Sled of Furs

The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window. No, not a candle … this memory feels faint, yet it should clear. A moment is required. Time will break the fog. Yes, I see now it was a match. Not a candle. A match. That is how this night began.

The flicker from the window catches my keen eye. Stopping in my tracks, my head tilts in curious confusion. The darkness is struck with a wash of light; someone has set the match to an oil lamp. I remain in shadow, far from this source. I am confident I cannot be seen. The pause in my stride relieves tension from the ropes about my chest. Two hundred pounds of furs laden upon a tired wooden sleigh creak to an unceremonious halt. The rhythmic crunch of snow beneath each footfall replaced by cold noiseless air.

Abandoning my furs and sleigh under the canopy of a pungent cedar, I stride with deliberate purpose toward the cabin. I pause again. A fox darts across my path. Bats scatter. The faint sounds of conversation carry across the moonlit snow. Perhaps I am moving with too much haste. The dawn is still distant and these strangers may yet leave of their own accord. Perhaps I should leave too. I shall return later and hopefully find the cabin deserted once again. Yes, that would be best. But what if they stay? … No, I shake my head, dawn is still distant. I will wait a moment longer, then decide.

They have lit the hearth. The darkness about the cabin retreats further as orange-painted bristles of light spew from frosted window. A despondent exhale coupled with a curse escapes my chest. They are here to stay the night. I clench my fists and my eyes turn earthward. I should not speak to them. I know, in my mind, that I should not. Yet my heart – shallow, broken as it is – wills me forward. I must encourage these trespassers to depart. Depart before dawn. Depart, before it is too late.

Woodsmoke probes the cloudless sky and the faint conversation now reveals itself as panicked commotion. Four voices within, but only three horses without. The beasts have been hitched in haste; not yet stabled in the nearby barn. The night is still young, but if they are not protected, the animals may succumb to the deep cold which awaits them. Not my concern. The remnants of my heart only have room for the lives within the cabin.

I do not get along with horses, or any animal for that matter. As such, I give the beasts a wide berth on approach. It is not wide enough. A large spotted thoroughbred is startled by my presence. She attempts to retreat but is caught by her reins on the hitching post. Her loud braying overpowers the commotion within the cabin and the voices subside.

“Doc? Is that you?” a husky voice calls out from behind a thick door. Light channelled through cracks is broken by a slow-moving shadow. The door to the cabin is nudged open with careful purpose. Even more light washes upon the darkness. Upon me. A head now emerges; squinting against the night. Stubble. Ten-gallon hat. Right hand on the holster of a six-shooter.

“No,” I say. The man jumps back. The hair spilling from under his hat is long, golden, regal; like a lion.

“Jesus,” the Lion says, “Where did you come from? And who the hell are you?”

Another voice from within says, “It’s not Doc?”

I raise my palms, the Lion is itching to draw his gun. “No,” I say again, “I’m just a trapper.” I point to my fur hat, fur boots and fur coat. “I live some miles south. Up here checking my traps, saw your light. Thought I’d come check it out. Don’t usually see people this far out.”

“I see,” says the Lion, visibly relaxing. “Little late to be checking traps, no?”

I shrug. “Daylight must have gotten away from me,” I say.

“Well,” says the Lion, “You saw, you checked, now be off. Be getting cold soon, you’d best be indoors before long.”

“So should your horses,” I say.

The Lion pauses, takes his hand from his holster and nods politely. “Duly noted,” he says.

Before I have a chance to respond, the Lion turns and closes the door.

I know I should not speak to them further. But I must try again.

Another man – large, hairy, bearded; like a bear – opens the door this time. “Listen,” he exclaims, “You keep banging on this door like that and you are going to have some serious problems. You were asked politely the first time to piss off. Now I’m telling you to piss off.” He pulls back one edge of his overcoat; drawing attention to his shooter.

“This is not your cabin,” I say calmly.

“Who says?” says the Bear. “You know the owner?”

“This cabin has been abandoned quite some time.”

“So then the government owns it.”

I shrug. “I suppose that would be true,” I say.

“Well, guess what, we’re the government, so we own it now and as owners I say, piss off. We are not putting up strays for the night.” The Bear tries to slam the door, but I catch it with a well-placed foot.

“I’m not looking for hospitality,” I say.

“Get your foot out of the door, Trapper,” the Bear says with grit teeth.

I peer around the large body of the Bear. The man throws a thick arm across the frame of the door to block me. I feel his glare. Aside from the Lion and the Bear, there are two more men present in the cabin. These other two are sat near the hearth; backs propped up against the wall. A clean-shaven man with round glasses cradling a smaller set man with curly hair. An owl holding a sheep. The Sheep is barely conscious.

