Drunk in the mountains [Short story] Imagery/atmospheric/twist/cliff-hanger ending
Chester knew it was wrong but was beyond caring. The old lock was weaker than him. Rusted through, it gave with one accurate knock of his walking staff. A weak stream of guilt floated down inside his brain, near the back where life's misdemeanours rested up for sleepless nights.
As if helping, Chester placed the broken and useless padlock on the windowsill. As testament to bygone days the door swung inward perfectly on it's hinges. No aches and pains in eighty year-old carpentry. A dry-must breath escaped the entrance informing him there'd be a good roof over his head for the night.
White mountain had lived up to it's name every year of Chester's long life. Now late in March snow had descended even on the lee-side of it's wooded slopes. Woods swamped with drifts now. He got the flock of sheep down to the lowest field he could manage and used his clasp-knife to open an abandoned old round bale to keep them going. A tiny space under a copse of trees would be their's for a night. Star, the working dog would stay and tend to them. Chester smiled a weak smile to himself. Star would be the only one seen tonight. Now dark all about him, a sorcerer's cloak of deepest winter. A heavy bulge of amber snow clouds scraped across the ridge above.
The Crofters cottage was still owned by a family down the glen in Drummond. It was only used way back when. In sepia days. The shepherds and harvesters had slept in it during high summer.
Inside the door he found two tilly lamps. He dug out matches and lit the lamp possessing the most oil. As the thick wick slowly took he wiped dust from the fluted glass cover. And the almost-bare room showed itself. Immediately alarmed by the lack of cut wood beside the old fireplace Chester tried to remember had there been any outside under the eaves. An old set of metal bunk beds were set back in the corner with bare mattresses for company. And on the tiniest shelf sat a tightly corked half-pint bottle of Powers whiskey, half full. Bare walls, bare beds. Now though, with the door closed tight he felt he could get through until dawn. The heavy working-man's coat he'd removed would be a blanket. But first to check the flock. Before his eyes could fully adjust to the lamp-light. Before he could rest. At eighty-one, he would have to rest. A swift swig of whiskey. God it steeled him. Whiskey left on a shelf in a cottier's cottage on a high meadow above Dranagh, halfway up the Blackstairs mountains. It wouldn't make the night shorter but it would be more comfortable. Another quick gulp of Irish fortification seemed like a substitute prayer for a non-believer. On with the coat, out with the lamp, close the door tightly. It wasn't shockingly cold. With snow it never was. True cold came on those winter nights consumed by a barrage of stars. Cold as cold could get. Those were nights to fear.
Out in the pasture all was well. The working dog had fetched the flock into the corner where the bale lay. There was even enough bedding for the dog as it kept watch. An hour later Chester felt content. The dog would let him know if anything untoward happened. The tilly lamp was company. As was the whiskey. Very little left. The night would be shorter. Besides, the cottage was only cold. At least today's work was now done. And on cue, the demons. Urging.
He bent slowly to unlace the jackboot on his left foot. His weak side. The thick wool stocking was wet. Soaked through. He reached for the lamp resting on the mattress beside him and placed it on the floor beside his unbooted foot. His own blood showed dark in the light from the flame. Dark brown. Still wet. Still coming. On the outside of the ankle a shard of bone protruded.
What were the odds? A silly, awkward footfall between branches coming off the mountain. Why on earth did the blood still come? He did not know if the pain would stop but he could hope. In the morning he would set off for Drummond. Best to just ignore the pain. Ignore the pain, the demons, the place. The bleeding would stop. He was sure of it.
As he pulled the boot back on a wave of nausea took hold of him. Sickening pain. He picked up the bottle and stared at the honey-coloured dregs. He repeated in his head,"The pain will stop. The pain will stop."
As if helping, Chester placed the broken and useless padlock on the windowsill. As testament to bygone days the door swung inward perfectly on it's hinges. No aches and pains in eighty year-old carpentry. A dry-must breath escaped the entrance informing him there'd be a good roof over his head for the night.
White mountain had lived up to it's name every year of Chester's long life. Now late in March snow had descended even on the lee-side of it's wooded slopes. Woods swamped with drifts now. He got the flock of sheep down to the lowest field he could manage and used his clasp-knife to open an abandoned old round bale to keep them going. A tiny space under a copse of trees would be their's for a night. Star, the working dog would stay and tend to them. Chester smiled a weak smile to himself. Star would be the only one seen tonight. Now dark all about him, a sorcerer's cloak of deepest winter. A heavy bulge of amber snow clouds scraped across the ridge above.
The Crofters cottage was still owned by a family down the glen in Drummond. It was only used way back when. In sepia days. The shepherds and harvesters had slept in it during high summer.
Inside the door he found two tilly lamps. He dug out matches and lit the lamp possessing the most oil. As the thick wick slowly took he wiped dust from the fluted glass cover. And the almost-bare room showed itself. Immediately alarmed by the lack of cut wood beside the old fireplace Chester tried to remember had there been any outside under the eaves. An old set of metal bunk beds were set back in the corner with bare mattresses for company. And on the tiniest shelf sat a tightly corked half-pint bottle of Powers whiskey, half full. Bare walls, bare beds. Now though, with the door closed tight he felt he could get through until dawn. The heavy working-man's coat he'd removed would be a blanket. But first to check the flock. Before his eyes could fully adjust to the lamp-light. Before he could rest. At eighty-one, he would have to rest. A swift swig of whiskey. God it steeled him. Whiskey left on a shelf in a cottier's cottage on a high meadow above Dranagh, halfway up the Blackstairs mountains. It wouldn't make the night shorter but it would be more comfortable. Another quick gulp of Irish fortification seemed like a substitute prayer for a non-believer. On with the coat, out with the lamp, close the door tightly. It wasn't shockingly cold. With snow it never was. True cold came on those winter nights consumed by a barrage of stars. Cold as cold could get. Those were nights to fear.
Out in the pasture all was well. The working dog had fetched the flock into the corner where the bale lay. There was even enough bedding for the dog as it kept watch. An hour later Chester felt content. The dog would let him know if anything untoward happened. The tilly lamp was company. As was the whiskey. Very little left. The night would be shorter. Besides, the cottage was only cold. At least today's work was now done. And on cue, the demons. Urging.
He bent slowly to unlace the jackboot on his left foot. His weak side. The thick wool stocking was wet. Soaked through. He reached for the lamp resting on the mattress beside him and placed it on the floor beside his unbooted foot. His own blood showed dark in the light from the flame. Dark brown. Still wet. Still coming. On the outside of the ankle a shard of bone protruded.
What were the odds? A silly, awkward footfall between branches coming off the mountain. Why on earth did the blood still come? He did not know if the pain would stop but he could hope. In the morning he would set off for Drummond. Best to just ignore the pain. Ignore the pain, the demons, the place. The bleeding would stop. He was sure of it.
As he pulled the boot back on a wave of nausea took hold of him. Sickening pain. He picked up the bottle and stared at the honey-coloured dregs. He repeated in his head,"The pain will stop. The pain will stop."
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