i.
Sipping on the last of his bourbon, Jonathan Brooks sat and thought about what to do next- he was now without a rifle or much food- his dog was almost dead. He was now stranded on the inhospitable side of the river with not much more than a few cans of beans, a revolver and a prayer. How could he have been so careless? Everything was going fine, just fine. He had made it through the rainy months. All the other river crossings had gone fine, and then here, here is where he was unraveled.
The Duchess was on a sopping wet wool blanket next to the fire, her fur just beginning to dry out. She coughs in that pathetic little cough. That almost certainly means death, water spraying from her nostrils with each whimpering hack.
With most of his gear in the current and down river, he had few options. Either way, winter was on his mind. It was coming, coming very, very soon and it didn't matter which side of the mountains he found himself on.
He would be warm enough for the night. Jonathan Brooks threw three more big rounds of brush on the fire, draped the other wool blanket over him and the Duchess, and tried to sleep.
---
The next morning, the blankets were mostly dry from body heat and fire. The Duchess was still alive. He welcomed the sunshine, knowing that this might be his only chance to make things right. It was late October and the mountains made things cold most of the time. Cold was fine. Wet was fine. But together they meant the end of everything.
The mountain tops were now covered in a light dusting. The trees seemed to flow down the mountains like water.
Jonathan Brooks looked at the river with the eyes of a man without coffee. He drank bourbon and he drank coffee. He looked at the mountains and he looked at the trees and the yellow leaves on the ground, and he wished he had coffee. This morning- there was no coffee- just cold and colder on the way.
He dug into his pack and got out the waterproof pouch that contained his journal, the maps, and the extra, little silver compass. The journal was a little wet at the bottom but most of the pages remained dry. The Duchess barely moved her eyes to look at the noise.
Knowing his odds, Jonathan Brooks began to write to his wife on the other side of the mountains.
To My Dear Agatha,
My luck has finally run out and I fear the worst. What you feared most is coming for me and I feel there is little I can do to stop it. The snow is about to start falling and I have lost nearly all my supplies. I'm sorry to have let you down my love. I gambled and I lost and it seems just that simple to me here.
I have made it over the mountains but do not think my return possible. Forward lies the future, or at least so we hoped, so I hoped, but I am nothing without any of my original supplies. Behind me lies the mountains, and beyond everything else, winter. I have found myself in this way because of carelessness. You were right- I should have stayed home where I belonged. I hope that this letter will reach you; if it does, it means that not all my luck has run out.
Your loving husband,
Jonathan
---
He tucked the letter back into the front of the journal, then the journal into the water proof pouch and began to strip out of his wool layers to fully dry them out in the sun. He covered himself in the mostly dry wool blanket on top of the Duchess and stoked up the fire once again. This side of the river was pretty in the early morning light. The sun illuminated the tips of the trees just so, making them like they were glowing the yellowish-green of autumn from the inside out.
---
Jonathan Brooks awoke to find himself in the late afternoon- the light had changed and the trees no longer looked so pretty. It was colder. The Duchess was still alive. He was still alive. He began to empty the contents of the backpack.
1 journal.
1 waterproof pouch.
1 fixed blade knife.
27 matches.
1 quart red beans
1 quart jarred carrots
17 pistol cartridges.
3 oiled clothes
The straps for the blankets.
Even worse than he thought.
---
That night, Brooks ate the carrots, gathered wood for the night and lay down, listening to the loud, forced breathing and sudden pathetic coughs.
Sleep came quickly and hard. He hoped to dream about nothing but his home and where he belonged.
---
A stern nudge and much heavier breathing.
Then, a snarl- growing louder and louder. A bark.
Jonathan Brooks woke up, his eyes opening slowly.
The burned down fire was still enough to just see the bear.
The bear had drug the blanket off Brooks and the Duchess without him noticing. It was pawing at it with its right claw and holding it down with it’s left.
Brooks got to his feet, his hand moved slowly down to his right side. And even more slowly, he pulled the gun out its holster. The move made the pistol a part of his body. He drew a bead at the bears head and pulled back the hammer.
Brooks heard nothing, just like every other time he had shot an animal bigger than himself. The subtle amounts of adrenaline that he had learned to feed on in an earlier life were with him again. The night sky lit up like canon fire; unburned pieces of powder flew out the end of the barrel along with the .45 caliber slug. The first round had blown off the bear’s right ear- scattered into red nothingness. He got off another before the bear fully collided with him- that round drove a crater into the bear's back the size of a saucer.
Jonathan Brooks hit the ground covered in fur splattered with blood, toppled by the brown bear. He began to yell as loudly as he could. Profanities and mindless, slurred vowels all escaping from his throat. Being as a mean of a sonofabitch as possible, just trying to give himself another chance to pull the trigger. Everything was a yelp or a slur- the bear knew exactly what he was saying.
The third round went right into the bear’s stomach and began to ricochet inside the warm and dark body cavity. The fourth shot about eight or so inches higher, ran through scattered tissue and found its home directly in the liver. The pistol was so close to his body that it shook him each time the firing pin hit its mark.
