Watershed Tales: The Trail

by Dan Meadows

  Watershed Tales: The Trail

  By Dan Meadows

  Copyright 2011 Watershed Publications and Dan Meadows

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or otherwise, without express permission from the publisher. Requests for permission can be sent to watershedchronicle@yahoo.com

  Contents

  The Trail

  Bonus Tale: The Tell-Tale Heartache

  Author’s Postscript

  Read More Watershed Tales

  The Trail

  Aaron watched in growing fear as the shadows crept over the trees, shrouding the forest around him in an ever-increasing blanket of darkness. The sounds of the animals rustling in the leaves, or the crickets chirping had seemed so natural and friendly earlier in the bright light of day. This wooded landscape, so beautiful and awe-inspiring only a few hours ago, now seemed to be made up of the building blocks from his most horrid nightmares. As the encroaching dark continued to drown out his vision, the formerly-welcoming array of sounds were beginning to take on an evil, unknown quality. But at least he was still on the trail.

  He’d mis-timed how long the leisurely hike up the mountain would take. By his best guess, the sun had just passed the horizon and Aaron was still at least three miles from where he had parked his truck. The semi-darkness didn't allow for a very good view of the path before him as he continued to scuffle along at a quickened pace. One false step, and Aaron's foot struck on a large rock protruding from the earth, causing him to lose his balance and topple to the ground, striking his elbow on another such jagged stone. The sharp tinge of pain that shot up his arm forced a low yelp from Aaron in response. He at least still had the capacity to muffle his cry so as not to attract undue attention to himself here, alone in the darkening forest.

  Despite his growing apprehension, Aaron was slightly pleased he still managed to possess enough self-control to remain cautious. Black bears and even some types of wild cats were known to roam these woods, and he wasn't about to attract one if he could help it. He collected himself from the ground and rubbed his sore elbow, feeling a small abrasion and a corresponding still-swelling bump, but luckily nothing was broken, this time. With darkness continuing to fall, and his being without a flashlight or lantern of any sort, more such falls were almost inevitable.

  From what he could still see through the shroud of trees above him, the sky was becoming increasingly overcast, as well. That would effectively cut off any light he could have expected from the evening's near-full moon. Aaron couldn't decide whether to continue on and further risk injury or try and find some sort of shelter nearby. There appeared to be a clearing off to his left where he could build a fire. If he stayed here, with no supplies except for a lighter, a small utility knife and a water bottle containing only a few more swallows, he would have to have a fire, he thought. And now, he felt like a bigger fool than ever for his decision to leave his phone in the truck. He'd wanted a nice, relaxing day, out of touch from the world constantly pushing at him through that little device. Well, he got his wish. Aaron couldn't be more out of touch with the world than he was right now.

  He considered his predicament for a moment before deciding that a fire would be too risky. If nothing else, the warmth would attract snakes, and that would be the last thing he needed. But to stay here without a fire would be equally risky, if not worse. The temperature was supposed to fall into the thirties overnight, and Aaron didn't even have a well-insulated coat, let alone any blankets. In the end, he thought he might be better off continuing onward, even in the dark, than to risk death from exposure.

  "What the hell are you doin' out here?" a voice suddenly called out through the darkness from somewhere behind Aaron, sending a stark fear bolting through him. His mind instantly raced to all sorts of gruesome possibilities. Maybe he had stumbled onto the killing grounds of some vicious mass murderer who lived out in these secluded woods. It could be some whacko just waiting for people to get lost out here where help was nonexistent, so he could brutally kill them and use them for stew.

  Aaron spun around to try and get a good look at this potential assailant.

  "Uh, I, um, got a little mixed up and lost track of time," Aaron said, knowing that it was probably not a good idea to give up too much information but figuring it was as good an explanation as any.

  "Damn stupid kids," the voice replied, getting slightly louder as it continued, sounding as though it was approaching.

  Through the blackening haze, he finally began to make out the silhouette of a man, decked out in what appeared to be all the necessary hiking supplies he had neglected to bring himself. As the man got closer, Aaron took a small step back, still uncertain of the stranger's motivations. The man's voice sounded like someone in his mid-thirties, maybe older, but he still couldn't make out a face to confirm his suspicions. The darkness covered the man enough that he couldn't make out very many specific details. The only thing he could tell for certain was that he appeared to be wearing a heavy white coat and carrying a large dark blue or possibly black backpack.

  "Look kid," the man spoke again, "Do you have any idea where you are?"

  "Yes," Aaron replied, trying desperately to sound confident. "I'm on the trail I started on this morning and I think my truck is just a couple miles further on."

  "You think? You're gonna get yourself killed not knowing where you are at all times out here," the man scolded him. "Got it?"

  Aaron nodded slowly, not completely sure if the man could see his response.

  "Look, if you're not certain, you'd better find someplace to stay out here for the night then try and find your way back in the daylight."

  "That's what I was trying to figure out," Aaron said. "I was gonna build a fire in that clearing over there."

