Dead Man’s Run

“How d’ya figure this here?” Paul asks with a furrowed brow. He squats down and his narrowed eyes gaze across the disturbed trail. His stubbled chin scrapes the collar of his flannel shirt as his shadow looms over a putrid-smelling mud.

“Hmm. Ain’t rightly certain,” Andy mumbles. But even as he says this while looking at the gnarled mess on the trail, he fears he knows the answer. He bends down and trails his fingertips over the roots of violently upturned mountain brush. They appear to be snapped from the soil, and the old dirt trail is marred with cloven hoof prints. A mix of petrichor fills the breezy air—wood, mud, moss, even water. There’s something else too—the smell of stale piss and feral taint. The acrid notes rise from the torn mud like ominous echoes. He resists the urge, just barely, to tell Paul he’s afraid this mess was made by wild hogs.

“No cause for frettin’?” Paul softly asks as he continues to study the ground. His voice travels as easy as leaves in the wind. “We done just begun.” His question lingers in the air like a fragile spiderweb shimmering in the morning light.

Andy’s gaze wanders along the tangle of old brush and pans across the lofty beech tree forest. His logging boots slowly sink into the muck-damp Earth. Up in the Unicoi Mountains of North Carolina, their misty summer morning feels nice and cool. Andy sighs and his answer is laced with a hint of grumpiness.

“Well, I ain’t confident,” he admits, “but you sure got a point.” His eyes squint against the gentle light filtering through the foliage. “We’ve only taken our first steps.” Andy nods toward the beech woodland around them. “This hike aims to get us to the camping spot; it’s the sole plan we’ve got.” He adds wearily, “And we’ll need to get on if we’re to meet with Moede up there this evenin’.”

The beech woodland is a silent companion that seems to hug the two friends on their journey. Small green leaves quiver in the morning mist, each pulsing like an eternal heartbeat. The scene is both beautiful and haunting—ethereal in its embrace. Lichens and thick mosses adorn exposed rocks and bare tree trunks. Beneath their worn logging boots, the ground remains damp and yielding from a recent thunder shower. The mist, like a congregation of a thousand ghosts, moves in rhythm with the trees. Just past this wonderfully eerie forest, the open meadows of Little Huckleberry Knob beckon Andy, promising a different kind of solace in this weird purgatory of nature.

“I reckon we should keep on ahead.” Andy’s murmur blends in with the ghosts around them. Paul nods. Their heavy packs, burdened with gear, white lightning, and memories press against their shoulders. The pair move right along, anyhow. Each step is soddened as rock and highland grass muffle beneath their boots.

As the old friends press upward, time seems to warp, and the dense woodland recedes. The phantom trees surrender to the allure of an open panorama full of native grasses, numerous asters, fleabane, and a splendid tapestry of vibrant mountain herbs interwoven with perennial blooms. Before them a wonderful mosaic is painted—a canvass of summer colors dancing in a gentle breeze. The hues are bright, and the vibrant grasses sway lush and fresh, as if they are whispering secrets to the very mountain air that moves them. With pomp and parade, this natural painting pours into a royal blue sky, laden with enormous billowing clouds of white, gray, and glory. All of nature is a spectacle.

The mountains unfold before them, wide open and smoky. They’re a perfect Appalachian wonder sprawling on forever for the two old souls as they journey onward in a chorus of laughter and shared delight. As they travel, they talk of missing their distant families and old, long-lost friends. Broad smiles brighten their faces and their eyes glisten. Yet, even amidst gratitude, they both sense something they won’t acknowledge. Like all mountain people, they are bound here, but the scent of pine and damp earth imparts something too familiar and unmerciful in this eternal space of mountain country.

A palpable bliss rides the wind—one that springs from an unspoken connection, like a woven fabric, to the wilderness that envelopes them.

The meadow still whispers, but shadows flutter across the field like fleeting emotions. Paul presses on. His big, bold smile slowly melts from his face like frost in morning light. His stride, anchored by an unseen weight, crawls to a halt. His hand, once steady, now betrays a subtle tremor as it inches toward his belt. Bliss is replaced with tension as he, almost in ritualistic motion, pulls a large, serrated knife from its sheath.

