Ezekiel Thomas sat on his porch in the bleak midnight sun, swaddled in warm clothing, topped off with a blanket his long-lost mother had knit for him. With a bottle in one hand and an opium pipe in the other, he often sat outside staring at the falling snow and trying not to think about the failure his life had been. The poet was right: There were strange things done in the midnight sun by the men who moiled for gold. Zeke, though, was among those who bought a perfectly useless plot of land with nothing of value on it.
He could go out into the mountains and hunt, sure enough, and often did, for choice goats. He was getting mighty old for it, though, and the next hunt might well kill him.
The opium and the alcohol helped him to deal with the hopelessness of it. His livelihood tied to land he couldn’t sell, his hope for the future in every respect miserable...and where would the next dose even come from? As he gazed across his barren field he let his mind wander to nothing at all...and then he sat up and rubbed his eyes. An enormous, shaggy shape loped toward him through the hip-deep snow.
The children had to eat. It was destined to be a long sunlit turn with all of these new people wandering the ice-land. They dealt well enough with the dark-skinned ones and the ones across the great water with robes and slitted eyes. But these others came with greed, backed up with sticks that made thunder and killed with magic solid bolts.
Her children, far north of here, clamored for food. She trekked non-stop and finally found the home of one of these new people. They stored food, so she would collect it and take it back.
“What in tarnation?” Zeke’s eyes weren’t all that good. He snatched up his rifle and got out of his rocking chair. The creature on his land made a beeline for his pantry outbuilding.
“No kinda bear I ever seen afore.” Zeke was from Tennessee, and he made no claim that he was an expert on Alaskan wildlife. Still, he knew of no bear which walked on two legs with a roughly human proportion. If it wanted to steal his food, it would get shot.
She caught movement out of the corner of her eye, and froze. He had one of the magic sticks, and a mean face with squinty eyes. He’d kill her, unless...
She broke into a run. Larger than the man by over a head, her ability to tread through the snow was better than his. She practically plowed through it, pushing it out of the way in small bunches. The man shouted something in man talk, incomprehensible even if the sentiment was clear.
Her need was dire, so she ran faster. A sound like a boulder crashing to the ground jolted her heart into a frenzy, and she saw a trail of steam shoot past her face. He’d missed. She heard a string of jabber come from him, and it went on for longer than most conversations between her people.
She was almost to the door.
“Blaster durn gun had my sights on the stupid monster...!” Zeke threw a cursing fit when his shot missed the creature. The opium haze inhibited his ability to shoot. In fact, it inhibited his ability to do most things. The joy it brought had been left behind in his obsessive need to slay the intruder on his land, and yet he now felt a strangely contented lethargy overtake him, even though his feet would freeze right through his boots if he stood still long enough. The creature moved through the snow like it was butter, so there was no way he would cut it off or even get close to it before it starved him to death.
“Dang thing’s fast, dag nab it, gotta take it out afore it gets my food, stupid blasted Goddamn furry beast!”
She found an immense store of food. Though she regretted taking from another, there was no alternative. Fish wouldn’t last the return trip even in these climes, if she could even defend herself from the bears.
She hastily unslung a sealskin knapsack, and loaded it with as many foods as she could see, ranging from salted meats to cheeses and breads. Then she spun around to leave, and he was blocking the entrance.
It froze in the glare of his face and stared back at him with enormous black eyes. For the first time, Ezekiel thought he might be dealing with a person. He was frozen too, by the penetrating intelligence of this thing. What kind of man was born to the world looking like that? He immediately felt sorry for it, because no man should have to live like that.
“Now look,” he stammered, his rifle still out in front of him. “That’s my food...”
Could the thing talk? Understand him? Its doe-eyes said otherwise, but they reflected advanced thought processes which chilled Ezekiel even more than the biting cold.
She saw the veins in his eyes, the sickness which had poisoned his mind, and she felt intense sympathy for him. He was clouded by something, be it madness or poison, and he might well die if she stole his food. She would leave him some, but would it be enough?
“Durn it, don’t even know if you’re real...” He blinked owlishly against the clashing effects of the substances in him, saw the beast shimmer like a mirage and open its mouth in wonder. “The hell with it,” he spat.
When he brought up the stick, she panicked. Loosing a manic, wailing roar, she turned and crashed into the back of the structure, straining the wood to its limits and splintering it all over the snow beyond.
“DAMN YOU!” Zeke howled, and he shot once more at the thing, taking it in the shoulder. It gave a fierce grunt and pressed on, throwing the knapsack over the other shoulder. Zeke rushed to the gaping hole in his pantry and loosed a flurry of shots, but they all missed their mark by an increasingly wide distance.
She ignored the pain, which subsided into a dull throbbing thanks to the cold. Blood poured from the wound in gushing rivers, so she packed it with clumps of snow to try to stop it. Red snowballs dropped off her arm in a long red trail leading steadily north. She didn’t have any idea how long she’d marched, but she refused to stop. She had to get home, had to get the food home.
Her world spun faster and faster. Her legs were numb. Soon she could no longer see, but she pressed on anyway, in mostly the right direction. And then, like a stone rolled down the side of a hill when its momentum is lost, she simply stopped.
The snow piled high on top of her and the bits of food which had flown out of her pack, strewn in all directions. When she lost consciousness, she dreamed of the man. Of breaking bread with him and taking him on a hunt, where together they caught and killed many beasts. Then they traveled together to her home, where she, her children, and him who was called “Ezekiel” ate and played together. And then the dream passed, as did the dreamer, frozen under the Alaskan snow, perhaps never to be disturbed.