“Your man okay?” I say, pointing at the Sheep.

The Lion and the Owl turn their eyes toward me. The Bear puts a hand on my chest and shoves me out the door before slamming it in my face.

Outlaws. They won’t leave. I should know better, yet, for some reason, I persist.

“This Doc you’re waiting for,” I shout. “He coming from the north or east?” No response. “Because if it’s north, he’s not coming. Landslide earlier today. Pass is blocked.”

Whispers from within.

The door opens a crack. The Lion looks me up and down. “Who are you?”

I say, “As I said. Just a trapper. A trapper with a keen eye.”

The Lion eyeballs me with suspicion.

“Four men, three horses,” I say. “Means you carried the fourth on the back of a mount. Only reason to do that is if he’s sick or injured. I reckon injured. You say you’re government. Well, I’m no simpleton. No government men would be traipsing out this far off the road. Especially not at this hour. No, only reason I can figure is … “ I pause. “I reckon you’re on the run.”

The Lion says nothing. He leans out the door and looks beyond me; squinting at the darkness. Maybe trying to ascertain if I truly am on my own. “You reckon quite a bit, Trapper,” he says finally.

I shrug. “Just a guess.”

“So, what do you want?”

“There’s another place, not far from here,” I say. “You can hole up there for the night. Still a ways off the road, no one would find you. I won’t lie, it’s not as cosy; just a shallow cave in the rock face, but it’s safe.”

“What’s wrong with this place?”

“If I can spot you, then the law might too.”

“Only if they’re looking.”

I shrug.

The Lion thinks long and hard. The door is fully open now. The Owl and the Bear watch in silence. The Lion glances back at the Sheep. Blood is seeping from his shirt. Eyes rolling back in his head. A soft moan. Gunshot wound.

“Why do you care, Trapper?” the Lion says. “Why do you care whether we’re here or there?”

“You’re man is in a bad way,” I say. “Gutshot?”

The Lion nods. “We sent a wire north to a Doc we know. Told him to meet us here. Should have got here before us, but I guess that landslide of yours cut him off.”

“Why you telling him this,” the Bear scowls.

The Lion shrugs. “Guy seems alright to me.” He lowers his voice and says, “Truth is, without the Doc, I don’t think he’ll make it till morning. Especially if we have to move again. Law or no law, we’ve got no choice but to stay here.”

I draw breath and touch the Lion on the arm softly. “I don’t mean this as a threat to you gentlemen, but if you all don’t leave now,” I say, “None of you will make it till morning.” I turn around and scan the darkness behind. I should not have done so.

The large spotted thoroughbred begins to panic and thrash wildly against the hitching post. Her reaction frightens the remaining two horses who also begin to buck. The Lion darts past me and the Bear races to the door. The horses kick and flail wildly; the old hitching post wavering under the strain. The Lion tries to calm them but to no avail. The post cracks in a flurry of wooden splinters and all three horses bolt into shadow.

The Lion curses loudly. The Bear grabs me by the scruff of the neck and tosses me, like a doll, onto the wooden floor of the cabin.

The Lion says, “Are the ropes really necessary?”

“Yes,” says the Bear. “I don’t trust this trapper.”

“I am only trying to help,” I say. My hands are bound behind my back, so too are my ankles. Shoved haphazardly into a corner I wriggle upright to gain comfort.

“You shut up,” snaps the Bear. He is pacing back and forth. The Sheep is fully unconscious now; hands dangling at his sides, blood leaking from his wound onto the floor. The Owl, still cradling the curly-haired man tightly, gently rocks side to side saying no word. The Lion leans, one hand on a wall, the other rubbing his temples.

“What did you mean?” the Lion says.

The Bear stops pacing and says, “He’s talking to you, Trapper.”

“I don’t understand?” I say.

The Lion says, “When you said, none of us will make it till morning. What did you mean?”

The Bear interjects and yells, “He don’t mean shit. I’ll tell you what he wants; he wants us out of his house. Isn’t that right, Trapper? This cabin’s not abandoned after all is it? This guy wants us out because he’s just a dirty little squatter who don’t want no gang of outlaws stinking up the place.”

“Is that right?” asks the Lion turning to face me. “You live here?”

I shake my head, “Look around, Sir, does it look like anyone lives here?”

My argument is hard to deny. No furniture, empty pantry, cobwebs lining the rafters.

The Lion looks at the Bear. “He’s got a point,” he says.