Silence hangs heavy as Paul’s words are tinged with quiet urgency. “A damn wild hog on the path,” Paul whispers tepidly. Without a word, Paul extends the whetted knife to Andy’s hand. The dark metal gleams in the sun. “If that creature comes barrelin’ down on us, you gut ‘im.”

The boar are prehistoric nightmares. A swine of primal rage, they prowl easy with piercing hooves that tear like claws—sturdy in their massive form. “Hell-pigs,” the two call them, appear as a nightmarish fusion of demonic swine. They haunt this ancient forest, with their leathery skin and masses that ripple with an unnatural strength. Their faces are a grotesque mockery of a pig snout—snarling, fang-filled maws. Their eyes are black, soulless, and violent. A putrid stench of decay follows in their wake, wafting with a distinct reminder of their savagery, their bone-crushing jaws, and tusks that tear flesh and render bone with ease.

Andy leisurely takes the knife and nods at Paul with a curt dip of his rough chin. Ever-so-cautiously, Paul retrieves a sharp, baseball-sized stone from the trail’s edge. Paul hunches down, carefully raises his arm, almost in slow motion, and takes aim at the beasts. Andy assumes a low, poised stance. The boar, shadowy and engrossed in a feast, cut the forest air with rhythmic snorts. Andy’ll need to charge the hairy pig if the nasty creature comes their way. A slice upwards behind the two front legs will be his best shot at the internal organs—and at survival. The terrible beasts have an appetite for entrails. Andy and Paul pause to watch the beasts devour their meal. They flash each other a knowing look. Something about the boars’ appetite—a memory perhaps—tries to weave into Andy’s thoughts, but he shakes his head and grips the knife tighter. In fluid motion, Paul lets the stone fly. Sailing through the air like a sling bullet, the rock strikes the boar’s nape with a solid thud. A primal, instinctual snarl briefly escapes the beast. But the hell-pig just nonchalantly shakes off any pain and keeps on munching without even a passive annoyance.

“Well hell,” Paul quietly scoffs. A wry expression etches across his face as he leans over to lift another rock from the trail. Confidently, he hurls another projectile. The stone again finds its mark, striking the beast on the hind quarter to a similar result. “Stupid hog, I swear,” Paul seethes through clenched teeth. He rubs the back of his neck. Both men snicker below their breaths at this last little cuss, as if tragedy and comedy were old friends.

Clouds encircle the painted meadow, a looming presence in all directions. Majestic white, and regal, the billows adorn the sky in a stained purple, glowing pink, and aureate hue. Adding to the grandeur, equally as present and matched in majesty, are nimbi pregnant with rain. The water-laden vessels glide like pipe smoke across mountain country. Like the pillars of creation, they slowly burgeon and ascend towards other worlds, other realms, and into the heavens beyond the sky. A breeze, the silent herald of shifting weather, ripples over the grass as the firmament stretches across time and creation. The verdant blades, bathed in golden rays, sway like a royal emerald field. Those blades shaded in gray are somber, dark, and presage. From within the swaying meadow’s embrace, a rustle, soft as a whisper, barely audible yet undeniably present, drifts onto the trail. The grasses, dapped in fleeting rays, are cast in celestial theatre.

Suddenly, so close Andy could reach out and touch, another hell-pig emerges from the shadows of the tall grass. Another surfaces up the trail. Yet another beside Paul. A continuous progression unfolds—another and another, until a sounder of fifteen or so emerge into the open. Andy holds his breath and stiffens his posture. Paul’s eyes bulge, wide and unblinking. They both stand paralyzed and still as statues. They dare not even breathe. Not like this, Andy thinks. We don’t go like this today. Not this time.