  "Bad idea," the man said, matter of factly. "A fire out in the open like this'll bring a bear right to ya. And we've got timber rattlers out here, too, that love to curl up with campers beside the fire. One of those bites ya way out here, and you'll be dead before you ever get back to your car. There's a small cave off of the left side of this trail here about a hundred yards on up. I used it a couple years back when I got caught in a snowstorm. You'll be safe there."

  Aaron initially wanted to say no thanks to the man, was still more than a little unnerved by his sudden appearance from nowhere. But he also didn't want to spend the night out here in the cold. Plus, the man's mention of timber rattlers only added to his earlier fear of snakes. The man, despite Aaron's misgivings, did seem to know his way around the forest. And he had said that he'd used the cave of which he spoke before, in conditions that must have been much worse than this.

  The man began to walk away without waiting for a reply from Aaron, as if the matter had been settled. The choice was abrupt and stark; stay here and get eaten or maybe freeze to death, or follow the man to the cave and pass an uncomfortable night hoping for the best. Aaron finally made his call, deciding on what he considered to be the lesser of the two evils he now faced, and quickly followed the man.

  The stranger walked over the rough and unseen terrain as smoothly as if he were crossing a linoleum kitchen floor. Aaron, on the other hand, lost his balance, stumbled and nearly fell several times, but somehow willed himself to stay upright. He didn't want to appear any more incompetent than he already did. They walked on for a brief few minutes before the man stopped and pointed to an area to the left of the trail.

  "There's the cave," he said.

  Aaron strained his eyes in that direction, barely making out a small patch that remarkably seemed to be darker than the surrounding area.

  'I really don't wanna go in there,' he thought instantly, but still went
along with the suggestion because he didn't want to offend the man who seemed so much more knowledgeable about survival that he was.

  "I'll go in first and check it out," the stranger said, almost seeming to sense Aaron's apprehension, "to make sure there aren't any critters already living here."

  The man knelt down and disappeared into the small black hole. Aaron waited impatiently in the dull, fading light, suppressing a sudden urge to turn and run back down the trail now, while the stranger couldn't see him.

  "It's all clear," the man's voice eventually called out from the void with a slightly perceptible echo in its tone, "Come on down."

  Aaron took a deep breath, and made his way to the opening, testing each step before him slightly. He put out his hand to feel his way into the cave when it came to rest on a large stone above the entrance. Pausing for an instant for a closer examination, Aaron realized that the cave was actually just a crevice between a collection of much larger rocks, and not a hole leading into the ground as he had assumed.

  He slowly bent down and made his way into the opening, still being extremely cautious of each step. Soon, he reached what felt like a level floor, and he began to walk deeper into the cave. Moving further into the darkness, Aaron found himself again questioning the man. How did he get down here without a light, and why wasn't there one on now?

  "Excuse me, sir?" Aaron called out softly, hearing even his light, hesitant words bounce back at him from the rock walls. "Are you there?"

  Suddenly, a loud crash came from behind him, causing Aaron to let out a screech of shock and fear. Unlike when he had tripped on the trail earlier, in here, in the chill air and total darkness, he hadn't been able to muffle his unexpected cry.

  'Oh, screw this,' he thought, and turned to try and head back out into the wilderness, feeling his way toward the entrance as he could no longer even make out the faintest hint of light before him. But when he reached the place where he knew the cave's opening had been, he found the way blocked by one of the large stones he'd felt as he'd entered. Gripped by a sudden panic, Aaron pressed his shoulders into the stone, digging his feet into the ground and shoving with all the strength he could summon, but to no avail. The rock would not budge even an inch.

  Finally, calming himself slightly, he turned again to face the darkness of the cave.

  "I think we're trapped," he said, unlike earlier, actually hoping the man was still in the cave with him and hadn't been the one that moved that stone that now confined him. Waiting a few seconds for a non-existent reply, Aaron finally yelled out, his fear starting to get the best of him.

  "C'mon, say something! What do we do?"

  But still, there came no reply. Aaron again made his way deeper into the cave, again feeling his way along the stone walls as he went. His steps were slower and more deliberate, yet he still managed to strike something in the path before him, causing him to tumble forward to the dirt covered ground. Aaron struggled to get himself upright again, but in the darkness, he had lost his bearings before finally finding the rock wall once again with his flailing, panic-driven arms. Taking another deep breath or two, Aaron suddenly remembered the lighter in his pocket, quickly fishing it out and struggling to generate the flame, striking three or four times before finally bursting to light.

  For an instant, his eyes were whited out by the sudden glare from the firelight in the intense black of the cave, but soon enough, they adjusted and he was able to make out the object he had fallen over. Looking down at the thing at his feet, Aaron's mind completely reeled from the awful sight, and he dropped the lighter, rushing the small cave back into total darkness.

  Aaron didn't dwell on it for very long, or make out much in the way of specific details, but he had seen enough in that single instant of clarity. The decayed skeleton of a man was lying against the wall, and the only specifics he could make out were a battered white coat and the dust-covered dark blue, almost black backpack it appeared to be wearing.

