Where The Dark Winds Gather

The wind blowing through the second-story window arrives in a mad hurry for nowhere, the edges of its fury lifting my letter from the desk and flinging it across the room. I watch it tumble through the air in a frantic flight, and it reminds me that any and every thing here is blown constantly by the evil intentions of the wind, whose only satisfaction derives from absolute destruction.

"If it ain't nailed down or rooted in the soil," the old ranch hands say, fighting the breeze to light their cigarettes. "It's fair game for the wind. And if you give her long enough, she'll win every time." These words I've heard countless times in my five years in Montana, but didn't understand their true meaning until it got personal.

The wind, the fire, the snow, the rain and lack of rain, the earth and its people, the animals – they are always working on you. Wearing you down, day by day, nerve by nerve, until you’re hollowed out and brittle as last year’s sagebrush. And it’s not just the locals, either. Montana imports trouble from all sides, and never seems to run out of problems. The whole of nature is against you, and if you survive long enough, the only thing you’ll have left is a kind of battered pride and a few good stories to tell.

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From the porch to the mailbox is just shy of 200 yards. I measure the distance by foot, taking each step as a small act of defiance against the emptiness. The rear of the property may as well be in Saskatchewan. I’ve never seen it, not even during calving season travels. The ranch is, as a whole, slightly over 282,000 acres — large enough to fit state parks inside, large enough to house several million New Yorkers, large enough that you can ride for a week and never reach the boundary. But boundaries here are just ideas. Even if you did reach it, you would probably just find another busted fence.

The ground is dark, and it’s hard to see at night if you aren’t used to it. Light from the moon and stars and the house fluorescents are sufficient for me. I walk quietly, absorbing the sounds of faraway coyotes and wonder if they are harassing our cattle. Once at the mailbox I lift the rusty red metal flag. It's broken and won't stay without a little coaxing. I wish Robert would fix it. I could fix it myself, but he agreed to, so it's a matter of principle. I’ll remind him when he gets back, and maybe hold out on the sourdough biscuits until he submits.

Tonight I have three letters to mail: one to Mother, one to Sally, my best friend from Boston, and one to our closest neighbor, Chad. There’s a herd of Bar W-branded cattle on Lower Cottonwood Creek Range, and Chad needs to either get them off our land or start paying rent.

These are the last of the letters I will send this week. Robert is due home tomorrow. Every year he and his four man crew attend the horse show in Cheyenne and take a considerable passel of horses. They come back with dust in their hair and wild tales I can never quite believe. It’s seven days of camping, cards, games, and the occasional fistfight. Women are strictly prohibited, and that’s fine with me. I like my solitude these days.

I slide my letters into the open box. My finger brushes against something in the back — a package I don’t remember seeing earlier. That’s strange. I could have sworn I emptied the mailbox this afternoon. I remove the package and close the lid. Something doesn’t feel right. There is no return address, no stamp. Only the word PRINCESS written in block letters.

My heart drops. My hands start to shake, worse than they did when I took the stand against him, worse than the night I finally ran. The panic is a cold, familiar friend. The fear settles in my stomach, solid as a stone, sharp as the blade he used to cut my flesh.

My fingers are paralyzed. I have to give them verbal commands, will them to function. I wipe tears I didn't know were there and break the seal. Inside, nestled in a wad of bubble wrap, is my old wedding ring.

A tremor strikes me, harsh and immediate, like the pulse of an electric fence. If my ring is here, someone had to take it from the lockbox in my bedroom.

Jonathan.

Even thinking his name churns my insides. But Jonathan is in jail, right? He has to be. They don’t let men like him out early. Not after the trial, the testimony, the attempted murder conviction. But deep down I know it… he’s out. And he’s here. I can feel his presence, poisonous and familiar, like an evil spirit I can’t evade.

Headlights cut through the darkness from the barn. It’s Robert’s old Ford pickup. The powerful V8 engine roars to life and shatters the silence. The truck lurches forward, tires spitting gravel, and fishtails before straightening and barreling toward me, a mushroom cloud of dust in its wake. I run, leaving the ring and package for the wind. There’s nowhere to go, nowhere to hide. I have to reach the house.

I sprint, heart hammering, breath tearing at my chest. I have only half the distance, but he has many times the speed. When I near the side porch, the truck slams through the picket fence and sends broken slats flying with amazing force. One catches me above the eyebrow, splitting the skin and knocking me down. Blood streams into my eye. The truck is nearly upon me, and, barely missing, crashes into the porch and kitchen door. And there is Jonathan in the driver’s seat. He is laughing that cool, hysterical laugh of his, and the devil is in his eyes. He struggles with the driver’s door, which crushed from the impact, but gives up and slides out the passenger’s side.