“Bullshit,” spits the Bear.

“Then tell us,” says the Lion, “What did you mean?”

A soft voice from near the hearth speaks for the first time that evening. “I’ll tell you what he means,” says the Owl. His voice is rough, raspy.

The Lion looks at the Owl quizzically. “What?”

The Owl says, “Since we’ve got here, something has been out of place. I couldn’t quite figure it out. But now I realize it’s probably that.” The Owl points a weary finger to the far corner of the cabin. A steel ring protrudes from an otherwise unremarkable floorboard. The outline of a square door surrounds it.

The Lion says, “The cellar?”

“There’s no dust around it,” says the Owl. He squeezes the Sheep even tighter. “Everywhere else, there is dust. Except there. On the floor.”

The Bear yanks his revolver from his holster and wags it in my direction. He whispers, “You clever little turd.”

The Lion too unholsters his weapon and looks at me. “No one living in the cabin. I see,” he says. He nods his head in the direction of the cellar door; a gesture indicating that the Bear ought to open it.

“What?” whispers the Bear, “I’m not opening it, you open it.”

“Fine,” says the Lion. “Bring that lantern here and watch my back.”

I say, “I promise you, there’s no one down there.”

“Shut up,” the Bear shouts.

The Lion deftly lifts the steel ring and counts silently. One, two, three. He yanks open the door with a clatter and points his gun down the hole. Stale air erupts from below. Decay and the scent of stone; like a cave. The fire flickers.

The Lion creeps closer to the edge and calls out. “Anyone down there?” His voice seems to echo from the hollow chasm below. “Give me the light … shit, there’s no ladder.”

“How far is the drop?” the Bear asks.

“I dunno. Hold my hat, I’m going to take a look.”

“Stop,” the Owl says, his voice wavering. “The lock. The lock for the cellar door.”

“What?” says the Bear.

“Look,” says the Owl pointing. “The lock is there. On the underside of the cellar door.”

“So?”

“Who has the need to lock themself inside a cellar?”

There is a long pause.

“I said, give me the light,” the Lion says, composing himself. He lays himself prone onto the floor and edges himself close to the hole. Lowering the oil lamp first, then his head, the golden-haired man peers into the shadows below.

“What do you see?” says the Bear.

The Lion says, “Nothing I … what … oh my god.” The Lion scrambles backward; up and out of the hole. Scurrying with fright the man rights himself against the far wall.

The Bear says, “What? What is it?” he points his revolver at the hole. The Lion glares at me; snatches his hat from the Bear and says, “Start talking, Trapper. And no more bullshit.” He draws his gun and points it at my head.

“Your man has just died,” I say.

From his place by the hearth, the Owl places two fingers upon the neck of the Sheep. He counts. Waits. Then says, “Yeah. He’s right. Eddie is dead.” He peels off his round glasses and wipes his brow.

“Shit, shit, shit,” says the Bear.

I say, “You all should leave now.”

“Enough,” the Lion screams. “We are not going anywhere until you tell us just what the hell is going on.”

“What did you see, Boss?” the Bear stammers, “What was down there.”

“I … I don’t think I know,” says the Lion.

I breathe deeply. The deep cold is encroaching. It may already be too late. I close my eyes and lean my head against the wall. How can I explain? Where to begin? I open my eyes. The Sheep’s blood cascades across the floor; it nearly touches my foot. I can almost taste it on the air.

“What you saw,” I say, “When you poked your head down that hole, is a sarcophagus.”

“A saw-what?” says the Bear.

“A sarcophagus,” I say. “A stone tomb. With a heavy slab sealing the remains of a man, long dead.”

The Lion nods, “Yeah,” he says, lowering his gun to his side. “That’s right.”

“So tell me,” I say to my golden-haired captor, “and this is important; was the lid ajar?”

The Lion nods.

“Then you really should leave,” I say.

The Bear is losing his nerve, “Will someone please explain what the hell is going on before I lose my god damned mind,” he shouts.

The Owl gently lays the Sheep flat on the ground. He lays the dead man’s arms deftly at his side. Standing over the body he makes the sign of the cross. He takes off his hat, holds it to his chest and says a prayer. The Bear and the Lion follow his lead.

After a minute of silence, the Owl walks toward the open cellar door. He kicks it closed and looks at me. “And many of those who sleep in the dust of the earth shall awake,” he says in his rough raspy tone. “Some to everlasting life, and some to shame and everlasting contempt. Daniel. Twelve, two.” He puts his hat back on his head. “Is that about right, Trapper?”

