A Man's Walk Home

Part One: Michigan

He was walking up the hill now. The one that rolls up above the birch trees and gives a man a clear view of the Jordan River. He had walked up this hill many times with his dad. It was here that his father taught him how to hold a rifle and that he should aim just behind the buck’s front legs and above the chest. A good hunter took a buck down with one shot. This, his father had taught him on the hill.

He could see his breath and the snow was brittle beneath his feet. It will be good to see dad again, he thought, and mom. It had been nearly two years since he had enlisted with his buddy Jim and they had been shipped off to Paris and then to the Front. Jim was in a hospital right now down in Ohio. He had lost his foot in the trenches – said his boot had gotten stuck in the mud. He was a hell of a runner, Jim, hell of a soldier too.

His house was just north of Mancelona, where the bus had dropped him off, and the sun was beginning to sink now. Only a few hours until he would be home with mom and dad. Damn, it had been a long time.

On the hill he could see out among the empty birches and he could see a doe picking its way through the snow and walking gingerly across patches of ice. He took a cigarette out of his jacket pocket and patted around his waist looking for the damn matches. He lit his cigarette and took a long drag and leaned his head back as he exhaled the smoke. The doe was walking along the banks of the river now and was grazing along its side. He traced the river with his eyes.
About a hundred yards past the deer he saw a man. He looked to be fishing and he looked to be uncomfortable in the cold. Must be a local property owner, he thought. Looks like he needs a cigarette or a nip. It’s too cold to be fishing without something to warm the blood.

He walked down the hill and he could now hear the river running between the frozen surfaces reaching inward from either bank. The deer stopped as he approached. She watched him for a brief moment and bounded off – her feet slipping awkwardly on the ice as she made her way among the birch trees. It was slightly comical; though he knew her fear. She was surviving.
The man was looking over at him now. The setting sun cast a shadow over his face. “It’s too dammed cold to be fishing,” he shouted. “I don’t think you’ll be getting any bites.”

The man looked down the line of his pole which had been cast to where the water was running. The man nodded slowly and looked back towards him. He was closer now and he could see the man more clearly. He was balding. He had a thick gray beard and his nose was round and close to his face. What’s wrong with his eye, he thought. It was swollen shut and there was a fresh cut that began at his brow and ended at his cheek and blood had stained his mustache.

“Are you all right?” He asked.

“Couldn’t be better.” The man’s single gaze was fixed and met the other with hostility.

“Well, your eye...”

“Something wrong with my eye?” The man held his gaze and then looked back at his pole. “It’s nothing.”

“You need a smoke?”

“Like hell.” He handed the man a pack of cigarettes and a book of matches. The man took out a cigarette and rested it on his lower lip as he lit it. The man put the pack in his jacket pocket.

“Oh, uh, yeah. You can keep those.”

“Obliged,” said the man. He had a sarcastic grin on his lips and it balanced the cigarette nicely. “Got any socks in that bag of yours? The wet has gotten to my feet.”

He had almost forgotten about the bag on his back. He had grown accustomed to its weight. “Of course,” he said. He kicked away the snow a bit and put the bag down. He opened up the worn flap and loosened the drawstring opening. He could feel the man’s gaze. That one eye was looking him over. He could feel it.

“Here.” The man stood up and approached him. Damn, he’s big, he thought.

“Thanks.” The man had the same sarcastic grin as he took the wool socks. The smoke from the man’s cigarette curled around his face. His brow twitched and he did not move. The two men stood about a foot apart. The sun was sinking behind the hills and out in the distance a dog was barking.

He picked up his bag from the snow and slung it across his back. “You going somewhere?” The man asked him. The river was gurgling as it ran between icy banks and the wind whistled through the empty birch trees.

“Home,” he responded. Something hard was shoved into his gut – a long, cold piece of metal.

“Give me the bag,” said the man. He cocked the trigger of his pistol.

“Please, put the gun away. You have no reason to kill me.”

“Do I need one? The bag.”

He put his bag on the ground.

“You’re gonna make a fire,” said the man, “and I’m gonna let you cook us a
good meal on account of your kindness. The cigarettes and socks and what.”

“I need the matches,” he said. The man dug in his pocket and tossed the matches at him. The man kept his gun firm. “Wood?” The man motioned his gun to a small pile of logs.

“Hurry,” the man said, “the sun’s goin’ down.”


Part Two: The Meal

The fire was made now and the smoke wafted and escaped into the night sky. There was fish cooking in the fire. He had gutted two small steelhead that the man had caught. He had skewered them and propped them up to roast. The man was watching him; his gun was steady. He thought about the doe and how it had managed to run away despite the precarious ice. The man was sitting on his bag and smoking his cigarettes. Bastard, he thought. He looked up into the sky and tried to ascertain the path of the smoke. Damn, it’s cold. He reached into his jacket for his flask. He felt the olivewood handle of his folded knife and rubbed it contemplatively. Not yet. He pulled out the flask, uncapped it and tossed back a swallow. The man’s eye brightened and seemed to distort with the light of the open flame.

“What is it you got there?” The man asked. His sarcastic smile was dry and he licked his lips. His swollen eye had become invisible in the hollow contours of his face.