Dark swine silhouettes weave through the field grass. Their hides, a tapestry of Earthly hues, blend seamlessly with the fleeting shadows dancing across the herbs and asters in the mountain breeze. The grasses bow to their might, then gently spring back when the beasts pass. The sounder moves in orchestral harmony, a fluid groove that echoes the country’s rhythm. Tusked snouts, keen and inquisitive, sniff the air as the creatures cross the trail and head in the direction of beech trees. Moving towards the mist, with the sun dancing in fields of gold, the sounder parades in a mesmerizing show of light and shadow. The spectacle turns them into something more than creatures. They are guardians of a realm where the boundaries between the living world and a haunted purgatory are veiled.

Once the boars are out of sight, a collective exhale escapes both Andy and Paul. Their faces are pale as birch bark; and their eyes are shrouded in a panicked haze. They snap to the present and chuckle, nervous and soft.

“That was plumb near a fight, buddy,” Andy says as he exhales deeply.

Paul’s nervous chuckle evolves to a smirk as he says, “I reckoned we were in for a real brawl. That one little rascal didn’t even budge when I pelted it with them darn rocks!”

“Yeah, I was all set to stab that critter, but when the whole mess of em’ came swarm . . .”  Andy’s voice trails off. He gazes at the sounder’s path and swallows hard. He puts a hand on his quivering stomach, hunches forward, and suppresses a desire to vomit. Then he quickly shakes his head, straightens, and continues, “Dang it, buddy, we’re luckier than two hogs in a holler.”

“You can say that again.” Paul grins as he sheaths his knife. “Come on, let’s put some distance between us and the swine.”

The two hike steadily upwards through another ghostly area of scrubby trees. The climb isn’t long at all, but the elevation shifts just enough that it feels like exercising. Sweat begins to bead, cooled by a mist that hovers in a veil of trees. In almost no time at all, the two emerge from the lichen-laden passage and reach the base of Little Huckleberry Knob.

As the two breast Huckleberry, a solitary white cross, standing firm in swaying meadow grass, comes into view. They both abruptly stop. Paul gasps and takes a step backward. Andy shudders as a chill tingles down his spine. They pause there, paralyzed for several seconds. Still, they don’t bother to examine it. Not yet. They quicken the pace, and pass right along to summit the bald. After a while, the two gaze back at the cross, then glance at one another and nod.

Just past the cross, along a trail through bee balm and black-eyed Susan among the lush meadow grass, Andy and Paul marvel at an all-encompassing view of the Unicoi and beyond. A gentle breeze moves over the two and they both jut their faces toward the mellow current. Within seconds, a slow, serene smile graces their lips, and, just for a moment, Andy thought they might lift up and hover above the earth. Kombu green grasses oscillate among yellow pops of pollinator flowers. Beyond the bald, a spectacle of rain clouds hung like a dramatic curtain, encircles everything. They seep like thick smoke between mountain ridges and rise like waves towards the heavens. Sunlight beams across the bald and between folds in the clouds, adding a palate of color in hues of pink, orange, and gold, contrasting intensely against the darkened sea of rain. The two campers gaze across the horizon with rapt attention, their eyes glazed and mouths slightly open. Their mammal bodies are miniscule in comparison, as if they were mere mortals in a seemingly immortal realm.

“I love this here weather, every blessed time in the mountains,” Andy gleefully says as they drop their packs next to an old fire pit and look at the expanse. “Partner, we’ve done been up these hills all kinds of seasons, and even in the dead scorchin’ days of summer it can get colder as hell at night.”

“Mighty fine. I hope it chills down even more, so we can put together a big ole fire.” Paul pulls gear from his pack as the two settle in to building camp. He unbuckles his heavy bag and pulls out an old jug. “Come here, friend,” he beckons to Andy. “I’ve got a present for you.”

Andy’s head tilts as he turns and gazes in Paul’s direction. He sees the jug, drops his folded tent and says, “Startin’ earlier today?”

“Just enough to stir the mind.” Paul chuckles as he slugs mountain whisky into his mouth. “We’ll partake as we set up camp. Later tonight, we can drink as much as we’d like. Just might drink forever and stumble into seventh heaven.”

Andy obliges and the pair set up their own tents and organize their gear. Andy’s hands move by rote as he lays out his sleeping bag, stows his matches, and arranges his lanterns. Paul carefully hangs his knitted sweater and toboggan inside his tent, preparing for the cold night ahead. They’ve also packed up a good amount of mountain whisky to keep their bellies warm.

