by Stephen King
I nod, listening, as the wind beat the shack and the boards rustled, dust and cold air filling the space.
“In a moment of weakness, I said okay. And then he left. Now and then he would come down out of the mountain and palaver, always in a slightly different shape. Once, as the echo of my long dead father, once as a gangly shadow of my childhood best friend, and once as a younger version of myself, still handsome and stout. I was drinking a lot then. He’d leave me a jug, and I’d suck it dry. The black bird would soar over, before I lost my sight, and soon enough Jezebel arrived on my doorstep, to keep me company, and not long after that, Rebecca—my wife.”
I take a breath and don’t say a word.
“Not always my wife, not some long lost love come back to me, no, not from the grave or anywhere else—something new, something I never had, and we lived a simple life. I never asked how or why she was here, I just accepted her, as one might take a coin, a gold watch, a gift on an anniversary, or holiday, perhaps. Long black hair and dark eyes, pale skin, she was a fallen angel that had no business being here. No children, no, we didn’t allow that. I didn’t. Not that we didn’t couple, but she would never birth an abomination, nothing that the dark one sent me could be continued, you understand?” he asks, staring at me, eyes blind and casting out into the darkness, searching for forgiveness. “There are ways to end beginnings, and several times I did exactly that.”
“Ben …” I say, even though I struggle to believe.
“Let me finish,” he says. “She died many years ago—I stopped counting at some point. Not sure exactly how old I am, Jezebel defying the odds right with me, one hundred, two hundred. I don’t know.”
I squint at him. The liar, he’s lost his goddamned mind.
“I supposed in the end she was just curious, Rebecca, following the path too far, my warnings falling on deaf ears, her laughter at such imaginings simply contempt for my rotten heart, and my empty head. I guess I could have just said coyote, and left it at that, if not for the necklace. He brought me her locket one day, coming down from the hills in the form of a sick, brown bear. Lumbering over the path, sending the dog into a fit, dropping the jewelry in the dirt, knowing I was watching, its open mouth a black hole—rotting, buzzing, a low growl slipping out into the air.”
Stories, the old man is telling me stories, just to pass the time, I think.
“It preys on your fears, John, whatever you long for, whatever you miss—this is what it will become for you. I warn you now, so that maybe you can make it over, outwit the demon, and pass by unobstructed. It was my father, who never held me once, the word love never slipping past his lips; it was my best friend, acts of betrayal, a sneer on his face as he took so many things that were mine; and even my younger self, what I might have been, if only I’d tried harder, if only I’d listened.”
Outside the wind picks up, shaking the shack again, the ice pelting the side of the structure, the window rattling in its frame.
“That’s quite a story, Ben,” I say.
He frowns at me and stands.
“Dinner’s ready,” he grumbles, spooning the beans and rice into a wooden bowl, handing me a bent silver spoon. “Eat up, son. Tomorrow, you’ll need your strength.”
When the sun rises the next morning my head is filled with the echo of animals howling under a moonlit sky, the scratching of Jezebel’s nails on the plank floor, in her own fitful dream, hunter or hunted—not sure which. Ben sits on the edge of his bed staring at me, his jaw clenching and unclenching—staring as if he still had eyes that worked, staring out into all of our futures.
I sit up.
“You okay, Ben?” I ask, rubbing my face, pain running up and down my spine, my hands icy cold and partially numb, the potbelly stove down to a dull glow.
“I don’t expect you to believe it all,” he says. “I know how it sounds. I wish there was some way to convince you of the truth.”
I wave him off, and then realize he can’t see my hand.
“It doesn’t matter, Ben, if it happened or didn’t happen, I’m heading over the mountain. If I see your buddy, I’ll put in a good word for you, okay?
The old coot laughs and smiles.
“You really don’t understand, my friend,” he says, standing.
He walks to the stove, and with a pair of old leather gloves, opens the front of the metal beast. He grabs a few logs from the stack against the wall, and tosses them in, shutting the door with his knee.
