Post by the Schadenfreude on Mar 11, 2021 13:41:28 GMT -5
“You are dead.”
Schadenfreude froze; his knife ready to swipe the left fin from the fish he was cleaning. His eyes narrowed and he drew a slow breath. Slowly, he turned his head to face the crackling flames.
“Excuse me?” Twinkling bewilderment reflected in his eyes.
In the months that he had escaped away into this wilderness, he had spoken with the trees at some length; he had shared his hopes and dreams with the stars; he had even been lulled to sleep by the melody of the nearby stream.
Not one time had the fire spoken to him. Ever.
And, much to his dismay, it refused to repeat itself.
He finished preparing his breakfast; a fillet from the fish and tea that he had brewed from bedstraw, nettles, and chickweed leaves. Continuing his routine, he buried the remaining fillets to remain cold in the ground, put his bag over his shoulder, and gathered the gills and guts to take beachcombing with him.
“North, today,” he said aloud, and then he went. “The stockpile is getting thin.”
Searching the ground with his eyes, he walked until the fire disappeared over the horizon behind him. Then he stopped, rubbed the sweat from his eyes, and checked his distance over his shoulder. Then, he double-checked, as far as he could see, panning over the sand once more. His chest filled slowly and held as he examined the ground before him. Driftwood and mismatched flip-flops of all sizes strewn everywhere between the salty waves and the trees, but that was it.
“Nothing,” he exhaled with a shrug.
Another mile and there were no plastic bottles and there were no bundles of rope; there was nothing useful; there were no surprise finds.
“I’m sorry,” he dropped to one knee at the edge of the tide and retrieved the leaf he had wrapped the entrails.
“Uh oh,” the leaf had slipped open and needed to be wrapped back up, “where’s the kidney?” He drew another great breath; and, though he was facing in the direction he had come, he closed his eyes tight.
“Maybe,” he choked down a dry gulp and commenced breathing, “I dropped it.”
He went on with his day but would come to regret his discipline; limiting, not only his concern but the amount of thought that he allowed the empty beach and missing kidney. For soon, that daily routine came to heading back. When his cooking camp broke the horizon, Schadenfreude stopped fast, instantly.
Wolves. Half a pack of them. The smoldering fire not enough to keep them from their primal instinct, drawn by the smell of the fresh organ left behind.
Though he was more than far enough away, he ducked behind a large, sun-baked tree-trunk. There, he went to work concealed. With a torch and spear he could easily fight off two and the fire would chase the others away. He retrieved his binoculars from his bag; there were three of them and they had already dug up most of his food stores.
The sun was slowly dipping into the ocean as he crept along the tree line. Sure of his plan, confident in his skills, ready to kill or be killed, he meant to attack. As he readied to strike his torch, however, a huge roar hit him directly in the chest and he ducked behind another uprooted tree.
The wolves were now right smack in the middle, between him and a snarling black bear.
Even so, and despite their numbers, the pack understood their chances against the hungry bear. Schadenfreude didn’t stand a chance. He was taking cover in their sure retreat though and, soon enough, was caught between them.
The bear still couldn’t see him; not that it cared, having cleared the camp. The wolves stopped in their surrender, just feet from him, and now, they pressured him backward against the view-obscuring log. What the bear likely saw were three wolves standing their ground opposite a log, so to finally send them fleeing, it leaned its front paws atop the log and roared. So loud a roar that it shook the entire beach.
The wolves gone, Schadenfreude still had no choice but to watch. The bear ate the meat he had buried, spitting out the stones used to separate the layers. Next, the bear rolled his fish basket to shore, busted it to splinters, and ate the live fish within. Leaving only fish heads and tails, with its belly full, the bear retired back into the trees from which it came.
With the sun nearly gone, there wasn’t much he could do but return to his shelter. He gave the bear plenty of time, gathering up his entire holding of bedstraw, nettles, and chickweed. The wolves had no interest in it and the bear could get all it would want up on the mountain. Not a bit of fish or rabbit remained in any of the holes.
“All because of a kidney,” he shook his head, tightening the straps of his pack.
That night, Schadenfreude awoke suddenly. He sat straight up from a dead sleep, briefly he listened, but almost immediately he pinched his nose. The fetid smell of rotten flesh burning is unmistakable.
