Fire. Fire has defined much of my life. The first thing I really remember is fire. Don’t know exactly how old I am at the time, but it is probably back when I am still around seven or eight. The small hovel, the house I grew up in, burns around me. The ash. I can feel it entering my chest with each heaving breath I take in. Ash which does not leave when I breathe out. I make it out. Many don’t. Why was there fire? Was it intentional? Was it the product of unfortunate timing and bad luck? It does not matter. There’s just always fire.
The forest took me in. Wild, untamed. Untamable, or so I believed for the longest time. Until civilization came along and tamed it. I keep moving deeper and deeper into these wilds. Not thinking, merely moving away from where I was before. Then comes to me a chance, an opportunity. An opportunity to survive this new childhood in the form of a person. Came to me in my darkest hour. The man in the hat.
I still do not know his name. He wore thick boots, a brown coat, and a brimmed hat. He came out from somewhere even deeper in the woods, even further from any semblance of the world I knew. And he knew things. More than I could fathom. More than what he was willing to share with me. He knew what I already understood, and what I needed to know if I was going to survive. And so began my education. The man was strange, unsettling even, but always ultimately helpful. Only as things were just at the most dire did he step in. Offer a path forward, towards survival.
Ten, maybe fifteen years of us living in the wilds of the woods together passed without too much issue. Well, not quite together. My hut took near a year to build up, and it was hardly big enough for us both to live in. Barely big enough for me. But he was fine with that. He lived deeper in the woods. Where, I don’t know. Never did. He did not invite me over. After all, I needed to learn how to survive on my own, and using his resources any more than absolutely necessary would be counterproductive. At least, that was his mindset. And, after my hut was finished, I didn’t mind his viewpoint too much. Because he was right, self-sufficiency is vital. A decade, and I learned how to hunt. How to be patient. How to spot when things seem off. What dangerous things look like. The importance of ranging unpredictably, but keeping close to shelter. So many skills for surviving in the wilds of the world. And I figure that would be that. That I would simply live my life out in the woods in relative peace. Hunt and survive another few decades, then ultimately die when I could no longer keep up physically with the rigmarole of the wildman lifestyle.
But then, the fire returns. War, they say. I cared little about that back then. I didn’t understand its import yet. What I do care about is their war came to my woods. And the fires were uncontrolled. And when the fires came for me, the man waited. Watched. Did not get involved. He knew already what I’d come to learn: my life’s path was meant to take me elsewhere. As I mentioned, he always seemed to know that sort of thing. But, sitting there in the moment, I could not see what he did. All I saw was that, once more, the house I grew up in was burning down. And once again I was faced with a choice. Further into the wilds or towards some semblance of civilization. But further into the wilds housed my teacher, and I was upset he did not help me with the fire. So instead, I head back towards civilization.
Not some great city, nor some bastion of the well-civilized world. No, I didn’t need that. Much like when I fled to the wild, I wasn’t seeking out anything in particular. Just safety. Just somewhere other than here. And somewhere other than here just happens to be a small town abutting a fortified station called Bluff. My skills and fitness turn out to be quite a boon to a new and growing town. Many buildings need to be built, and I am more than qualified to help out. My practiced hand at hunting was still useful, though I generally kept those skills to myself. People have their prejudices, and when one hunts without a gun, people tend to start questioning where one learned such a skill. All together, by the time the small town got officially named as Nashville, my life had grown rather comfortable. I was quiet, but everyone simply knew me as stoic. And I learned much of what I’d missed due to my early flight from civilization by doing what the strange man of the wilds had taught me. Being patient. Watching. People are easy enough to read, if you take the time to really look. To learn the language of the body and of tone. And civilization, much like the wild, has a set of strange, illogical rules that everyone abides by yet never explain. When and how to greet people. Hand touching. How long it takes before looking directly at someone becomes rude. The importance of eye contact. When one should make noise outside. When one shouldn’t. I watch, quietly, and I learn these rules as best I can. For the most part being quiet helps. People don’t expect as much of you. By the time things turn sour, I’m fairly certain half the town believed me to be impaired mentally. But they mostly know me as the hard worker who perhaps does not do quite as much as he should in the community.