“I’ll put on some coffee,” he says, shuffling over to the bags of supplies in the corner. “You need to get on your way. If you hurry, you can make it up and over and down again, about ten miles total, just under five thousand feet in elevation, I reckon.”
We don’t talk much over the coffee, beans ground by hand, Jezebel sitting by my side, resting her nose upon my lap. I eat the rest of the rice and beans from the night before, warmed up, sticking to my ribs, as Ben watches, clasping his hands. When I take a step outside to piss, the heat is already sliding over the hillside. Ben fixes me a pack with a small metal pot, and several cups of his supplies.
When he steps outside, I can tell he’s upset, but he won’t talk about it, shuffling his feet, the dog sitting beside him.
“Here,” he says, handing me the sack. “This should help you get over, whatever is left on the other side. You won’t die of starvation today, I can at least do that much.”
“I appreciate it, Ben,” I say, and I hand him a few sticks of jerky. “Save it for the mutt for later, and have yourself a chaw if it won’t rip your rotten old teeth out.”
He grins and takes it, and then holds out his hand.
“Good luck, John,” he says, his white glassy eyes trembling in his head. What does he see right now, I wonder—the past, the present, or the future?
Or maybe nothing at all.
“Thanks,” I mutter, shaking his hand.
I bend down to pet the dog, and she licks my hand, the gesture rippling over my flesh, triggering memories from days gone by, back when things were domesticated, when the world hadn’t already run its course. I choke back a muffled sob and swallow hard, clearing my throat.
“I better get going. I’ll keep an eye out for both man and beast, Ben, I promise.”
He nods, and I set off up the path he warned me about, the only obvious trail over the mountain, to whatever family I might have left. The sign at the edge of the worn out dirt trail is pounded into the dry soil, crooked and faded, the word north painted on it in shaky letters, as if written with a finger, something a child might do, an arrow pointing left. The letters are in a faded red paint, or perhaps something else, and as I look up to the clear blue sky, the black bird circles, and then drifts out over the woods.
Before I disappear around a bend, into the thin pines and maples that rest at the base of the hill, I turn to wave at them both, forgetting one last time that they can’t see a damn thing. I wave anyway, feeling like I could have done more, said something—not been so ornery and doubtful. What’s done is done, and I wave at them anyway, and as I head up the mountain the dog barks once, wagging its tail, and as the darkness swallows me, Ben waves back.
For three hours I work my way up the hill, stopping only to refill my water whenever I pass over a creek or stream. Though it gets cooler the higher I go, the sun slowly rises, the woods warming around me, insects chirping, a red-tailed hawk gliding over an opening in the canopy, sailing on the thermals that push around the mountain range.
When I stop to rest for a bit, sitting on a fallen oak, pulling off my left boot to root out a rock, a mangy smell drifts toward me, and I look up and around, eyes on the path, and then to the woods. Something rotten, and dirty—not sure what it is. I slip my boot back on and stand, leaving the bag of supplies on the ground, both hands to my hips, holsters unsnapped.
I sniff again. Something isn’t right. There’s a wet smell, something gone sour, flesh baking in the sun, feces and urine, a heavy odor filling the air. The woods are silent, no
t a bluebird or jackdaw to be heard, just the thudding of my heart and my own shallow breath.
Down the path saunters an aging coyote, with long ambling legs, yellow eyes, its fur torn in patches, faded brown and gray, one ear missing a chip. When I hear a panting behind me, I look back down the other way, and see another one coming up the hill. And from out of the bushes, two more from the left, starting to snarl now, two more from the right. They are skinny, with their mouths open, yapping at each other, so I move to the center of the path, guns pulled out now, my head on a swivel, back and forth. The leader stops at the top of the trail and sits down, panting, as his brothers close rank. I cock the hammer on the right pistol, and then the left, the creatures never slowing their pace, happy with their numbers, starting to slink low, ears up high.
