David Dalglish: A Land of Ash

For a minute, he couldn’t tell what was wrong with the picture, but then it hit him. There were no squirrels. No deer, either. Now that he thought about it, he hadn’t seen any all day. Strange. The woods were usually teaming with the little chatterboxes this time of year. Could there be people in his valley? Maybe they scared off all the game. He’d have to check it out. Squirrels weren’t the only ones who needed to store food for the winter.

He got to his feet, but stumbled as a feeling of vertigo took him and his knee gave way, making him fall on his ass. The years were catching up to him, it seemed. Soon the pain in his knuckles would be so severe he doubted he’d be able to numb them with herbs anymore. But the alternative was unthinkable. He couldn’t go back. Not after so many years out here. He’d just have to deal with—

Strange, the vertigo should have passed when he sat down, but instead it grew even more intense. He stared at the trees in the valley, noting how they, too, seemed to be swaying on unsteady legs. Then he realized the truth.

His legs weren’t unsteady, the ground was.

Earthquake , he thought, and a hum-dinger, too . There hadn’t been a quake in his remote section of eastern Kentucky in years. Not since right after he came here. And none this severe. He looked up and saw that several large rocks had come loose and were bounding down the mountain toward him. He scrambled to his feet and ducked into his cave just as a rock about two feet across slammed the spot where he’d been standing only a moment ago.

Staying in the cave wasn’t smart. If the quake got any worse the whole thing could collapse. But stepping out into a rainstorm of rocks and rubble seemed an equally bad idea. He was just trying to figure out on which death he should take his chances when the quake stopped. It didn’t ease off or slow down to a steady rumble, it just quit, as suddenly as it began.

He stood at the entrance of the cave, listening to the sound of birds as they returned to the valley. Soon the squirrels were back, too. Bouncing along and picking up nuts and acorns. Chattering and running through the valley in their search for food.

Weird. It almost seemed like the animals had been expecting the quake.

He shook the thought from his mind and grabbed his sling. He had a shotgun, but he’d long ago run out of shells. Over the last decade, he’d gotten damn handy with a strip of cloth and a baseball sized rock, though, and he could take out a deer from thirty steps away. He stepped out of the cave and into the valley, reminding himself that food would be scarce in the coming months.

By the time he returned to his cave with half a dozen dead squirrels and a wild turkey slung over his shoulder, he’d forgotten all about the quake.

He sat outside on the ledge, drying the meat over hot coals. He’d need a lot of it to get through the winter. Not that he wouldn’t be able to hunt at all; the game would still be around, there would just be less of it. Far better to have too much dried meat and not need it all than to run out halfway through the winter because he thought a deer might happen by. He was never a boy scout, but he still liked being prepared. After fifteen years on his mountain, he knew how to make it through the cold winter.

Once the meat was suitably dried out, he stuffed it into a pouch. The pouch was made of deerskin and lined with a wax he made by melting animal fats and combining it with tree sap. Completely watertight. He hung it on the back wall, next to half a dozen others. Seven bags of food in all. Still not quite enough. But if he could bag a deer this afternoon, that should make up the difference. He grabbed his sling and a handful of stones, and after a moment took his old BEAR compound bow from the wall and grabbed his three remaining arrows. He tested the string. The wax-coated nylon had held up well. He thought it would last another season or two before he had to replace it. He might be able to make a suitable string out of deer hide, but he didn’t know for sure and hadn’t been willing to risk finding out yet.

Satisfied that he was ready, he stepped out into the sunlight.

The valley stretched out below him, a breathtaking sea of reds, yellows, and oranges. Here and there a few still-green leaves held on to their chlorophyll, and of course the pines and firs still bore green needles, but for the most part the valley looked like God had splashed a bucket of paint on it and walked away. The Appalachian Mountain chain was so beautiful this time of year. He stood at the mouth of his cave, taking in the view.

This is why I left Nashville , he thought. Right here. right now. This could be Heaven.

Except in Heaven, he probably wouldn’t be hungry.

After a few minutes spent admiring the view, he trundled down the side of the mountain, watching for any sign of deer or bear. There were also mountain lions, coyotes, and even a few wolves scattered around the area, so he stayed on full watch. Coyotes would leave him alone unless he looked weak or sick, and wolves would lose him if he took to the trees. But if he met up with a mountain lion...well, he just hoped he didn’t run into one. That was the reason for the bow. He wouldn’t use the arrows on game, it was too easy to lose or break one. But his sling wouldn’t do any good against a hungry cat that outweighed him by eighty pounds.

Once he reached the valley floor, he headed left. About two miles south of his cave was a secluded spring where deer often congregated. It should be easy enough to kill one once he arrived. He didn’t usually go that far while hunting, especially when his hands hurt, but a single deer could finish off his stores and make sure he had enough to eat all winter long. For that kind of peace of mind, he’d make the trip.

About halfway to the spring he noticed the woods around him went quiet again. His feet made a slight crinkle as he walked through the dead pine needles and dried out leaves, not even fifteen years could erase all the sounds of his passage, but his steps sounded a little louder without the background noise of the woods to diffuse it.

He stopped to listen. Nothing. Not a single bird, squirrel, or even field mouse made its presence known. Weird. It felt almost like the animals were afraid.

Then he heard it. Animals. Big ones. Somewhere behind him, and not far. Not the high pitched yip of a coyote, but the deeper, stronger bark of wolves. He turned around just in time to see a big one leap through the trees twenty yards away and run right at him. An instant later, two more bounded from the brush.

Shit.

He turned and ran, hoping to get to a sturdy pine about fifty feet away. The low branch would be perfect to haul himself up, if only he could get there. The sounds of the wolves at his back grew louder, their barks and yips coming closer to his heels. By the sound of it, several more wolves had joined the first three. The entire pack must be right behind him, but he didn’t want to turn his head and risk tripping over a root or rock.

Twenty five feet to go. The first wolf was only a few feet behind him. He would never make it.

So this is how it ends , he thought.

The first wolf was right on top of him. He could hear the big canine’s labored breath. He could almost feel it on the back of his neck. A few more steps and those teeth would be in his calf, or his hamstring, or maybe even the back of his neck. In his last seconds, he whispered a prayer, asking for a quick death. Just a few steps more...

The wolf ran by him without stopping. The other wolves in the pack did likewise.

It took him a moment to realize he wasn’t dead yet, but as the fourth wolf passed him by without so much as a glance he reached the pine. Not willing to take a chance on any of the other wolves, he grabbed the branch and hauled himself up. He reached for the next branch and pulled himself up on that one, too. Then just to be safe, he went up one more level. That should be high enough, he thought.