Once again, I had settled in somewhere. Once again, I was comfortable. I knew what happened whenever I grew comfortable. So, for a year, as I went about my days, I awaited the fire. But the fire did not come. Not in the way I expected. Instead, I met a woman. One night she came into one of our taverns. She claimed to be a new settler, as the land was selling fast. But I watched her. She was running from something. She would not be in town long enough to settle into somewhere ready for inhabitance, much less an untamed plot. The tavernkeep looks over at me. He isn’t one of the people in the village who thinks I’m impaired. He knows how observant I am. I shake my head to tell him that she is not one to be here long. He nods, a gesture combining the affirmation of my sentence with a bowed head of gratitude. I return to my cup. One of the many advantages civilization has over living alone in the woods.
On my way home, a man with a large brimmed hat approaches me. I wonder if he’s my old teacher, but as he grows closer I can see the details of his face. He is not anyone I recognize. His posture was that of someone who believes themselves above it all, but wants something from those they believe their lessers. “Good sir,” he says, clearly not knowing me well, “I was wondering…”
Before he made his request, I brush him off, shaking my head and walking past. Heading towards my small cabin by town. I should have realized the dire stakes that were to come, because I note a silhouette in the woods, much like the man behind me. Only rather than approaching, the silhouette just watches. I enter my cabin, get undressed, and lie down in my bed. Taking a few minutes to stretch out my shoulders and relax, I breathe deeply. Patience and self-respect.
“What did that man want?” A woman’s voice said from the bed beside me. It was the woman from the tavern. I look over at her, a mix of concern and confusion on my face. I say nothing to answer her question. “The silent type?” she muses, “You shouldn’t play dumb, I could see your eyes in the tavern. Watching. Do you like to watch?”
I choose to answer the question less likely to offend. “I don’t know. He wanted something, and I did not wait to hear what, as I have nothing to offer.”
“You have more than you think,” she replies.
I smile a thin smile. “Oh, I know I have much. Just nothing to offer. Who was he?”
“Just a man from my old life,” she replies.
I shake my head. “You shouldn’t speak like you intend to stay. We both know you don’t.”
“He wants me punished for something that I did not do,” she says. I watch, and I can tell that she is choosing each word extremely carefully. She admitted she saw me watching and reading people. She’s trying not to lie, but being careful. Talking around something. “And he has been chasing me for years.”
“Why did you come here?” I ask. There is something off about her story, but I can’t place what.
She smiles, her smile somewhere between sweet and sadistic. “Because you have been getting new people through constantly for years. No one here would blink twice at someone new in town.” I cock my head, knowing there is something more. “And I hoped I would have more than a day to establish myself before he found me,” she adds. It still isn’t everything. But it is enough.
“I need to rest before I go out hunting,” I tell her with a polite bow of my head. “Please leave.” I wait. She stands up but does not leave the cabin.
“If you don’t mind too much, I could use just a little help,” she says.
I lie down in my bed, readying for the rest. Only when the darkness is overbearing do I hunt, away from prying eyes and crepuscular predators. “I already told you, I don’t have any aid to offer.” I close my eyes. A mistake. One bore of overconfidence.
“Then perhaps I shall just need to take it,” I hear her say. I feel incense pressure. I open my eyes, but I merely see the roof. I can’t move my neck to look around. I feel a sharp pain where my neck meets my head. I grow weary, my everything becoming less and less functional. And I fall into the darkness, one similar to yet distinct from sleep.
I awaken alone in my bed. She is gone. I can feel something in my chest every time I breathe. At first, I remember the ash. The fire. My cabin is fine. There is no fire. And yet, the burning. The fire is inside me. It is still dark out. From the position of the moon, the hunt will not be as long as I would like before dawn, but still enough time to find something to eat tomorrow. I climb out the rear window and quietly make my way to the edge of the forest. I feel different. Like the fire also fuels me. Empowers me as much as it pains me. I glide through the trees as I did in my youth, seeking out some lonely animal to provide for me. I hear some twigs snapping. Something made a mistake. I dart to a perch where I can see what is making the noise.
It is the man from before. The seeking one. “I know you’re here,” he says aloud to the woods.
There is no reply. I feel the fire well up inside. From a different branch of the tree I’m in, a different but much more familiar voice whispers to me. “In the state you are in now, you will need it,” my teacher says, “Watch patiently for an opening, strike quickly and without hesitation, and let nothing go to waste.” I turn to look at him, to ask what he means, but he is already slinking off elsewhere. Slowly, I creep through the trees silently. I watch the man as he searches for the woman. He is unfamiliar with the wild. He trips and falls. An opening. I plunge from the treetops atop the man pushing his head into the dirt, hoping to knock him out. The fire inside rages. Let nothing go to waste. Instinct kicks in. I bite down on the man’s neck, hard. My teeth go in smoothly. Easier than they should. And I begin to drink.
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