I readjust my position in the corner and begin my explanation. Why I take the time to explain anything at all to these men is a mystery. Perhaps I find that I am – despite the circumstances – enjoying their company? Or perhaps I am just a lonely old fool. Most likely the latter.

“The man sealed in that tomb,” I say, “has gone by many names. Waking only in the night, he hunts. Animals, mostly, just as you or I would. For food.”

“Not as you or I would,” the Owl corrects. “He only needs their blood, isn’t that right, Trapper?”

I nod. “Yes,” I say. “For their blood.”

The Bear growls, “What the hell are you talking about?”

“I think I’ve heard of you, Trapper,” the Owl says. “Only in legend of course. The monster hunts and keeps the carcasses; you keep the furs. I imagine an animal is remarkably easy to skin when drained of all fluid. And in return, you watch over his daytime slumber. And try to discourage those passing by from … spending the night.”

The Bear says, “That’s bullshit.”

“Because this monster,” the Owls says, “has, over the years, become rather distrustful of people. For if they knew where he slept, they would not hesitate to destroy him. Or try to, at least. It has happened before. So the stories go. And what the trapper here wants us to understand is that the monster would be quite upset to find us here. Sitting atop his home, bright fire in the hearth.”

“Bull. Shit,” says the Bear.

I shrug and say, “So the stories go.” I lock eyes with the Owl. A knowing smile faintly works its way to my lips. I do enjoy their company.

The Owl looks away. He stares down at the Sheep.

The Lion says, “Come on now, John. You can’t take this seriously.”

The Owl asks me, “Is it too late?” He is almost pleading. “Too late for us to leave?”

I answer; “You all know where he sleeps.”

The Owl says, “What if we leave now? Will this monster take the word of a man; to never speak of this to anyone?”

The Lion says, “Come on, John, you don’t really believe this horseshit do you?”

The Owl says flatly, “I do.”

The Bear says, “That’s it, I’m out, I don’t know if this shit is true, or not true. What I do know is that Eddie is dead and there is something damn strange going on. So, until we know for sure, I’m going to find the horses and look for that cave. Set a fire, keep warm and wait until morning. Then break north. I’ve had enough. Monster or no monster, I’m not spending another god damned second in this god damned cabin. As far as I’m concerned it’s every man for himself.” The Bear storms off toward the front door. Before leaving he turns and points a finger at me and says, “And if you want my advice, Boss, shoot this little shit and leave him for the wolves. He knows too much already.”

The Lion says, “Paul, wait a minute, now wait just a god damned minute … Paul, don’t be rash … Shit.”

The Bear storms off into the night.

The Owl looks down at the Sheep. Then kneels next to his body. Tears.

The Lion paces, hands on hips. “Okay,” he says. “First thing, is we need to bury Eddie. No, scratch that, you stay here. I’ll go and try to find Paul. See if I can knock some sense into him. Then the horses, get them in the barn. Then we bury Eddie. We hunker down for the night, and in the morning we head north. Just like we planned.”

A scream.

Hurried, frantic footfalls; the door is nearly torn from its hinges. The Bear enters; keels over, gasping for air. The Lion is on the draw, but now realizing his friend has returned, the golden-haired man holsters his weapon.

“Paul, what is it, you alright?” the Lion places a hand on the shoulder of the Bear.

“The Doc,” the Bear says between gasps. “I found Doc.”

“Where?”

“I saw a sled. Full of skins. Just over yonder. Figured I could use a couple, on account of the cold. But underneath … dear, Jesus.”

“Dead?”

The Bear shakes his head, the colour drains from his face. “Not just dead,” he says. “He was … Jesus, he was …”

I finish his sentence; “Flayed.”

The Lion looks at Bear. The Bear nods in affirmation. The Lion puts his hands to his head, “Christ almighty.”

“He doesn’t revel in killing humans,” I say calmly. “In fact, he desperately tries to avoid it if possible. But, when it happens, the organs are precious. Probably saved them for later.”

“Boss,” says the Bear, “We need to get out of here.”

The Owl says nothing. His eyes still locked on the body of the Sheep.

Then the Lion laughs. It is unexpected. It draws gawking looks from his compatriots. Curious.

“Very good,” the Lion says. “Very good indeed.” He takes a couple of steps toward me. “You almost had me, Trapper. Almost.”

The Bear looks at his friend, confused.

“A dead man walking, feasting on the blood of animals,” the Lion laughs again. “God, I feel stupid. Should have known better.” The golden-haired man pulls out his gun and squats before me. He smiles and turns a palm upward. “It’s too cold for a landslide,” he says. “Isn’t that right, Trapper?”