“Colors are starting to shine.” Andy smiles as he looks around the bald.

A sly grin spreads on Paul’s face as he stacks some firewood left by the previous camping party next to the fire pit. He mentions,

“We’re going to need more wood for the fire.” Standing, he surveys the bald meadow. Trails offer two different paths full of mountain brush and beech trees that run opposite the way they came. Pointing to the west he offers, “I’ll take this trail here to gather.” Then, pointing to the northeast, he suggests, “You can take that one there.”

“Oh, the chores of camp,” Andy grunts. He knows how much Paul enjoys these little adventures. Retrieving a small hatchet from his pack, he adds, “I’ll get moving yonder. We probably ain’t much time till the sun decides to set.”

***

The trail is small, barely a footpath, the grass and flowers tall as his chest on either side. Paul’s hands glide over the grass and bloom as he watches the clouds roll ever onward. The petals are soft and the stems sturdy. He looks over his shoulder but doesn’t see Andy anymore. Moving on, the trail steepens as he leaves the meadow behind.

The sun casts a mystic glow on the lichen-laden wood. Paul finds a large scattering of broken tree limbs and begins stacking them on top of each other at the base of the trail. The wood is cool and damp on his hands. He makes several trips from the woods back to camp, building their stockpile. He spots Andy cresting the bald with a handful of felled limbs and waves at his friend before heading down one last time.

As the sun sinks lower in the sky, the woodland appears darker. He makes his way to a new area to explore past a thicket. The thicket’s shadows loom like a witch’s fingers. When he emerges from the green, Paul stops in his tracks and his jaw drops. He finds himself standing before a wreckage unlike anything he’d ever known before.

A strange metal contraption, all twisted and gnarled, lay before him. The skeletal frame seems fused with nature—like the broken metals have become part of the forest itself. He reaches out and touches the cold, rusted metal. Though otherworldly, some kind of inexplicable connection flutters in Paul’s mind, an interrelatedness that surfaces almost like an unclear memory or like a dream fading with the morning light. A breeze murmurs through the trees. Rustling leaves call Paul’s attention back to the task at hand. He gathers a few more limbs, takes another look at the strange wreckage, and hikes back to camp.

Paul wonders how Andy is coming along.

***

Andy nods to Paul, who waves in the late afternoon air. Carrying another bundle of wood, he reckons, I’ll make one more run to gather what I can. Gotta carry my weight with Paul around.

The wood pile is looking pretty good back at camp. Andy lets his latest haul crash to the ground next to the firepit. Breathing heavy, he marvels at the clouds and the sun’s aureate, spirit-like glow across the mountain majesty all around him. Andy’s pulse hammers in his chest, each beat echoing like the thump of a distant drum. The trees and shadows seem to breathe with him. For a moment, he is rooted to the ground beneath him, woven into the ancient bones of the Unicoi Mountains. After a gulp of water from his canteen, the traveler turns and heads off the bald for one more gathering.

Down in the woods, his haze deepens. Reality and time seem to ripple and twist around him. The mountain brush and shivering canopy of serrate leaves cast a shadow all around. The brush rises like an ageless earthen spring. His steps echo softly. Andy’s limbs quiver and the hair on the nape of his neck stands up. Each step feels heavier, drawing the warmth from his face, leaving his skin pale and cold. Shadows stretch across the ground, twisting around him as if the land itself holds its breath, watching. Surveying the ground, his eyes spot the familiar signs of another presence. More uprooted shrubs. Branches snapped like bones. Grasses and ferns all trampled and churned. The soil rises and falls, heaving like something is trying to escape the earth. Andy walks among the tangled and destroyed foliage, then suddenly stops. His eyes blink rapidly and he pivots hard to the left, then to the right. How long have I been in these shadows? He wonders. What time is it? What day is it? For that matter, what year is it? His breathing increases rapidly and his heart palpitates off rhythm.