He never cooks at his shelter and he checked that nothing had gotten into the fire, but somewhere, something burned. He opened the door and did his best to get a view of the beach, there was no fire there at all. Scanning the mountain behind his lean-to cabin, he found more of the same.
“Nothing,” he mumbled under his breath as he secured the door.
The smell was overwhelming and kept him up to the point he was soon geared up to go and locate the source, even if it meant hiking this terrain at night. Not that he wasn’t familiar with the lay of the land, but bears and wolves aren’t the only maneaters in these woods. Cougars hunt silently in the dark.
At dawn, he hadn’t crossed any cougars, bears, or wolves in the night and, as the sun rose, the smell subsided. He was exhausted by the time he returned to his cooking shelter on the beach. There were no fish, only a busted trap. His reserves were as depleted as his face was of color. He was hungry all the same, so he gathered up some limpets and prepared a fire. With his belly somewhat full, he sat watching the Pacific roll.
“I’ve been having a tough few days...”
“Is that a fact?” Schadenfreude simply responded. Then, every hair on his arms stood at attention. “Tell me about it.”
“...I want to be hit by someone...”
He continued to look into the ocean, the fire crackling not six feet away, slightly behind him and to his left.
“...I want to hit someone!”
“Why would you want to do that?”
“...call it, nervous energy...”
“Okay...”
“...and maybe, you do too.”
It was just a fire, one he had lit every morning for nearly, well, for, “Over a year now.” He had left Tokyo after the train, returned to The States in August, and came up here in October. “Two winters,” it dawned on him. He went into solitude, cutting himself off from the world as if it had caught the plague. To reflect, regroup, and, one day, to return; was this day to be the day? “I believe so,” he answered the internal interrogation.
“...let’s do what we want...”
“No.”
“...take it out on each other...”
“You’re just that burning inside of me to compete,” he shook his head, “I still have a lot to prove to myself out here.”
“...see what we can earn.”
“Yeah,” it was like a magic word, and the thought of making money raised his brow. He hadn’t thought about it the entire time he had been away. He hadn’t needed cash to thrive out here, just primal instinct and practiced skill.
“The plan has always been to return and, yes, I do want to hit someone. A few people actually,” Schadenfreude nodded, “And, who knows, maybe this time, I’ll get Lucky.”
Schadenfreude froze; his knife ready to swipe the left fin from the fish he was cleaning. His eyes narrowed and he drew a slow breath. Slowly, he turned his head to face the crackling flames.
“Excuse me?” Twinkling bewilderment reflected in his eyes.
In the months that he had escaped away into this wilderness, he had spoken with the trees at some length; he had shared his hopes and dreams with the stars; he had even been lulled to sleep by the melody of the nearby stream.
Not one time had the fire spoken to him. Ever.
And, much to his dismay, it refused to repeat itself.
He finished preparing his breakfast; a fillet from the fish and tea that he had brewed from bedstraw, nettles, and chickweed leaves. Continuing his routine, he buried the remaining fillets to remain cold in the ground, put his bag over his shoulder, and gathered the gills and guts to take beachcombing with him.
“North, today,” he said aloud, and then he went. “The stockpile is getting thin.”
Searching the ground with his eyes, he walked until the fire disappeared over the horizon behind him. Then he stopped, rubbed the sweat from his eyes, and checked his distance over his shoulder. Then, he double-checked, as far as he could see, panning over the sand once more. His chest filled slowly and held as he examined the ground before him. Driftwood and mismatched flip-flops of all sizes strewn everywhere between the salty waves and the trees, but that was it.
“Nothing,” he exhaled with a shrug.
Another mile and there were no plastic bottles and there were no bundles of rope; there was nothing useful; there were no surprise finds.
“I’m sorry,” he dropped to one knee at the edge of the tide and retrieved the leaf he had wrapped the entrails.
“Uh oh,” the leaf had slipped open and needed to be wrapped back up, “where’s the kidney?” He drew another great breath; and, though he was facing in the direction he had come, he closed his eyes tight.
“Maybe,” he choked down a dry gulp and commenced breathing, “I dropped it.”
He went on with his day but would come to regret his discipline; limiting, not only his concern but the amount of thought that he allowed the empty beach and missing kidney. For soon, that daily routine came to heading back. When his cooking camp broke the horizon, Schadenfreude stopped fast, instantly.
