. He still had that odd urge to
leave the area, but he hadn't had so much as a standing break since leaving
There
wasn't anything obvious. It looked like a lot of the bottomland in the Gulfs;
lots of rocks strewn about atop alternately muddy and grassy areas, small
washes coming in and feeding into Cagle Creek, the water quickly being funneled
underground. It was rugged and somewhat bleak, but simultaneously verdant and
alive. Except…
…except
for one place.
It
wasn't much, a small pond just off the main thrust of the Gulf. That's all it was:
a pond, perhaps twelve to fifteen feet across, almost perfectly circular,
surrounded by mud flats except where a small stream of water ran into it along
a shallow channel off Fall Creek. Not very deep, it was probably up to his
waist, maybe his chest in the very middle. The water probably filtered through
the muddy bottom and directly into underground Cagle Creek.
He
found himself staring at it. Odd. In a place so full of beauty and wonder, it
was strange that this one otherwise insignificant feature should seem so…so ugly. Yes, that was it. Ugly. Ugly like
a blemish on the face of a beautiful woman. Out of place. You didn't want to
stare, but somehow your gaze was always drawn to it. Right now, right this
minute he was staring at the surface of the pond, looking at an unnatural sheen
of something oily swirling slowly. So slowly.
At
least that was natural, the pace of that movement. That seemed right, at least.
Something moving at a pace something other than frenetic. It was, in its own
way, calming.
He sat
on the trunk of a dead tree, looked at the pond, kept on looking. The rainbow
sheen held him in some kind of thrall, and for the first time since he'd
arrived here in this place, he didn't mind pausing.
I wish I could stay here.
He
wasn't quite sure where the thought had come from, but there it was. A sort of
an unspoken desire, something from the very heart of him, something deeply
honest.
Honest,
yet in its own way just as ugly as this pond. To stay here, that would be a
betrayal of the worst kind, of his family, his son, life as he knew it…he would
be walking away from all of that were he to stay here. Still, probably it
didn’t hurt to indulge a fantasy, weird as it was…what would he do here were he
to remain? How would he live? A hermit in the Gulfs, communing with the animals?
Maybe hiding from the hikers, rare as they were, perhaps destroying the trails
and bridges, the things that made it so easy for them to come?
Yes,
he might do that.
Food.
He supposed he'd have to have food. Man must feed, after all, not any differently
than anything else created by nature. Perhaps he'd find some way to graze,
locate plants, roots, berries, learn to forage. Spring, summer, fall, surely it was verdant enough here then, but winter…
He
grinned. Sure. He'd last that long. Suburban living had made him soft. He might
last a few weeks, maybe a month, then he'd be
staggering up the trail, back home. If they took him back in at that point,
anyway. Of course, he'd have been located by then anyway, Ellen knew he was
here if no one else did, and she knew this place better than anyone, the little
bowers one could secrete themselves if there was no
other shelter…
He
stood, stretched, yawned and smiled, still looking down at the surface of the
pond. Ellen. Ah yes, Ellen. Sleek, sylph-like, weathered face, short-haired and
bright-eyed Ellen, who was always around it seemed. He'd never had anything but
a nodding relationship with her, but oh, he'd thought about it, sometimes down
here in the Gulfs. She was no one's idea of a raving beauty, but there was
something about her, something raw, something wild,
like the land over which she served as steward. You might come to some sort of
terms with her, but you'd never completely understand her. That made her mighty
appealing to him.
Somewhere
down here, he thought, down here where the scenery was at its most crude, most
harsh and unforgiving…maybe on one of those great slabs of rock that made up
the dry bed of Cagle Creek, maybe up in the sandy mouth of Schwartz Spring,
maybe here, right here, here in this…
…pond…
It hadn't
taken much, just a momentary loss on concentration. He'd never been all that
sure on his feet and a tumble or two on a trip was usually a given. Sometimes
he'd even get wet…like he was now.
The
ripples were just dying down. He scrambled to get some purchase for his feet,
simultaneously grabbing for the small electronics pouch (mostly
water-resistant) velcro'd to
his pack belt. It pulled off with a muffled ripping noise, and he held it above
his head, shaking it furiously to drain it just as his toes found a bottom of
sorts. It was more muck than solid ground, but it was better than nothing.
Still off balance…the pack might be submerged again—along with the rest of him,
but never mind that, save the electronics, save the electronics! Throw the
pack, then, somehow out of the pond…over by that scraggly little tree, that would do…
Now.
Deep breath, compose…feet down, just touching bottom…
…and
sinking…
Panic.
No, that wouldn't do. Relax, relax…even with the boots and clothes he would
float. Hadn't he passed drown-proofing in the Marine Corps the first time, even
when he proved wholly inept at virtually everything else they tried to teach
him? He certainly wasn't about to die in a small pond not much bigger than a
child’s wading pool, was he?
He
worked his way toward the side of the pool, searching for a little firmer
footing. Bit by bit, slowly, as if he were in quicksand (which he might as well
be, face it) deliberately, and then he was more or less secure, first on his
toes and then flat-footed. The water was chest deep, a lot deeper than it had looked
from out there, there on the dry ground, where he'd been standing just a minute
or so ago. That ground that had earlier looked so sinister sure did look
awfully inviting now.