The shadows elongate and contract all around him. The rhododendron and hobblebush seem to breathe. Their forms all fold intricately on top of one another to form a large, green tunnel. A small creek babbles nearby. A chorus of whispers, grunts, and squeals emerge from the wind and rustling leaves. The calls of wild boar flood Andy’s mind—images of tusks piercing flesh and crushing bones haunt him like a memory.

On the verge of madness, Andy shuts his eyes tightly. The eerie sounds fade, the violent images leave his mind, and a cool mountain breeze greets him with calm. He focuses on this feeling—the calm—as his pulsing blood relaxes. Slowly opening his eyes, Andy looks towards the sky through the treetops. The magnificent clouds, painted in the sun’s rays, loom through breaks in the quivering branches like an otherworldly luminescence. Violet merges with gold and painted indigo waltzes with cascades of pink.

So, this is where it happened, he silently realizes.

Andy swallows hard and blinks back tears. He frantically surveys his surroundings, then turns and walks uphill with purpose. Surely, if I follow this magnificent skyline, I can find my way back to the bald.  Ascending the wood, all he hears is his heart thud, rattle, and hum in his chest. He spots a piece of trail he recognizes. He exhales hard and closes his eyes. He grins, then stops for a minute and bends over with his hands on his knees. He straightens, takes a deep breath, then jogs out of the woods, back onto the grassy bald. He drops his bundle of wood beside the pit, already reaching for the kindling—Moede will join them soon.

***

Andy and Paul use a log as a headrest as they lay near their roaring fire. The flames cast a warm orange glow across their faces. The crackling embers and hissing wood are embraced by the night. Clouds tower over them in indigo. Stars break through darkness in patches, and a cold breeze moves fog across the land.

“Andy,” Paul slurs, smelling of whisky. He pulls his jacket tight around himself, “I found ruins down the slope. All busted and rusted. Little pieces everywhere, scattered and old. I ain’t never seen no machine like it. Seems to me where Moede fell.”

Andy grins. “Could be, old friend. Though I’ve heard tales of strange things ’round here. Shadows. Whispers. Maybe they’re more than tales.”

Paul shivers, and the cold punctuates his words, “This land’s seen it all, Andy. Maybe it’s haunted, like them stories say.”

The two laugh heartily. As their chuckles calm, Andy’s breath forms misty clouds when he speaks, “Ghost stories just ain’t the same anymore, are they? Not now.” His smile fades, and the campfire’s flames dance in the darkness of his eyes. “Not when the world itself is haunted.”

Paul chuckles. “Drunk men tryin’ to talk to the land, listen to its secrets. Ain’t it wild?”

The two share tales and laugh all night long. As the whisky builds in their bellies and drunkenness floods through their veins, the campfire rages higher and higher. Deep into the night, the mist blowing over their heads begins to give way to a darker sky pierced with stars burning in the cosmic night. The backlit canopy glitters and gleams like diamonds strewn across the dark brink.

“Ain’t heaven shining its light down pretty?” Paul asks in a tranquil moment.

“Yeah.” Andy just breathes, looking into the vast outback of time’s creation. “Say, Paul, I’ve been thinkin’ ‘bout your wreckage down yonder.”

Paul raises an eyebrow. “That so?”

“See, back down with the company, I was reading this book by a fella named H. G. Wells. Was called The Time Machine. All said, it’s about this Englishman, a bit mad, who makes a contraption to travel through time. Maybe that’s what you stumbled upon—a damned Englishman’s lost time machine!” Just before Paul answers, the woodlands rustle and a strange voice utters gently from the darkness,

“I assure you; I am no Brit.” The sober voice calls, “But I fear I am lost in time.”

“Tarnation!” Paul yelps into the air. Scuttling quickly, he pedals back next to Andy on the other side of the fire. Andy just sits there, solid as a statue, his eyes bulging wide as the cold wind and fog whip around. Both men peer into the darkness as a new figure emerges from shadows.

