Short Story / Dour Prospects
It seems only a speck from here, H. thought as he peered up at his cabin. I occupy a speck. He watched as a thin trail of smoke from last night’s fire was struck by the dawning sun and as patches of sunlight nested in the crowns of the highest pines. H. stood like a sentinel on a rocky out-cropping that jutted out from the sloping mountain-side, looking out over the alpine canopy and up the path that trickled down in slanted tiers through forest columns and further up to his ram-shackle vista of gray-boards. He always stopped at this point to carefully eye his place in the world and , with a gentle breath, set a thought or two afloat on the wind, “Perhaps I should clear a lot to the East to let the sun on my roof before it’s half-way…....”
The sky had begun to brighten but the sun had not yet hurdled the Eastern mountains. With each passing breath the frigid air chapped the inside of H.’s nostrils, numbing the budding plans of progress until they fell away, frost-bitten. – If I cleared away more trees it would only allow that bitter winter wind to sweep through, robbing me of any good it might have done otherwise. The cold has a way of revealing the bones of Necessity. The raw scent of pine resin lingered like a fog in his sinuses.
H. already had all that he needed to get by; a few dozen woolly goats, one worn-out mule, a small garden for summer squash and spring beans, and a forest full of dew-nurtured berries and stubborn walnuts. During the spring months, H. sheared his goats and loaded the wool on his mule to trade for oats, lamp-oil, vegetable seeds and the occasional steel tool or a gibbering young goat. Sometimes his wants were so few and his yield large enough, that he managed a savings of stamped silver that he kept in a wooden-box under a floorboard. Though he never conceived what he would be saving towards, he saved nonetheless.
As the thought of morning warmth reached down to embrace H., he thought aloud, “The warm air will do my lungs some good. I’ll have the sun find me here.” He leaned up against a gnarled black pine that clung near the edge and leaned out like a hook-on-a-wall, appearing as though frozen stiff while clutching for the release of blue beyond. The pursuant orb hung just below the jagged horizon of indigo and inky-green mountains, outlining them in a blazing coat of effulgence.
From his granite vantage, H. peered up through brows of bushy gray to the low morning clouds. He no longer saw animals shapes or trails of wagons in the puffy cumulus as he did when he first came. H. now only looked for the forecast of rain or perhaps for the signs of a dark, warm night ahead, well insulated in clouds. He had become pragmatic in that way. It was such an understanding of the minute workings of his environment, coupled with hard labor that enabled him to carve out a homestead , alone on that mountain of slate.
He rested a couple minutes longer, puffing clouds of vapor in the vale of shadow, until a faint stream of the river’s babbling voice reached his ear, reminding him of his impending venture.
H. had been awakened during the darkest hours of morning by the passing of several bears through his jalopy of improvised fencing. The goats bleated a desperate alarm on three separate occasions. Each time the burly intruder had come and gone before H. had a chance to discharge a round from his thundering rifle. The bears hadn’t molested anything on the property at all, which is quite unusual for such unforgiving guests and so he deduced from the brisk distraction displayed, and from the general direction of tracks that they must be heading towards the river, probably for a seasonal gathering of trout in the river. A whole calender of events lay in the subtle movements of all the mountains inhabitants. H. woke up well before Aurora lifted her gaze having decided to join the lumbering hulks riverside and partake in the expected harvest.
The low-light didn’t slow him, H. knew the spine jarring dips and treacherously graveled slopes well. He regularly clambered down the rickety paths with the self-assured, sturdy recklessness of a mountain ram, only too proud to go on all-fours. As he left the cover of forest the path became bordered by tufts of frosted tan grass, spotted by thistle and myrtle shrubs. Seen from above; the coiling sapphire river, studded with smooth river-stones and edged with delicately frosted grasses, seemed to H. a bracelet slipped from the wrist of some Titanic god of antiquity, left lost and forgotten.
As he caught his breath, H. spotted a dozen of the burly miscreants loosely gathered downstream. He looked ahead, making sure there were no bears before walking upstream where the charcoal mountain butted up against the river amidst a clutter of gigantic boulders. He waded and wove through the rocks to the sheer cliff face where a piece of black granite the size of a locomotive leaned awkwardly, as if recently derailed, against its mother-rock. He navigated counter clock-wise around the goliath where the bony maw of a small cave was held open in a great yawn. Towards the back of the stone inlet sat a slab of slate upon which lay a tin tackle-box and a few assorted heavier tools, all draped by a five-foot square of burlap. On the ground next to the slab table lay a pole of flexible wood with which H was to catch the speckled trout that lay in wait, scaly mouths hung wide.
H. opened the rusted tackle-box and removed a handful of ready made fly-lures, a pair of pliers, and several iron hooks. The lures were bits of oiled green wood, wrapped with stiff yellow hairs, and on the “abdomen” of each were fastened flakes of reflective yellow metal. He fastened a hook to one lure, taking a few extra hooks and lures in his pocket.
Each spring by twisting a certain spider’s web onto slender greased poles, he collected a fine silk. The threads were oiled, rendering the adhesive impotent, then spun and laid to dry in the sun. Once dry, he found the lines lighter and stronger than twine. An old man of the mountains had taught him this craft years ago, when H. first ventured off in desperate seclusion, knowing nothing of how he was to survive.
II
As Aurora took the sky, the mountain appeared as though shedding the day from its sides like a silken layer of celestial skin, sending brilliant flakes of sunlight sloughing down the slopes. The first rays landed warmly on the frosted tufts of hardy grass, beading each blade with brilliant droplets of dew. As droplets slid down the blades towards the grass stalks, a slight humming became discernible. And myriad damselflies made their way to grassy outlooks to warm themselves and sip dew drops. One by one, the reconstituted damsels tried their thawed glassy wings and took to the air. Soon the valley became alive with a busy throng of long glittering bodies whipping through the air, in a great dance of procreation.
From under river rocks the trout watched the show of sparkling bodies with primordial hunger growing deep in their bellies. A damsel barrel-rolling in euphoric bliss too close to the water fell twitching on the surface. The feast begins. The trout have been congregating, they charge en masse, emerging from every crevice and cranny. They can’t contain their hunger, they leap into the air gulping after the damsels that, in the business of their dance, flew too low to the water boiling with a tumult of scaly backs. A damsel shining with daylight and a bit of steel zips over the water. A trout too caught in the frenzy of flies leaps, bites, and is bitten back and is pulled towards the shore.
H. removes the hook from the trout’s mouth and sets it in a bag.
.........(more coming)
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I enjoyed reading this. I think you have a great talent for descriptive writing, your use of words is very vivid and easily captures the imagination. However, I felt that maybe you were so caught up in the poetic prose of your descriptions that you might have lost some of the pace. The story, as it is, drags pretty badly and it’s hard to stay interested. So far the reader would not have any real idea towards plot, or even character development. Who is this mysterious H? What is he doing in the mountains with his goats, mules and fishing lures?
As far as grammar and punctuation goes I couldn’t not find much fault.
‘If I cleared away more trees it would only allow that bitter winter wind to sweep through, robbing me of any good it might have done otherwise.’
I don’t think Urbis has a setting that allows italics, so you might want to find some other way to let the reader know this is an internal thought.
I think this could be really great, it just needs some fleshing out.
Keep writing! :)
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This is an interesting character study. Is his name only H for a reason? Its a little distracting, but it works if you say so. I didn’t notice any grammatical errors, and enjoyed reading about this mans quiet life.
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