The Owl looks up from the body of the Sheep.

I smirk, “Yeah. It is rather quite cold for a landslide,” I admit.

“Shit. It was a good story, Trapper,” the Lion says. “But that’s all it is. Just a story. So what happened then; the Doc get here first? Got here before we did?”

I nod.

“And he wouldn’t leave the damned cabin neither, would he,” says the Lion.

“He would not,” I say.

The Bear says, “Son of a bitch.”

The Owl stands.

The Lion says, “Truth is, Paul, this guy here is the real killer. Shit, there is no monster out there except for maybe the one we’re looking at. And I’d say Doc wasn’t his first neither. Yeah, that’s right, Trapper, I’ve heard stories too. Except unlike the ghost and goblin shit that John here likes to read about, I’ve read real stories. Stories in the paper about guys just like you. You see, gentlemen, this isn’t about some crazy invisible bogeyman. No, what we got here is a real-life genuine murdering psychopath.”

I shake my head and open my mouth to speak. But the Lion interrupts. “Nope,” he says as he rises to his feet. “You’re done talking.” He takes aim and shoots.

Why did I wait so long? I really should have acted sooner. Well, at least I’ll know better next time. Not that there will be a next time.

It hurts like hell; the bullet entering my forehead. I can feel brain matter ripping apart. The back of my skull explodes on the wall behind. I forget who I am, where I am, and what just happened.

The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window. No, not a candle … this memory feels faint, yet it should clear. A moment is required. Time will break the fog. Yes, I see now it was a match. Not a candle. A match. That is how this night began.

I begin to heal. Seconds, minutes; I’m unsure. Time is irrelevant in this state. My memories are a jumble. My story, my life; a distorted mess. So much pain. As I convalesce the fog lifts. Pictures become salient thought, memories find order. Yes. I remember now. Shot in the head. The only thing worse than a bullet to the head is decapitation. It hurts the most and is painstakingly slow to recover. I blink my eyes open. A dusty floor. My floor. The Lion is there, and so too is the Bear. And the Owl. Discussing what to do with my corpse. The Sheep is missing. Buried already? It means an hour has passed? Maybe two. My hands and feet are still bound. Irrelevant. My strength has returned.

I snap the bindings as if they were paper. I rise.

The Owl is the first to see. His eyes swell in fear. “Sweet mother of Mary,” he whispers. He makes the sign of the cross. The other two men turn. The Bear gasps and nearly loses his footing as he stumbles into the Owl. The Lion is the only one to act. His draw is lighting fast. But I am faster. I lift him by the neck. Snap it and drop him to the floor.

My eyes have become black pools of emptiness. Behind me, the Bear is wheezing, stumbling, trying to get to the door. I lash out with my free hand. I can feel his skull buckle under the force. His body falls limp; crashes into the hearth. Dust and smoke. The Owl sinks to a corner, grasping a crucifix necklace he has withdrawn from his shirt he slides to the floor. “Sweet mother Mary, is this how it ends?” he says. His eyes turn skyward.

I sigh and sit cross-legged before him. “I know you won’t believe me,” I say to him, “But I am sorry. Truly I am.”

“I want to believe you,” he says. “You tried to give us time. You warned us to leave. But … we didn’t listen.”

In the distance, the dawn is breaking. More time must have passed than I realized. Already I can feel the edges of my skin frothing under the faint rays of that cursed glowing orb.

“Please,” the Owl says, “No man will ever know what transpired here. Your secret, your den, it is safe with me. I swear on all that is holy.”

I look at him for a moment. Perhaps he can even sense a modicum of pity hanging on my pale face; hiding, just beyond the reach of my deep black eyes. “Sir,” I say, “Do I appear holy to you?”

The Owl releases his grip on his crucifix necklace.

“Can I afford to take that chance, Sir?” I ask. “You; a man who can quote the bible verbatim, from memory. You would pledge allegiance to me?” I shake my head.

The Owl swallows hard but says nothing.

“Outlaw or no,” I say, “I do not believe that a man such as yourself would sell your soul to the devil in exchange for a few more decades of life. If living is what you consider existing within this weak mortal shell.”

The Owl leans his head against the wall and exhales deeply. “No. No, you are right,” he says dejectedly. “On this, I would not trust my word either.”

I bear my fangs. “I do wish you all had left when you had the chance,” I say.

The Owl begins; “Our father, who art in heaven …”

My skin burns hotter. I cannot wait for his prayer to conclude.

At least he doesn’t scream.