“Hello, you two. Well in the drink already it looks?” The figure chuckles and approaches the firelight. A clean-shaven man dressed in a snug, olive-drab flight suit, a brown, well-worn flight jacket, and a white scarf slowly sits opposite of Andy and Paul. “Pass the whisky, gentlemen.” His face glows in a ghostly orange. “I’m rather relieved to see you two. I must confess, I always am.” He eases down across from them, like an old friend who has joined them many times before.

“Scared the hell outta us! Sneakin’ up on us like that, Moede!” Paul hollers, voice rough but warm with recognition. “Right?” He questions Andy who still sits with his eyes wide in silence. Paul’s brashness, breaks his fixed stare. Andy jolts at attention, leans in, raises an eyebrow, and gruffly says,

“That time machine down yonder is all yourn, ain’t it, Captain?” He motions down the bald towards the wreckage. “You’re the man that fellow H. G. Wells was writing about ain’t cha?”

Captain Moede studies the two loggers, his eyes narrowing in mock suspicion. “Unfortunately, I am no time traveler,” he replies, voice steady but with a touch of sadness. “Just a senior Air Force pilot, here on a mission from New Mexico to McGhee Tyson Air Force Base in Tennessee.”

Paul chuckles, passing the jug of whisky. “Hell, we done this before, Captain. ‘Who are you?’ ‘Where ya from?’ But it never gets old, does it?” He grins at Andy, who nods along.

Moede raises an eyebrow and takes a swig, indulging them as usual.

“Well then, let’s keep up appearances, gents,” Moede says, slipping into his best mock broadcaster’s voice. “The Air Force is a recent addition to the U.S. military, founded five years ago, in 1947.”

Paul chuckles, his voice dropping low. “Ain’t no 1947 here, Captain. This here year’s 1899, in case ya forgot.” They all laugh, the familiar lines somehow comforting.

Moede looks down, a shadow crossing his face. “Who even knows what year it is anymore?” he mutters, his voice thick with weariness. “I try and keep track, but it’s a rather hard thing to do when time is hardly time at all.”

“If you had to guess, how long do you think it’s really been, Moede?” Andy asks, not totally sure he wants to know the good captain’s answer.

Moede rubs his knee and looks around the freezing mountain bald in all directions. He sighs deeply before answering, “Seventy or so years for me, give or take, making it about one-hundred-and-twenty-five for the two of you.”

“Before you came sneaking up on us out of the dark, Andy and I was thinking about telling ghost stories.” Paul, too, is more somber now; his drunkenness is numbing. “Why don’t you tell us yours again? I like your world of flying machines.” He passes the jug of mountain whisky to Moede.

The captain takes a long pull, shudders, then begins.

“The sky was growing darker as the sun set behind us. Captain Howard Smith and I had left New Mexico in the early morning for East Tennessee.”

Andy and Paul both take another pull from their jugs of whisky and lean in for the story. Captain Moede proceeds,

“The forecast was favorable, but it proved incorrect. We ran into an incredible mass of clouds we weren’t expecting. Oh, I remember they encircled us rapidly until we found ourselves in a realm of darkness. Captain Smith radioed for me to ‘tuck it in’ so I tried to close the gap between us, but visibility plummeted. The clouds were glowing an array of peculiar colors. Incredibly eerie, the whole scene was. My altitude became uncertain, so I diverted my attention from the sky to the instrumentation in the cockpit.”

Captain, I must say, I’m always taken away by what you’re sayin’,” Andy leans forward, eyes wide, engrossed as he sits by the fire. “You was in a bunch of clouds!”

“We were flying F-51 Mustangs,” Moede nods, a hint of amusement in his eyes.¹⁾After World War 2, the military changed the Mustang’s “P” (for pursuit) designation to “F” (for fighter), but it was the same plane.

“Flying!” Andy hollers, voice full of wonder, though they’ve gone over this tale more times than they can count. “Flying through the air, but not in a time machine?”

“No, indeed. An aircraft.” Moede’s gaze drifts to the fire, his hands folding together as he settles into the familiar rhythm of his story. “I radioed my lead plane and established contact, but I found myself way farther south than I anticipated. My recollection is dominated by those clouds, glowing in an unusually vivid hue, and then . . . nothing but darkness—well, until I woke up here on this mountain. Scared, lost, alone. Alone until I heard—”

“Name’s Andy Sherman; this here’s my pal Paul O’Neil.” Andy bellows, letting out a hearty belch that rattles the quiet night air.

