the rising of the sun / the running of the deer
Nov 19, 2018 13:30:42 GMT -5
via mobile
The Anarchist, Kyle Shane, and 1 more like this
Post by Grimm on Nov 19, 2018 13:30:42 GMT -5
The first snow came early that year.
But he held to tradition. He rose in the dark and padded across the room to the stove, where he winced down cold dregs of coffee left from the day before. Back to his bedside, where he ransacked the dresser for long underwear and thick woolen socks and coveralls and scarves, and then, suitably bundled, took a burlap sack off a peg by the door and trundled out into the morning.
His work could be written off as a personal quirk, but he knew it went deeper than that. Even if he didn’t understand all of it.
He stepped out into more of a wintry mix, really, but snow was snow and the task was the task. And so the man took his round-about ways to the woods. He knew the stories as well as anyone but followed the usual precautions so as to make certain he remained outside the boundaries. Of course he had.
Right?
Through the underbrush and briers into the forest proper. Pulling a freshly sharpened pair of garden shears from one of the voluminous pockets of the coveralls, he went to work.
There were tasks which one performed every day, and there were tasks meant to mark the seasons. To signify a changing throughout the year. To give meaning to what could easily be waved off as meaningless. And some of those tasks were contingent on others. This man, for example, was a green grocer whose job it was to cut holly, ivy, boxwood, and other such festive blooms which he fashioned into wreaths and garlands to sell in town. Which, in turn, were used in some manner of winter pursuit. Whether it be a modern commercialized observation or one of the…older ways, they all needed their greenery. Because even when those ancient traditions fell under the sway of too much wassail, too much pent-up energy in the coldest, darkest days, when they erupted in violence, they still needed to look festive.
Oh, and speaking of violence…
No.
… like, say, an altercation of a physical nature…
Don’t you dare.
…even one in which the outcome may not matter in the grand scheme of things, or may result in a complete debacle of shapeless chaos…
You know how much this pains me.
…well, one should never underestimate the body’s desire to survive, and the ego’s drive to succeed at whatever the appointed assignment. Even if such an assignment involved multiple bodies and just as many egos, in unfamiliar pairings of enemies facing off against worse enemies. No one would be surprised if there were no clear-cut victory or defeat. It would be a shock if there were. Even so, at this level, with these four men, well, there would be no foregone conclusions.
Worst. Segue. Ever.
Gee, where did that come from? Guess there’s plenty of time to think out here in the woods. Up here in the hills. In here, in Hangtown.
Anyway.
The man kept climbing. He kept cutting, and stuffing it all down into the sack. And then the mix tapered off, and turned into full-bore snow. Silent waves of it, quickly covering all. And then…a horn blast. A hunter calling his hounds, perhaps? The man didn’t know that was still a thing. There were tales of a phantom hunter, or a wild huntsman – but come on.
Next came a whistling, the likes of which he’d never heard from any bird. And visions of beasts in the snow. A fox. A boar. A horned serpent. Yet still he climbed.
Reaching the top of the hill, the man lurched onto a barren ridge where winds hammered him. On the far side stood a thick copse of birch trees. The winds buffeted the trees and brought to the man a smell. Old rot? Definitely nothing fresh about it, he knew that much.
The man stood his ground. A shape formed in the trees and stepped out. A great gray ghost of a stag? No. Another man, cloaked in a pelt, a hood of skin, edged in dried blood so dark as to be black against the snow. Great ragged horns sprouted from the hood, and he walked as some kind of precursor. A Paleolithic magician from when these hills were the subject of whispers, and avoided by the ancient peoples who moved through on buffalo traces.
The being was thin, but not the emaciated figure he would have expected it to be. It was wiry, true, but as if its muscles were merely wrapped tight in its frame. Then an odd moment of clarity cut through the abject terror. He knew this person.
Clearly, Phinehas Dillinger had his own traditions that went well beyond simply walking his boundaries.
The Horned God / Phinehas strode towards him, and stopped in front of the green grocer. The green grocer placed a sprig of holly on a rock at his feet. Phinehas took it, held it up, then leaned in. He looked into the man’s eyes, and the man saw winter and a great fire and famine. The Horned God sniffed, pulled a handful of ashes out its cloak, and blew it in the man’s face. He didn’t so much as go insane as become enlightened with any number of ancestral insights.
