Crescent Valley

Crescent Valley

Nicholas Storey

 

                A light breeze. Falling leaves. Light frost on the tree bark. The ground was moist, and stiff. The air smelled of pine, and smoke from the chimney. No meat, though. Not yet. Town was too far away, he would starve long before reaching the general store. Rather, Gerald would have to go into the forest in search of food. For prey. He often wondered if they were watching him all along. Waiting for their chance. How would they do it? Would they ambush him in the darkest part of the forest that he’d dare venture into. Would they cut his throat, or eat him fully alive. Perhaps they’d drag him off, to their den, or his. Or perhaps they’d ignore him entirely, and take the opportunity of his absence to get what they really wanted, without him to stop them.

 

                Gerald knew the risk he was taking every time. Every time he left for town. Every time he went out hunting, just to survive. Every time he so much as opened the door, he risked it all. But he had no choice. If he let himself starve he’d fail his mission, just the same as if they killed him. Gerald often thought of it as a paradox in the simplest form: stay inside and starve, or go outside and be mutilated. Neither seemed overly appealing, but he often didn’t go outside until his supplies were completely gone and his belly pushed him to near insanity. The insanity helped. A sane man would never go out into these woods knowing what dwelled there. No way in hell.

 

            He looked around the cabin, checking to make sure he’d nailed all the boards over the windows and the cellar. He liked to put his bookcase on top of the cellar, too. He set his bed, and blew out the lamp. Just as he always did. He packed his bag, taking the last of his food with him. Stale bread as usual. He always managed to convince himself that he’d go back to town again in a couple weeks, so he would proceed to eat like a king for those couple weeks. Two weeks later when his supply was running low he would just resort to bread, which, by then, was plenty stale and dry. But it kept him from starving, and from going out. Any excuse to stay inside was music to his ears.

 

            He finished packing, put on his fur coat and hat, and picked up his rifle. It was dusty, his rifle. He sometimes wondered if it’d even fire when he needed it to. Or if it’d only fire when he didn’t truly need it. As if it were against him, too. And why not? Everyone else was. Crazy talk, he thought. It’ll fire, and I’ll still have my knife. It may be small and rusty, but it was special. His father had given him the knife, saying that it had been passed down a hundred generations. Gerald thought that was a total crock, and that his father had bought it at a local smith just for Gerald. Ancient or not, the knife was still special.

 

            He took a deep breath, knowing it could be his last, but doubting it, and lifted the bar on the door. Opening the door, he readied his knife with a death grip on it. Ready to take it with him. He knew he didn’t stand a chance, he was just a man. Not even very strong. The years in the cabin had made him smaller and weaker than he once was. He waited and neither saw nor heard anything. So he stepped out, and stood still. Watching for movement, listening for footsteps and breathing. Once again, he was in luck.

 

            The path to town was long and treacherous, with thick trees and bushes on both sides. Perfect for an ambush at any moment. Gerald used to fear the path like it were the jaws of a giant monster, just waiting to swallow him whole. For some time he’d realized that there was nothing he could do if he were ambushed on the narrow path, and so, he was almost calm and care-free on his long walk. With the exception of the occasional chill down his spine whenever he’d so much as think of what horror waited behind the next tree. What gruesome death awaited in the next bush. Or what terror stalked him from behind.

 

            He tried not to think about it. He tried to focus on the journey ahead, and the joy of seeing other people for a change. He would have a drink at the bar. A trip to the general store would bring a nice profit from his deer pelts from the fall. He could buy all the bread, cheese, and salted pork he could carry. He might even get a real meal. Roast beef and mushrooms, he thought.

 

            It was almost dark. Gerald had traveled since the break of dawn. Another reminder of winter were these short, cold days. Town wasn’t far off, though. He could see the faint light from the watchman’s torch. It was not a large town, but it had everything anyone could need from one. A general store, a bar, and sturdy walls to keep the cold out. A virtual paradise.

 

“Wake up, Gerald!”

            Gerald awoke to the sight of his brother, Erik, in the middle of the night. He held an oil lamp, and with it Gerald could see the fear in his eyes clear as day.

“What is it?”

“There’re people at the door. They’re yelling at father. They say they want to hurt me.”

“What for? You haven’t done anything wrong, have you?”

“They say I’m a monster. That I’ve killed people. Eaten them, even.”

“That’s ridiculous! We have to tell them they’re mad. They must have you confused for someone else.”

“I don’t think they’ll listen, Gerald. They seem very upset.”

“Get father, he’ll know what to do.”

“Father’s keeping them at the door. He said to come get you and leave.”

“Leave? We can’t just up and leave because of a few mad men think you’re some monster!”

“Father said to leave no matter what. With or without you.”

Suddenly a window burst down the hallway, a torch flew in and began to burn the silk curtains and antique rug.

“They must be mad! Grab your coat, Erik. I’ll get father.”

More torches broke the windows downstairs. The enraged mob attempted to break in through the oak backdoor, to no avail. Gerald avoided the spreading fire and ran towards the front door to get his father to stop trying to reason with these maniacs. Until he heard the gunshot. His heart skipped a beat. Gerald peered through the window beside the front door, to see his father lifeless on the muddy ground outside. He almost panicked and ran out to confront the murderers. But fear gripped him instead, and he rushed back upstairs to his room and grabbed his coat, and yelled for Erik. They made their way out the backdoor, which, luckily was now safe. And so they ran.

 

            Gerald woke with ale in one hand and a pool of drool in the other. He had dozed off in the bar and remembered the night that had led him to this life. He wished it were different. He wished he could take it all back. But what would he do? Abandon his brother? No. He couldn’t have. He can’t.

 

            Gerald proceeded to the general store, feeling fortunate that he hadn’t lost his pelts in his drunken state. He got his bread, his cheese, and his salted pork. There was money left to get that meal he wanted, and so he did. It was the best roast beef and mushroom meal he’d had in over twenty years. Just like mother used to make, he thought.

 

He’d stayed at the local inn for the night, and when dawn broke he slowly gathered his belongings, in no hurry to begin the journey back to that damned cabin. He said his goodbyes to the townsfolk, and stepped back onto the dirt path for what seemed like the thousandth time. He always remembered the leaving most. That was the part he hated most.

 

            Gerald felt much more relaxed on the return trip, a good meal always helped him feel better about reality. Every bush he passed seem less of a home for horror, every tree less a turn of terror. And he didn’t once look back. He felt calm, like nothing could go wrong. After all, he’d made it this long without meeting the end. Why now?

 

            The old cabin came within sight at last, and he slowed his leisurely pace just a little more. For once he wanted to look out at the forest without fear gripping his heart, causing him to miss all the beauty of his surroundings. The clear, blue sky. The falling orange and yellow leaves of the late fall season. The singing birds, whom he never heard very much from his secluded cabin. He wouldn’t be back here until after winter, he thought.

 

            He finally had made it home alive, contrary to his original idea of how the day would go. As he approached the door he heard what sounded like light footsteps in the grass behind him. He quickly swung open the door, ran in and slammed the door behind him. He secured the bar to the door of course, he had it there for a reason. Relieved, he looked the bookshelf to grab one of his old favorites to read by the fire and relax. To his horror, he found the back window to be broken through. They must’ve worked on it all day to get the board loose. The bookshelf had been thrown into the corner, and the cellar door was wide open. It was over.

 

 

Erik Blackburn, 1576

Author's Note

My first attempt at writing, just had to get an idea out there before it was lost.

Reviews

[Brenda Storey]

I loved it! I found it entertaining, nicely written with a slightly humorous tone to it. Do you have any more stories to share?