“On your way to Robbinsville,” Captain Moede finishes smoothly, a half-smile forming. “Right on cue, boys. It’s good to see you two again.”

“It is unfortunate, Captain, that you ain’t flyin’ no time machine,” Paul yawns, his voice thick with an ease that only comes from hearing these words too many times. “If you was, I reckon you could save us all.”

“It is unfortunate that I don’t fly a time machine,” Moede replies, a hint of sorrow creeping into his voice. “For time is the worst part. Feels as if only seconds have gone by, but the memories—just this place, and this place alone—are all that fill my mind. Time just feels . . . different here, doesn’t it? Not a prison, exactly, but as if this place is all there is.”

“I remember when my father passed,” Andy offers up to his friends in the dark. “Months afterward, I had a dream. I was a younger boy again. I awoke in our cabin, what I recognized as our cabin, though something was . . . off. But I remember walking through the dream; out to the yard, and I saw my paw just sitting there and smiling. I ran up to him and hugged him big. You see, in my dream I knew that if I didn’t hug him then, I’d never be able to again. But now, I don’t dream anymore. And because we are here, I don’t know if that really was my Paw or not. Though I’d like to think it was. Hugging him sure gave me some comfort. But if I ain’t dreaming here, I reckon I ain’t never gave any comfort to the ones I left behind. And that—that just makes me sad.”

Moede stares into the embers ablaze in the gathering ash. “You grieved what you left behind. Find comfort in knowing that a life grieved is a life loved—for what is grief if not love persisting?”

The three sit in silence for a while, the darkness heavy around them. A sense of dread fills them all as the emerging dawn breaks the night. Together, they stand and walk back to the white cross on the trail behind them. The ground is soft beneath their feet. The clouds above, as if knowing their intention, drift across the sky and unveil all the bright glory of the milky way. The bald’s grasses and bold yellow flowers transform the mountain meadow into a dreamscape. The three slowly walk, anxious and timid, in synch against the backdrop of a boundless night continually yielding to dawn. The mist moves across the knob in swift waves. The loggers exchange knowing glances as the pilot pulls a tool from his jacket pocket that casts light from a tube. The grave beckons—the cross stands tall and white. Captain Moede hands Andy the flashlight and steps back as the man reads the gravestone:

December 11, 1899, a bitter cold day with snow and fog. Andy Sherman and Paul O’Neil, lumberjacks from Mill Hall, Pennsylvania, employed by Heiser Lumber Company, left the mouth of Sycamore Creek on the Tellico River bound for Robbinsville.

September 6, 1900, Forest Denton who was deer hunting with others found their bodies ¼ mile from this spot where a small stream, then unnamed, but now known as “Dead Man’s Run.” Apparently, the two men missed the trail down Hooper Ridge between Hooper Bald and Horse Pen Gap. Several jugs containing whisky was found nearby. The sheriff and coroner were summoned to the site and an inquest was held.

The jury finding that the men froze to death while lost and intoxicated. The jury directed that O’Neil’s skeleton be given to Dr. Robert J. Orr as a medical exhibit and that the remains of Andrew Sherman, badly mangled by wild animals was buried in this grave . . .

As Andy read those words, he recalls that he barely registered the snarls and grunts of a swine horde when the foul scent of decay clawed into his being. But this wasn’t the rancid taint of hogs; it was his own flesh. His own entrails. Then, an empty abyss—a great nothing. Now his body is nothing at all but a skeleton entombed in the cold, hard clay. His soul glows bright as the first bit of sun peeks across the horizon. Once again, his spirit is burdened with another waking dawn. Over 45,000 dawns he’s seen so far in this madness.

***

“How d’ya figure this here?” There floats Paul’s familiar question, as steady and solid as the mountains around them. Andy studies a tangle of old brush among the high elevation beech tree forest. A new morning in the Unicoi has arrived.

 

**Featured image: Anja, Pixabay