Ezekiel returned to his cabin. He drank the last of his whisky and smoked the last of his opium. With tears in his eyes, he took in the damage to his pantry one last time, the desolation that surrounded him, and he put the rifle in his mouth.
He could go out into the mountains and hunt, sure enough, and often did, for choice goats. He was getting mighty old for it, though, and the next hunt might well kill him.
The opium and the alcohol helped him to deal with the hopelessness of it. His livelihood tied to land he couldn’t sell, his hope for the future in every respect miserable...and where would the next dose even come from? As he gazed across his barren field he let his mind wander to nothing at all...and then he sat up and rubbed his eyes. An enormous, shaggy shape loped toward him through the hip-deep snow.
The children had to eat. It was destined to be a long sunlit turn with all of these new people wandering the ice-land. They dealt well enough with the dark-skinned ones and the ones across the great water with robes and slitted eyes. But these others came with greed, backed up with sticks that made thunder and killed with magic solid bolts.
Her children, far north of here, clamored for food. She trekked non-stop and finally found the home of one of these new people. They stored food, so she would collect it and take it back.
“What in tarnation?” Zeke’s eyes weren’t all that good. He snatched up his rifle and got out of his rocking chair. The creature on his land made a beeline for his pantry outbuilding.
“No kinda bear I ever seen afore.” Zeke was from Tennessee, and he made no claim that he was an expert on Alaskan wildlife. Still, he knew of no bear which walked on two legs with a roughly human proportion. If it wanted to steal his food, it would get shot.
She caught movement out of the corner of her eye, and froze. He had one of the magic sticks, and a mean face with squinty eyes. He’d kill her, unless...
She broke into a run. Larger than the man by over a head, her ability to tread through the snow was better than his. She practically plowed through it, pushing it out of the way in small bunches. The man shouted something in man talk, incomprehensible even if the sentiment was clear.
Her need was dire, so she ran faster. A sound like a boulder crashing to the ground jolted her heart into a frenzy, and she saw a trail of steam shoot past her face. He’d missed. She heard a string of jabber come from him, and it went on for longer than most conversations between her people.
She was almost to the door.
“Blaster durn gun had my sights on the stupid monster...!” Zeke threw a cursing fit when his shot missed the creature. The opium haze inhibited his ability to shoot. In fact, it inhibited his ability to do most things. The joy it brought had been left behind in his obsessive need to slay the intruder on his land, and yet he now felt a strangely contented lethargy overtake him, even though his feet would freeze right through his boots if he stood still long enough. The creature moved through the snow like it was butter, so there was no way he would cut it off or even get close to it before it starved him to death.
“Dang thing’s fast, dag nab it, gotta take it out afore it gets my food, stupid blasted Goddamn furry beast!”
She found an immense store of food. Though she regretted taking from another, there was no alternative. Fish wouldn’t last the return trip even in these climes, if she could even defend herself from the bears.
She hastily unslung a sealskin knapsack, and loaded it with as many foods as she could see, ranging from salted meats to cheeses and breads. Then she spun around to leave, and he was blocking the entrance.
It froze in the glare of his face and stared back at him with enormous black eyes. For the first time, Ezekiel thought he might be dealing with a person. He was frozen too, by the penetrating intelligence of this thing. What kind of man was born to the world looking like that? He immediately felt sorry for it, because no man should have to live like that.
“Now look,” he stammered, his rifle still out in front of him. “That’s my food...”
Could the thing talk? Understand him? Its doe-eyes said otherwise, but they reflected advanced thought processes which chilled Ezekiel even more than the biting cold.
She saw the veins in his eyes, the sickness which had poisoned his mind, and she felt intense sympathy for him. He was clouded by something, be it madness or poison, and he might well die if she stole his food. She would leave him some, but would it be enough?
“Durn it, don’t even know if you’re real...” He blinked owlishly against the clashing effects of the substances in him, saw the beast shimmer like a mirage and open its mouth in wonder. “The hell with it,” he spat.
When he brought up the stick, she panicked. Loosing a manic, wailing roar, she turned and crashed into the back of the structure, straining the wood to its limits and splintering it all over the snow beyond.
“DAMN YOU!” Zeke howled, and he shot once more at the thing, taking it in the shoulder. It gave a fierce grunt and pressed on, throwing the knapsack over the other shoulder. Zeke rushed to the gaping hole in his pantry and loosed a flurry of shots, but they all missed their mark by an increasingly wide distance.
She ignored the pain, which subsided into a dull throbbing thanks to the cold. Blood poured from the wound in gushing rivers, so she packed it with clumps of snow to try to stop it. Red snowballs dropped off her arm in a long red trail leading steadily north. She didn’t have any idea how long she’d marched, but she refused to stop. She had to get home, had to get the food home.
Her world spun faster and faster. Her legs were numb. Soon she could no longer see, but she pressed on anyway, in mostly the right direction. And then, like a stone rolled down the side of a hill when its momentum is lost, she simply stopped.
The snow piled high on top of her and the bits of food which had flown out of her pack, strewn in all directions. When she lost consciousness, she dreamed of the man. Of breaking bread with him and taking him on a hunt, where together they caught and killed many beasts. Then they traveled together to her home, where she, her children, and him who was called “Ezekiel” ate and played together. And then the dream passed, as did the dreamer, frozen under the Alaskan snow, perhaps never to be disturbed.
Ezekiel returned to his cabin. He drank the last of his whisky and smoked the last of his opium. With tears in his eyes, he took in the damage to his pantry one last time, the desolation that surrounded him, and he put the rifle in his mouth.