I watch this nightmare of a scene unfolding back over my shoulder, as I'm already running to the front of the house. The door is locked -- an Eastern habit I never dropped -- so I kick in a window, cutting my arm as I climb inside. Blood splatters onto the along the stairs as I race to Robert’s library. The gun safe is locked, but there should be a pistol in the desk. I open the drawer and find it empty. Of course. Robert keeps it in his truck when he's on the road. I curse, the panic rising. I scan the room and spy a tomahawk above the mantle – a gift from a Lakota friend – the sharp, chiseled, obsidian blade gleaming. There’s something ancient about it, something that feels right in my grip. The dense weight and the surgically sharp edge. I think how nice it would be to sink into Jonathan's skull. Then I hear him, faintly at first, his laughter growing louder and weirder, echoing through the night. Hearing that malicious, threatening laugh injects into me a tonic of fear that forces me back to our terrifying time together. Never again, I tell myself.

I try the phone. It's dead. The line’s been cut, or maybe the crash severed it. I duck into the bedroom, cut the light, and hide in the closet. I bury myself in coats, holding my breath, waiting. I raise the tomahawk. It’s ready to fall upon the first head that appears.

Then… what’s that smell? Is that….?

Smoke creeps under the door. Then the fire alarm erupts and blares out its mechanical warning. Flames start in the kitchen, spreading across walls and onto the ceiling. I can’t stay here.

In the basement is an exit mostly hidden from outside. I slip down the stairs, but then must fight the sickening urge to vomit when I find a cleared spot in the corner filled with a sleeping bag, pillow, dirty plates, bottles of urine. Jonathan has been here, living in my house and eating my food. And, judging by the accumulated plates and silverware, he has been here a week or more. Waiting, watching, listening. It even smells like him. Disgusting.

I slam my shoulder into the door — it won’t budge. Blocked from the outside. I retrace my steps through the rising smoke. The bottom floor is engulfed in flames, heat pressing in from all sides. I cough, eyes burning, lungs raw. Outside, Jonathan shouts, his ecstatic voice warped with macabre pleasure.

“Come on out, Kate. Come out and play, sweetheart.” This sends me back to our marriage, to dark days and even darker nights. Times I can never seem to shake. Hell no. Never again.

I don’t have much time, and I'm scared to exit on the main floor. Back in the library I grab a lariat draped over the mounted longhorn. I open a window, step out onto the roof. Twenty feet away stands the Douglas fir, the only tree in the yard. My roping skills are crude, but am confident I can pull it off. I unfurl the lariat, swing the loop wide. My first throw misses, the rope bouncing harmlessly off a branch. The second throw catches, and I secure the loop. I tie it off then slide down.

I hear thudding footsteps coming my way. The adrenaline kicks in as I run for the barn, weapon in hand. I can see my own shadow lengthening in front of me with each step. Another shadow joins mine. Jonathan is following.

"Teton!" I yell, and my horse's head pops up in the barn, ears erect. He knows there’s trouble. "Teton!" I yell again, joyful that he is there waiting. By the time I reach him, he is edgy and prancing and ready for action. I jump on bareback, clutching his mane, and we bolt into the night, the burning house illuminating our escape.

We reach the foothills to the north. There is a thicket of trees and a scattering of boulders we will use for cover. I dismount, leading Teton carefully through the trees. I know these woods — the rocks, the roots, the hidden spaces. There is a place I have in mind, a small cave that will provide a lookout over the valley below.

At an outcropping we pause, and I dismount and crouch behind the rocks. I see the house burning and shadows moving across the plains. We continue along a game trail lit by scattered moonlight. There is the sudden, quick slithering motion of a snake under foot. Teton bucks, then refuses to go any further. He plants his feet and snorts aggressively.

“Teton,” I hiss. "Come on! Just a little farther." I try to coax him, then pull with all my strength… but he isn't budging. Shit. I walk forward a few steps thinking he will follow, but he bolts instead, and I am left alone.

Creeping through the dark woods, I dilute my fear by constantly running my fingers along the tomahawk blade. I reach the back of the hill, and it is eerily dark. Every sound and movement turns into Jonathan. Several times I rear back to strike… only to find a disturbed rabbit or tree branch. And so slowly, painfully slowly, I work my way through the woods toward the cave I’ve been aiming for. I sit at the edge of the trees for what feels like an hour and just watch. I focus on my breath, and I try to keep my heart steady and strong. I listen, and I hear life existing with utmost clarity all around me. Gazing along the moonlit trail, I plot my route to the cave. I will crawl through the sagebrush to keep my silhouette from betraying me.