Well,
never mind. He was on his feet now and surely it would be easy enough to work
his way out of this mess. The bank was only a few feet away, after all. He
carefully edged his way in that direction.
Funny,
it didn't seem to be getting any shallower, even as he approached the side. He
looked around. Yes, it was rather steep-sided, except on the one side where the
water was slowly trickling in from Fall Creek Hollow. There it was rather
shallow, but looked muddy.
It
was. Very muddy. In fact, a few steps
in that direction he found himself in the same sort of suck-mud that had so panicked
him just a minute or so before. He quickly moved back to the relatively firmer
ground…and deeper water.
At
least it wasn't cold. That was a plus. The water coming out of the hollow
would've been pretty chilly in November, and hypothermia was a serious hazard this far from civilization. But in June the pool felt
downright comfortable and he might've considered a prolonged dip if not for the
circumstances.
So.
How to get out? The sides of the pool, steep as they were, didn't look to be a
very good option, but he tried anyway, and as he figured, the edges quickly
crumbled away under pressure and left him on something of a muddy, gravelly
treadmill. Maybe…maybe over there, by the base of that tree, the one he'd used
as a target for his camera case, maybe there there'd be a root or something
onto which he could cling, get some purchase. He started in that direction
before a familiar voice stopped him in place, saying, "This is some fix
you're in, isn’t it Dave?"
He
craned his head, and yes, it was Ellen. Leave it to her to come to his rescue
again.
“We've
got to stop meeting like this, Ellen."
"Uh
huh.” She smiled kindly.
He
pointed to where he’d set his walking stick next to the fallen log. “I seem to
be stuck in here. If you could just give me a hand…”
"I
wish it was that simple,” she sighed.
That
was a strange thing to say. “It is
simple. Just get hold of that stick, and give me a pull. That’d get me out of
here, sure enough.”
“I
wish it was that simple,” she repeated, looking away from him, almost
uncomfortably. “But it’s not so bad. So I understand, anyway. As long as you
don't struggle. So relax, Dave. Maybe we can talk a while before…" Her
voice trailed away as her eyes followed the flight of a raptor coasting in a
thermal above them.
He
looked at her, part confusion, part amusement. "Hey, I’m not kidding, I
could use a hand here, you know."
She
didn't reply for a moment, her gaze still fixed on the sky. After a pregnant
pause, she finally murmured, "Do you know, they were going to put houses
up on the south side of Powder Gap."
"Huh?"
Now
she looked down at him. "Condos, Dave. Some dillholes
from
"What,
like at the Gizz?" There were several
high-dollar homes built overlooking Fiery Gizzard Cove. To say they spoiled the
view from the bottom would be a vast understatement. That the first thing you
saw from the Raven Point Overlook was some Jack staring at you through a
telescope…well, it made the whole exercise of the long walk and the grueling
climb seem pretty silly.
"Exactly like at the Gizz.
Only, more of 'em. Can you imagine, hiking up Powder Gap with people looking
down on you from their balconies, martinis in their hands?" She held her
hands up to the sky, as if calling the great bird for guidance. "I swear,
sometimes I just don't get what this world is coming to."
"I
know what you mean," he said sourly. "I think I stopped being really
happy in 1980. Things have just gotten more and more screwed up since
then."
"People
just don't have any respect for Nature anymore," Ellen continued. The
capital N in Nature was more than emphasized. "I mean, look at this place.
So much beauty, so much wonder, so much life,
and all they can think about is how to profit from
it."
"Sure.
Sure. Look, Ellen…"
"Oh,
the state is at least partly to blame. They didn't have a chance to buy the
adjacent property as a buffer at the Gizz, but they
did here. And they almost blew it. If
it weren't for…" She stopped again, looked down at him. "Condos, Dave. Condos at Powder Gap. And
that would only be the start. You give them a foothold, the developers, the
loggers, and they're like kudzu…they just keep creeping on till they overwhelm everything.
Well, that's not going to happen here. That's being seen to."
"Ummm…that's…that's
fine, Ellen. Just fine. But do you think maybe you can give me a hand here? I'm
kinda stuck. In here." He pointed at the water. "The sides are too
crumbly, and the shallow side is a quagmire."
"Kind
of a metaphor for life, huh Dave?" She shook her head. "It's a
terrible thing. You, of all people. I tried to warn you, Dave. Tried to warn
you not to come down her. There's times when it's just not…healthy. For you, I
mean." She looked impossibly sad. "But it's all a part of the natural
order. It has to feed, just like any other living thing. I'm just sorry it has
to be you."
He
shook his head violently, not sure if he'd actually heard that last sentence.
"Feed? Is that what you said? Feed?"