“Chartreuse. Got it just before I shoved off from Paris. Monks make it. Doubt you’d like it, though. It’s a bit strong.”

“Gimme a nip.” The man eagerly extended his free hand and kept his gun firm. He took a long deep swig and gasped in delight as he swallowed.

“Might wanna take it slow. It’s a bit strong.”

“I know how to drink my shar-trooze. Don’t matter who make it.” The man took another swig. Then another. He was licking his lips between swallows and rocking back his head.

“It’s spicy stuff, idnit?” Said the man. His gun was still up but he was gesticulating with it while he spoke. Behind the man he saw the moon. It was high above the birch trees and brightened the snow. The smoke from the fire seemed to catch in the dark clouds as they passed through the sky. “What’s your name, anyhow?” The man asked.

“Guy.”

“What kind of name is Gee?”

“It’s French. My grandfather was a trapper.”

“Well I’m Peter. Got a good German name. Means rock or something,” said the man. His face was flush. “Your granddaddy play with them Indians?” Asked Peter.

“I don’t know. I would assume...” he said.

“Gee...” Peter laughed. His eye was growing heavy. “Never heard of such a name.”

He watched Peter closely. The gun was now resting listlessly on his knee and reflecting the light of the fire. Still too soon, he thought. Even a drunk could land a shot.

“Well, Gee” said Peter, “that was some mighty fine hootch.” Peter burped and tossed the empty flask back at him.

Expensive too, he thought. He saw Peter’s eye shutting and then opening quickly. Please fall asleep. Just close that damn eye of yours. Just close it. Buffoon drank too damn much of that chartreuse.

“Yup,” said Peter, “my daddy was a German. Big guy. A sailor, I think.” His speech was slow and he seemed to juggle his consonants. Peter yawned and he could smell the alcohol on his breath even at a distance.

He looked out towards the hill – the one that rolled up above the birch trees. He thought he saw the doe. He squinted his eyes but it was gone, if indeed it had been there. Damn smart deer, he thought. The country really was beautiful, no doubt about it. He had always heard that France was nice too, but he didn’t see it. Could have been the trench gas, he thought. He smiled. If he did die, better here than there.

A snore. He looked up at Peter. His head was back and his mouth was open. The gun was in the snow by his boot. Now.

“Peter, the fish is cooked,” he tested. There was no response. Damn fool.

He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the knife. He unfolded the blade from its olivewood handle and approached the sleeping drunk. His heart was pounding and he could feel the snow crunching under his boots. He feared with every step that he would wake the man.

Peter was sitting on his bag. He reached for the leather strap and grasped it with his left hand. In his right he held the knife steady, though the rest of his body was shaking. He pulled slowly. He didn’t want to wake Peter. A flask of chartreuse was strong, but not that strong. His heart was racing now and his whole body jolted with adrenaline. He jerked the bag from under Peter and in an instant the man awoke. Peter had fallen on his back and grabbed at his leg and tried to pull him down. With a quick strike he jammed the knife into Peter’s eye and stumbled forward. He found his feet and pulled the bag around his shoulder and ran. Peter was clutching at the snow and throwing whatever he could get a hold of. The blood stained the white powder and was a sickly brick color in the firelight.

“Gee, you son of a *****!” The knife was still firmly planted into his eye. He was grasping at the olive-handle but he was unwilling to pull it out.

The man was disappearing behind him. His heart was pounding as he ran through the birch trees. He kept his eyes forward and his feet moving and the snow was heavy and precarious under his boots. A good hunter needed one shot. His father had taught him that.

I enjoyed this. I think your bare style gives it atmosphere. There are some lovely touches here that created the scenes in my mind..."He had a sarcastic grin on his lips and it balanced the cigarette nicely" for example.

The only criticism of it is it feels a little random. Maybe you could give the reader a small insight into Peter. This is just what I feel anyway. Well done though, you are a good story-teller.

Thank you. I thought about his motive but felt discussing it took the focus away from the narrative. Though, you seemed to be bothered by it – and I was rather conscience of it myself – so I may rework it in a few days.

A great piece - just enough fragments of information to keep us curious yet plenty of gaps for the readers to fill in the blanks with their own imaginings. I don't see there's much need to flesh out Peter's backstory, unless he decides to tell Guy how he came by his injuries.

Having said that the cut to his eye is almost an exact foreshadowing of his eventual demise so perhaps it's best left as it is.

H

My only real quibble with this story is the repeated and unvaried use of "The Man" for such a large section of the story, until he is finally identified as Peter. A few other terms like, the fisherman, the stranger, etc. might have broken this up a bit. Still, it was an engaging tale, although I kind of expected the ex-soldier to have killed his assailant rather than just run away, but this is not a criticism, merely an observation. I think your take on the situation might well be more realistic than contemporary fiction has accustomed us to.

Wow, I liked it. It was a fun read. I am glad I read it.

Areas that I thought could be improved were insignificant. I agree with the above post that repeated descriptive words "he" and "the man" were repeated too many times. Very strong areas were the suspense and the effectiveness of the detail describing the environment - WOW!!!

Was the ending just to leave us with suspense or did I miss something?