I wait for one to leap, contemplating a shot at the leader, hoping it might make them scatter, counting in my head the number of bullets, wondering if I’m a good enough shot.
To the right and up the hill there is a great ripping sound from deep in the woods, as if a tree has been uprooted, leaves rushing by, and then a heavy thud as it crashes to the forest floor, and the animals flee in all directions, gone in the blink of an eye.
Bear?
It moves closer, and I can see the tops of the trees swaying back and forth, suddenly the forest full of life, all manner of bird cawing and chirping, a flutter of wings, a jackrabbit shooting past me, and I almost pull the trigger, cursing the long-eared bastard. Bushes rustle and I can see it moving closer to the path, just up a little bit, branches snapping, twigs cracking, and then the foliage parts, and out the creature steps onto the trail.
I stare in wonder, and suddenly think that maybe Ben wasn’t lying at all.
The boy stands there in torn pants, tied with a rope, no shoes, and no shirt, his head shaved, eyes brown and pooling. His feet are so filthy that the toes almost look bonded together into one cloven hoof.
“Are you heading over the mountain?” he asks. I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. He holds his hands in front of his distended belly, scratches and bruises up and down his arms, a smile filling his face; too wide—far too wide.
“That was the plan,” I muster.
“Did Ben send you my way?” he asks, just a child, maybe ten or twelve, something not right, and if I turn my head to one side and squint, he looks so very familiar.
“In a manner of speaking, I guess he did,” I exhale.
“You can put those away,” he says.
I look down, and the guns are holstered.
“Have others been by?” I ask, “Since things, well …”
“Since the end times began?” he asks.
“Recently. My wife, my daughter …”
And at this he grins again, his teeth not yellow, but sparking white, from this distance not square and humble, but slightly filed, as if to a point.
“This is my mountain now,” he says, not moving, eyes blinking.
“Look, son, I’m just trying to get over and down, won’t be on your mountain hardly any time at all.”
“I’m afraid that’s not good enough,” he says. “There must be a tribute, and there is none that I can see. Are you not willing to make an offering?” he asks. “What exactly do you have to offer?” he asks, eyebrows furrowing, a frown sliding down his face, his mouth shut, as the sun settles behind rapidly moving clouds, the forest dimming, the air turning cooler—goosebumps running across my flesh.
He takes a step toward me and I pull the pistols and fire.
He laughs.
Looking down, my fists are held in front of me, my index fingers pointed out in his direction, thumbs cocked up.
Empty.
“No, my friend,” he says. “Not what I was looking for, I’m afraid.”
And in the distance there is a single gunshot, a crack, loud and clear, and the boy looks down the hill toward where the shack must still stand, his face tightening and flushing red. I take a breath, and a second shot startles the air, a colony of bats escaping from two large, gray boulders to our right, from a deep slash in the earth, running off into the sky, as raindrops pelt the top of the forest.
I stare at this boy, my hands open now, out in front of me, as if holding him back by sheer will.
He walks closer and I cannot move, the boy up close, reaching into his dingy pants, pulling out a pocket knife, flipping it open, running the blade over the palm of his left hand. And then again, completing an “x.” He reaches up and I find myself bending over, while inside I scream no and run and godinheaven, but I cannot refuse him. He places his spread hand on my forehead, leaving a sticky red handprint, and then he steps away.
“You may pass,” he says, exhaling.
And for a moment I am a child again, scratching at my shaved head, the lice captured in a comb, their little legs scurrying about, the sink filled with hair, a trickle of blood, one nick of my head, the boy some distant echo, rippling out in time, a mirror image of what I once was. Turning back a single time, eyes squinting, he slips into the woods again, the crashing of bushes flattened, the creak and groan of a massive oak tipping down the hill, snapping off branches, and slamming to the earth.
And then quiet.
What lies on the other side of the mountain?
I fear there is nothing left at all, just empty wishes and dirt.