Now
she looked thoughtful. "There's plans for a
scenic parkway not too far from here," she said. "We're going to work
on that next. What's here now, it's not so bad. Even the new bridges aren't all
that damaging. No one really minds if people come here to appreciate things,
Dave, so long as they do it with the proper reverence. But something that would
bring more, less understanding people here, and keep them here…" She put her hands on her hips. "No, that
won't do. Won't be allowed. You can count on that, Dave. And you…this…will
help. In its own way, it'll help."
She
walked over to stand beside the ash-grey remnants of the tree that stood beside
the pool. "I guess what it all comes down to, Dave, is that I can't help
you. If you can get yourself out, then more power to you. But if you
can't…" She shrugged, a mute but telling gesture.
"Fair
enough." He groped around in the mud beneath the tree until he felt a
stout enough root. "I may look silly doing it, but I've gotten myself out
of tougher spots before."
He
took hold of the root with one hand, planted his other as high up the side of
the pool as he could, then shifted his weight, trying to vault his way out.
Except
that what he had hold of was not a root. Still
had hold of, once he pulled himself back above the surface of the pool
again.
He
examined what he held. Had he not been dehydrated, he might've pissed his
pants. It was a bone. He was no expert, but it looked like a femur.
"There's lots of them," she said absently. "It's funny.
Sometimes it'll leave nothing behind, nothing at all. Sometimes a skeleton. And
sometimes it takes a long, long time." She shuddered. "Once I swear I
could hear the screaming all the way up at the Stone Gate Ranger Station. That
was awful."
And
now, finally, he saw the real gravity of his situation. He became frantic,
began pawing at sides of the pool, trying to somehow scramble up, shredding
nails and skin, making a little progress, then inexorably sliding back down…
…and
then, then the pain hit. Excruciating, boiling pain, like a dip in hot
water…no, acid, and it just got
worse, the more he struggled…
And
he stopped, relaxed, ceded. Hadn't she said something along those lines? That
it wouldn't hurt if he didn't fight it?
Just
that quickly, it didn't. He sighed.
Ellen
gave him a relieved smile. "Thank you, Dave. I really didn't want to
see…that."
He
saw the bird circling overhead. It wasn't a buzzard, but it might as well be.
Or perhaps it was. His eyes had been pretty far gone even before this. So, did
he end up as vulture food or plant food?
What
a way to go, he laughed. Trapped in what amounted to the geologic equivalent of
a pitcher plant, slowly being digested as feed for…?
For
what, then? "At least tell me what this is all about," he asked
Ellen, who still stood next to the pool watching him with a serene smile on her
face. "Why and for what?"
"I
already told you the why. The what…" She held out her hands helplessly. "I can't
tell you anything that you won't know yourself in a little while anyway. What
you probably know already, here." She patted her heart. "There's a
greater purpose at work here, Dave. Know that, and know that you're a part of
it."
"A
reluctant part."
"Doesn't
matter. And just how reluctant are you, really? You came here of your own free
will, against my advice. You walked right into it, Dave, and you even gave a
thought to staying here. I know you
did, I heard it. Well, now you will."
"I
suppose you can read my thoughts too, then."
"Call
it a perk of the job." She smiled and blew him a fond kiss. "I know
what you were thinking about me, too. Sorry. Would it make you feel any better
to know that you're not the first, you probably won't be the last, and if I
wasn't already spoken for, I'd probably have at least considered it?"
"I
guess it'll have to, won't it?" The edges of his vision began to swim out
of focus.
"It's
all right, Dave," she said softly, kneeling at the edge of the pool.
"Just close your eyes and let it happen. It won't hurt, I promise."
"What…about
my family?" His voice surprised him with its growing weakness.
"What
about them? The body is temporary, you know that,
don't you? Only this," she motioned around her, "is eternal, Dave. So
they'll wonder, they'll grieve, maybe they'll eventually understand, but then
Dave, then they'll forget you. That's how it works, that's how life is. So,
just let go."
She
was right, of course. There was no escape. And at this juncture there wasn't
any point anyway. A single move and he was just as liable to go to pieces.
Literally. And they would forget.
Maybe they already had.
"Do
you know?" He looks up, sees her in startlingly clear focus for just an
instant, sees her smiling. Or maybe it isn't her. It
doesn't look like her. It looks like…
"Yes,"
she murmured. "Yes, I do. And you will too. Be at peace, Dave."
And
he is.
An
instant of violent, blinding pain as what is left of his limbs separate from
his body, the pool—not water, after all, of course not—turns shocking red…and
his eyes are sightless.
The
blood, the entrails, the remaining tissue, the bones all sink to the bottom,
where they are all reduced to their elements, then are absorbed into the earth
from which they sprang, where they will provide sustenance, nourishment. Even
the synthetic clothing is taken; it just takes a little longer.
Nature
claims one of her own, and nothing is wasted.
Hours,
days pass.
The
car is found, the area searched. Nothing is found, not a trace. In a remarkably
short time he is forgotten, even by
those who loved him the dearest.
But
the spirit…
There
is no moral to this story. There are no answers to be found at Fall Creek Sink,
which is a real place and very much as described. Don't bother looking; it's
not what you think.
Or
maybe it is.
Copyright © 2009 James
David Reyome. All rights reserved.
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inspiration for this story? Click here!
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