I scan my surroundings one last time. It is quiet, dark, empty. I crawl until I reach the boulder and wait. I hear rustling back from where I came, then heavy footsteps. Teton. He's coming back for me.

I crawl to the place I just left at the edge of the woods. My breathing is slow and methodical, my mind clear and steady. There, through the trees, some 80 or 100 feet away, I see movement… or rather sense it. I hear the soft crunching of footsteps on leaves. Then the thin, strong legs of my horse appear.

"Teton," I whisper softly. "This way."

As the horse nears, my heart begins beating so hard I fear it can be heard outside my body, like the incessant pounding of a drum. Warily, I peer around a tree, and watch my horse move through the shadows. The steps continue slowly, one at a time, until he is mere paces away. I can hear him breathing, and imagine the warm air flowing through his large, round nostrils. I walk quietly toward him, the moonlight bathing the forest scene around us. But something is off, something doesn't feel right. I see movement in the trees, a shifting figure. I sense the sick, perverted energy return, and my stomach drops when I realize Teton has led Jonathan straight to me. There is a flash, and I see his horrible face coming at me.

I panic, but move quickly, without thought, back through the forest, then crash along the trail to the cave. He is there, right upon me, and I feel his swiping hand graze my shoulder. He catches a fistful of hair and jerks, ripping it from my skull. I scream out, but keep my feet moving. I'm running half-blind, my vision obscured by blood from open wounds, only seeing what’s in front of me in bits and pieces. I collide with a boulder and hit the ground. The tomahawk sails from my hand.

I'm disoriented, dizzy, hurt, sick. The moon is blazing upon me with the intensity of the summer sun. Animals are screeching, and the footsteps of my tormentor arrive quickly. Seeing his face so close I recoil in horror, then am hit with the force of a swinging log like a baseball bat. The impact shatters my cheek bone and sends me hurtling. My vision blurs again, and the world becomes a confusing mass of dreamlike psychedelia. Then I fall and hit the ground and it smells like dirt. All around me becomes dark… dark like the light has been sucked out.

I feel my body being dragged, and when my vision returns I see Jonathan standing over me, his sweating body outlined against the heavens with the still-blazing house beyond him. And though I can only see it in short, jagged bursts like a bad horror movie, the look on Jonathan’s face is of pure joy.

He grins, and I hear a thin, almost silent chuckle as he runs the knife across my flesh. A familiar, intense pain scorches my stomach where the skin is split, and I scream out in pain. My bowels churn in a nauseous sensation that hurts as badly as the knife’s cut. Instinctively I recoil and scoot away on my elbows. Jonathan, the ever-patient sadist, simply follows me step by agonizing step.

My mind sinks into a primitive state of survival. I need to get to a dark spot so I don’t have to watch anymore, regardless of what he does to me. I continue through jagged sagebrush and wicked cactus and other malicious plants that rip and bite and tear my flesh. I feel my body nearing a drop off, and am considering hurling myself over it, when I slide across that most precious forgotten object lying hidden in the bush: the tomahawk.

The touch of a wooden handle has never been so elating, and I learn the intoxicating feeling of absolute power such a simple weapon provides. I prop against a boulder and tighten my grip. And there I wait and let Jonathan stagger, drunk from my blood like wine, right up to me, and I feel him press against me, and a rising flame lights his face and in it I see the ice cold eyes and the monstrous smile. And for a moment, only a short moment, the maniacal laughing stops.

“I’ve been waiting a long time for this,” he says, and raises the knife.

“Me too,” I say, and in a single motion, jump up and sink the tomahawk deep into his face. Like a stunned cow, he jerks back, his brain already dead but his body not yet realizing. Out of spite and for my own morbid pleasure, I grab his arm, pull it sharply downwards, and stick the knife in his stomach. I push forward, leading with the knife, until Jonathan’s body slips over the edge and tumbles down the the hill, landing with a thud among the rocks.

I collapse on the blood-soaked soil, my body throbbing with adrenaline, relief, and overwhelming pain. Below, the house burns and flames devour my earthly possessions. The wind picks up, swirls around me – not pushing me away like before, but holding me and welcoming me like an old friend.

Given the extent of my injuries, I don't know if I will survive the night. But at the moment that isn't what matters. I'm alive. I lived. And I won. I have proven myself worthy of this land, this place, this life. I have defeated him… Jonathan… my one true enemy. Now I have power over him. And power over my life.

And then, as if coming from a far distance, I hear a strange laugh – a proud, exhilarating laugh that has been suppressed for years. Only this time, I realize that laugh is mine.