  Bonus Tale: The Tell-Tale Heartache

  Amontillado moved the car from his driveway to the side of the old, rusted egg of a trailer-home. His father had been a Poe fan. He was a struggling writer, living on crumbs, selling poems on street corners when he’d knocked up his mother. She had thought he was ro-man-tic, la la la, all high dreams and sweet wine, walking around all the time in his sailor’s peacoat. Amontillado didn’t remember much about his father, the way he looked, the sound of his voice, the color of his eyes or hair, even, but he remembered that coat, if only because the image of its buttons as small anchors fastened itself in his juvenile mind at the time.

  Amontillado’s mother hadn’t the courage to speak her mind. She was the kind of woman who always needed someone in her life, and she let that someone do just as he damn well pleased. Keep ‘em satisfied and they won’t walk out, you know? So she let that scrawny bastard name his son after his favorite story, The Cask of Amontillado. It didn’t matter to her that the name would hang like an albatross about her son’s neck, a built-in means for people to poke fun and insult him without ever having to open his mouth. Hell, with his dark hair and deep tan, most people think he’s Mexican or Puerto Rican. But he was just lower middle class, Maryland-bred white trash.

  About five years after he first took a breath in this world, Amontillado’s father showed his true mettle. The anchors of a wife who needed supporting and a young child proved too much for his fragile psyche, and he bolted. No one knows to where. He sure as hell never got famous from his “art.” Amontillado knew that he was just a bum, nothing else.

  He pushed the gear shift of the old Buick into park. It was a 1988 model, with just a hair over 200,000 miles on her, two or three rust spots on her fenders and a back quarter panel that was a gaudy red to the rest of the car’s powder blue, but he loved her. She has been his first car, his only car since he bought her when he was 19. The year 1997 was a good one for buying used cars, apparently.

  Amontillado slammed the heavy, creaking driver’s side door shut. He had to lift it slightly, like always, just so its own weight wouldn’t lean too heavily on its hinges as it closed. He walked back to the old trailer, and the entire oval of old aluminum creaked and swayed under his weight, all 197 pounds on his six foot, three inch frame, as he stepped inside. He pulled the door shut behind him, leaving the sound to echo out over the nearly deserted trailer park. Christmas was a time when even the poorest of those around Amontillado had a better place to be. He would just lay on his uncomfortable trailer pullout bed and count the ripples on the fake tiles of his plastic ceiling. Happy holidays.

  When he was 17, his mother took up with a new boyfriend who introduced her to the wonders of crank. She had been a good mother, up until then. But in six months, he watched her lose forty-five pounds, from 137 down to 92, as well as her job and most of her modest savings. One night, she snorted a little too much, and her nose started bleeding. While she was in the bathroom, presumably cleaning up, somehow she collapsed, fell face first into the toilet and drown.

  Amontillado spent months trying to figure out how it had happened, or was even possible. He just knew that it had, and it was a fitting addition to his legacy. Father who took off, mother who got hopped up and drown in the toilet, and a fucked up name to boot. Poor bastard must be cursed.

  He lay on the bed, this supposedly joyous holiday season, thinking about his life. He had no one in the world who would give a damn if he just disappeared. He had received only one Christmas card this year, one more than he received last year, and that was from his auto mechanic. Amontillado thought that the mechanic should have sent an entire fruitcake or something more for all of the money he paid out to keep the Buick running.

  It seemed as if his entire life had been spent in this trailer park. His parents moved in here before he was born, his mother stayed on after his father disappeared and, after his mother died, the park’s manager had allowed Amontillado to stay in one of the vacant trailers in exchange for various odd jobs and labors around the site. That had
been more than a decade ago now, and it seemed as if he would never leave this place.

  The trailer park bordered on an old farm, was first made, in fact, out of a few acres cut from one of the fields when the farmer had needed some quick cash and sold it to a developer. About a mile beyond the last row of trailers, an old barn still stood, the last remnant of the farm. The house that used to stand near it had burned down years earlier, claiming the farmer, his wife and their two children. After that, the farmer’s brother just leased out the land to others to cultivate, while systematically selling off chunks of acreage to become housing developments. But for now, the old barn remained, a reminder of the past isolated in the middle of a wheat field.

  Amontillado remembered how nice the farmer’s wife had been when he was a boy. She would always have some pie or cookies and fresh milk whenever his youthful wanderings took him through the fields near the farmhouse. He even recalled the night of the fire, about a year after his own mother’s death. How it had lit up the sky around the park with an eerie, orange glow. The place had burned to the ground almost before the fire engines arrived. The farmer and his family had no chance.

  In retrospect, Amontillado thought of the farmer’s wife as the last real friend he’d ever had. Sure, some of the other residents of the trailer park were nice enough, but they only called on him when they needed something fixed or something heavy moved. They weren’t really his friends.

  Christmas was always the worst time of year for him. Amontillado had told himself repeatedly over the years that he didn’t need anyone, he was confident that he could get by with only himself to rely upon. But at moments like these, solitary, lonely moments, he realized how far that was from the truth. What he wouldn’t give for someone to spend the holiday with. Some conversation, share a little egg nog spiked with the right amount of rum, and just not be alone, for once. But that was not meant to be. He was going to be by himself in his trailer at noon on Christmas Day, just as he had for as many Christmas’ as he could remember. But that didn’t stop him from imagining how he’d like it to be.