Wolves. Half a pack of them. The smoldering fire not enough to keep them from their primal instinct, drawn by the smell of the fresh organ left behind.
Though he was more than far enough away, he ducked behind a large, sun-baked tree-trunk. There, he went to work concealed. With a torch and spear he could easily fight off two and the fire would chase the others away. He retrieved his binoculars from his bag; there were three of them and they had already dug up most of his food stores.
The sun was slowly dipping into the ocean as he crept along the tree line. Sure of his plan, confident in his skills, ready to kill or be killed, he meant to attack. As he readied to strike his torch, however, a huge roar hit him directly in the chest and he ducked behind another uprooted tree.
The wolves were now right smack in the middle, between him and a snarling black bear.
Even so, and despite their numbers, the pack understood their chances against the hungry bear. Schadenfreude didn’t stand a chance. He was taking cover in their sure retreat though and, soon enough, was caught between them.
The bear still couldn’t see him; not that it cared, having cleared the camp. The wolves stopped in their surrender, just feet from him, and now, they pressured him backward against the view-obscuring log. What the bear likely saw were three wolves standing their ground opposite a log, so to finally send them fleeing, it leaned its front paws atop the log and roared. So loud a roar that it shook the entire beach.
The wolves gone, Schadenfreude still had no choice but to watch. The bear ate the meat he had buried, spitting out the stones used to separate the layers. Next, the bear rolled his fish basket to shore, busted it to splinters, and ate the live fish within. Leaving only fish heads and tails, with its belly full, the bear retired back into the trees from which it came.
With the sun nearly gone, there wasn’t much he could do but return to his shelter. He gave the bear plenty of time, gathering up his entire holding of bedstraw, nettles, and chickweed. The wolves had no interest in it and the bear could get all it would want up on the mountain. Not a bit of fish or rabbit remained in any of the holes.
“All because of a kidney,” he shook his head, tightening the straps of his pack.
That night, Schadenfreude awoke suddenly. He sat straight up from a dead sleep, briefly he listened, but almost immediately he pinched his nose. The fetid smell of rotten flesh burning is unmistakable.
He never cooks at his shelter and he checked that nothing had gotten into the fire, but somewhere, something burned. He opened the door and did his best to get a view of the beach, there was no fire there at all. Scanning the mountain behind his lean-to cabin, he found more of the same.
“Nothing,” he mumbled under his breath as he secured the door.
The smell was overwhelming and kept him up to the point he was soon geared up to go and locate the source, even if it meant hiking this terrain at night. Not that he wasn’t familiar with the lay of the land, but bears and wolves aren’t the only maneaters in these woods. Cougars hunt silently in the dark.
At dawn, he hadn’t crossed any cougars, bears, or wolves in the night and, as the sun rose, the smell subsided. He was exhausted by the time he returned to his cooking shelter on the beach. There were no fish, only a busted trap. His reserves were as depleted as his face was of color. He was hungry all the same, so he gathered up some limpets and prepared a fire. With his belly somewhat full, he sat watching the Pacific roll.
“I’ve been having a tough few days...”
“Is that a fact?” Schadenfreude simply responded. Then, every hair on his arms stood at attention. “Tell me about it.”
“...I want to be hit by someone...”
He continued to look into the ocean, the fire crackling not six feet away, slightly behind him and to his left.
“...I want to hit someone!”
“Why would you want to do that?”
“...call it, nervous energy...”
“Okay...”
“...and maybe, you do too.”
It was just a fire, one he had lit every morning for nearly, well, for, “Over a year now.” He had left Tokyo after the train, returned to The States in August, and came up here in October. “Two winters,” it dawned on him. He went into solitude, cutting himself off from the world as if it had caught the plague. To reflect, regroup, and, one day, to return; was this day to be the day? “I believe so,” he answered the internal interrogation.
“...let’s do what we want...”
“No.”
“...take it out on each other...”
“You’re just that burning inside of me to compete,” he shook his head, “I still have a lot to prove to myself out here.”
“...see what we can earn.”
“Yeah,” it was like a magic word, and the thought of making money raised his brow. He hadn’t thought about it the entire time he had been away. He hadn’t needed cash to thrive out here, just primal instinct and practiced skill.
“The plan has always been to return and, yes, I do want to hit someone. A few people actually,” Schadenfreude nodded, “And, who knows, maybe this time, I’ll get Lucky.”