I spend the rest of the day in a hot daze working my way to the top of the mountain, pushing on, eager to make the top, so I can rest for a moment and gather my thoughts. Along the way, there are many signs that life and death have both come this way.
After leaving the boy, I find an old, dead scrub oak, with nothing but empty branches, a long dark scar running down one side, as if struck by lightning, the grass around it burnt and flat. In the dry branches are pairs of shoes, tied together—swinging in the breeze. There are tiny white baby booties, small tennis shoes, hiking boots, anything with laces, suspended in the air, dark fruit that will never blossom. At the base of the tree are dozens of cowboy boots, sandals and anything without a lace—without the ability to hang. Perhaps not all made an offering here, these shoes remnants of their previous lives, their bones scattered up and down the hill, altars made from their empty skulls; perhaps some made it over this hill.
I move on.
An hour later I stumble across a small pit just off the path to the left, and for a moment I think it is filled with writhing snakes. But as the sun glints through the leaves, and the branches sway, the hole is illuminated in flashes of light, something sparkling in it, a hint of metal, and then I realize what it is. At the bottom of this hole are hundreds of belts, the metal catching light now and then, intertwined black and brown, woven hemp, not moving at all, just a trick upon my eyes.
I keep moving.
Finally, I reach the top of the mountain, the open space covered in rock and shale, a few scraggly pines and low bushes, the sky clear for miles in every direction. I can see the train tracks running north and south, but no sign of the great metal beast. I can see the tiny shack where Ben shared a meal with me, and the sterile desert to the south. And to the north, I can see open land, green grass and widespread growth, a whisper of smoke drifting up into the sky, and what looks to be a settlement of sorts, a few small buildings, too far to see any movement, but a sign of life, at least.
There is hope.
I take a moment to chew on the last of the jerky, to drink my water, and to prepare myself for what lies in wait. I had come to expect nothing, just the dust and empty land, a few remnants perhaps, ready to find only an echo of what had been before. Some must have made it over, a few at least, or perhaps they were from the other side, not making the journey south, aware of what lurks in the hills.
I head down.
The day slips past, hours unfolding one after the other, sweat coating my body, the sun dipping down over the horizon, and before it disappears, I emerge from the woods, making it to the flat lands, the path continuing on, right up to a few dilapidated build
ings.
Tents, teepees, and lean-tos are scattered around a few small cabins, most of them much like Ben’s, barely standing, cut from the woods around us, built by hand many years ago, faded and worn, but still upright. One larger structure looks as if it has been built in the past year, new wood, the cuts still fresh, the chimney spilling smoke into the air. In the middle of the grounds is a large fire pit, ringed with gray and white rocks, black ash filling the center, a boy and girl snapping branches, filling up the circle with dry wood, heading back and forth to the woods. The girl turns to me, drops the wood and lets out a scream.
“Daddy!” she yells, and I drop my sack, my eyes beginning to water, as she flies to me, my Allie, dirty and smudged, a small red handprint on her forehead. I kneel in the dirt as she crashes into me, and I hold her, crying now, a great weight fluttering off into the sky.
“How did you get over?” she asks, pulling back, looking at me, as my eyes run over her. She looks healthy, happy even, tears running down her dusty face.
“I imagine much like you all did,” I said.
“I knew you’d come, I knew you’d make it,” she says.
I take a deep, uncertain breath.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
She nods.
“Where’s your mother?” I ask, and her eyes go dark, her head dipping.
Out of the structures, the main house, and the woods, more children emerge. They are all ages, all races, much like Allie—slightly dirty and dusty, some cuts and scratches, but not sickly, not dying, their arms filled with wood, or jugs of water, some carrying baskets with potatoes, carrots, and onions. They all wander over, their eyes wide, smiles slipping across their faces. On each of their foreheads is a singular red blotch, some faded, some fresher, but all still remaining, not washed away, not erased. These handprints that were left in blood, the tributes have not been forgotten.