Even so, once he’d rubbed the soot out of his eyes, the holly was gone and boot prints had circled back into the birches.
The man hoped it was all worth it.
But he held to tradition. He rose in the dark and padded across the room to the stove, where he winced down cold dregs of coffee left from the day before. Back to his bedside, where he ransacked the dresser for long underwear and thick woolen socks and coveralls and scarves, and then, suitably bundled, took a burlap sack off a peg by the door and trundled out into the morning.
His work could be written off as a personal quirk, but he knew it went deeper than that. Even if he didn’t understand all of it.
He stepped out into more of a wintry mix, really, but snow was snow and the task was the task. And so the man took his round-about ways to the woods. He knew the stories as well as anyone but followed the usual precautions so as to make certain he remained outside the boundaries. Of course he had.
Right?
Through the underbrush and briers into the forest proper. Pulling a freshly sharpened pair of garden shears from one of the voluminous pockets of the coveralls, he went to work.
There were tasks which one performed every day, and there were tasks meant to mark the seasons. To signify a changing throughout the year. To give meaning to what could easily be waved off as meaningless. And some of those tasks were contingent on others. This man, for example, was a green grocer whose job it was to cut holly, ivy, boxwood, and other such festive blooms which he fashioned into wreaths and garlands to sell in town. Which, in turn, were used in some manner of winter pursuit. Whether it be a modern commercialized observation or one of the…older ways, they all needed their greenery. Because even when those ancient traditions fell under the sway of too much wassail, too much pent-up energy in the coldest, darkest days, when they erupted in violence, they still needed to look festive.
Oh, and speaking of violence…
No.
… like, say, an altercation of a physical nature…
Don’t you dare.
…even one in which the outcome may not matter in the grand scheme of things, or may result in a complete debacle of shapeless chaos…
You know how much this pains me.
…well, one should never underestimate the body’s desire to survive, and the ego’s drive to succeed at whatever the appointed assignment. Even if such an assignment involved multiple bodies and just as many egos, in unfamiliar pairings of enemies facing off against worse enemies. No one would be surprised if there were no clear-cut victory or defeat. It would be a shock if there were. Even so, at this level, with these four men, well, there would be no foregone conclusions.
Worst. Segue. Ever.
Gee, where did that come from? Guess there’s plenty of time to think out here in the woods. Up here in the hills. In here, in Hangtown.
Anyway.
The man kept climbing. He kept cutting, and stuffing it all down into the sack. And then the mix tapered off, and turned into full-bore snow. Silent waves of it, quickly covering all. And then…a horn blast. A hunter calling his hounds, perhaps? The man didn’t know that was still a thing. There were tales of a phantom hunter, or a wild huntsman – but come on.
Next came a whistling, the likes of which he’d never heard from any bird. And visions of beasts in the snow. A fox. A boar. A horned serpent. Yet still he climbed.
Reaching the top of the hill, the man lurched onto a barren ridge where winds hammered him. On the far side stood a thick copse of birch trees. The winds buffeted the trees and brought to the man a smell. Old rot? Definitely nothing fresh about it, he knew that much.
The man stood his ground. A shape formed in the trees and stepped out. A great gray ghost of a stag? No. Another man, cloaked in a pelt, a hood of skin, edged in dried blood so dark as to be black against the snow. Great ragged horns sprouted from the hood, and he walked as some kind of precursor. A Paleolithic magician from when these hills were the subject of whispers, and avoided by the ancient peoples who moved through on buffalo traces.
The being was thin, but not the emaciated figure he would have expected it to be. It was wiry, true, but as if its muscles were merely wrapped tight in its frame. Then an odd moment of clarity cut through the abject terror. He knew this person.
Clearly, Phinehas Dillinger had his own traditions that went well beyond simply walking his boundaries.
The Horned God / Phinehas strode towards him, and stopped in front of the green grocer. The green grocer placed a sprig of holly on a rock at his feet. Phinehas took it, held it up, then leaned in. He looked into the man’s eyes, and the man saw winter and a great fire and famine. The Horned God sniffed, pulled a handful of ashes out its cloak, and blew it in the man’s face. He didn’t so much as go insane as become enlightened with any number of ancestral insights.
Even so, once he’d rubbed the soot out of his eyes, the holly was gone and boot prints had circled back into the birches.
The man hoped it was all worth it.