Blood was all over his shirt and jacket now. The bear was already dead, he just didn’t know it. Jonathan Brooks squirmed left and right and finally pulled the pistol up to the bear’s neck. He put the barrel right next to the bear’s throat and forced it into the dark, stinking fur.
Number five...Number six.
Both bullets would have killed the bear individually. The first went through both sides of the jugular and immediately began pouring blood and scattered trachea tissue all over. Tiny pieces of metal and more unburned powder peppered Brooks face. The second caught what was left of the trachea and went straight up through to the vertebrae. With the second round, the bear dropped on top of him.
Jonathan Brooks took a deep breath, then spit. After that he started to work on moving the bear off.
---
ii.
‘It just doesn’t seem like it’s worth it, Jonathan.’ Agatha said.
‘We have to’ said Jonathan Brooks ‘I have to. I can find the way over the mountains. Anthony did. And he left us the property out west. I can make it, I know I can.’ said Jonathan
In Jonathan’s previous life- before the house, and the steady work, and above all, before Agatha- he lived on the fringe of everything; because he had to and because he could.
‘I don’t doubt your ability, you know that, but you’re older now and we have a good life here. I just don’t see why you are so bent on changing things.’
‘If the property is half as big-‘
Brooks’ father had let him go at fifteen, to explore the wide open world by himself. And the wide open world responded and made Brooks self sufficient and fearless and respectively reckless of the elements. By the time he was sixteen, he moved freely around the plains and the mountains and the trees, only going into towns for coffee and more bullets.
‘I know how big you think the property is, but you have no way of knowing what is really there’
‘Yes, but I have to go. I know that were fine here, and were making alright money but we could be so much better. I want something better for you. If I get out there before the spring, we can sell the place by summer and that… that will make all the difference and everything will be so much better. Things will be better-I’ve been left a fortune.’
When they first met, Jonathan had been shot through the shoulder by a bandit looking for his father. He was twenty three at the time. For two days he walked and bled to the nearest town to find a doctor. Agatha was the nurse.
‘Agatha, when it comes down to it, this is not a question of ‘if’ this is a question of ‘when’.
---
The first letter had been delivered to their house two weeks previous. It was followed by a second about a month later. Both had been delivered by horseback. The first letter had been from his father out west. It had taken nearly five months to reach Jonathan.
To My Last Surviving Son,
I have decided to leave you half of my property out west, 1602 acres of prime land. I know that we haven’t spoken since before your mother died, but I hope this will make up for our relationship that has been lost so long ago. I’ve split the
property down the middle with your Uncle Adam. The property is worth the time
and effort you need to get there- if you can make it.
Anthony Brooks
The next letter was from the Church out West where Anthony Brooks had gone every Wednesday night and Sunday morning.
Anthony Brooks took ill about a fort night past and is now with God.
He’s been buried in the church graveyard and his weary soul is finally at rest.
Yours in Christ,
Pastor Raymond McDonald
---
Jonathan Brook’s mind was made up from the beginning. Two days after their last conversation , he came home with the supplies.
‘So- you’ve decided’
Agatha walked to the door way of the backroom, where Jonathan was crouched to next stacks of supplies.
‘I’m ready. I went to the general store today. I’ve got everything to make it over.’
‘Were doing fine here’
She crossed her arms and leaned against the doorway, then began to survey the different piles of her husband’s old life.
‘I’ve done it before. This life has made me soft but I can do it.’
He spoke directly to the piles of supplies. He hadn’t bothered to look up.
‘How am I supposed to get along with out you here?’
She moved over to where her husband was crouched and sat down next to him. Then forcing him to look at her straight on and they shared the look between them. He remained still and she moved her hands around his shoulders. With her thumb and middle finger, she book ended the entrance and exit wounds in his shoulder.
‘You will make do, just like I will’
‘Jonathan, what do you think all of this has been for?’
‘That’s-’
‘Jonathan, what do you think this is going to do?’
‘I’ve done everything I can do, this is it, it’s everything to me and without this I am nothing.’
iii.
Jonathan Brooks had gotten back on his feet, he had cured as much of the bear meat as he could carry- the Duchess was on the mend. Each day he was getting closer and closer to Uncle Adam’s cabin. A light snow fell all the time. It was cold and he had to keep moving. It was simple.
Each step made a light crunch with new imprint in the snow. Twigs and freshly fallen leaves broke underneath his boots.
Three, maybe four more days to the cabin. And there, there would be jarred vegetables, ammunition, a new rifle,- everything he needed to keep going. The Duchess walked beside him- still alive. He knew it would be where Adam said it would be- and it would have everything. Brooks knew that his hopes were slim, but everything had to be there or there wouldn’t be consequences, there would just be cold. Cold and colder would overcome him and that would be it.
The cabin was supposed to be a small thing-Brooks had only heard about it in letters and the like. It was planted some 80 miles northwest of where everything had fallen. Adam wrote of the long rolling foot hills, and tall hardwoods scattered the far side of the mountains. The cabin supposedly sat at the top of a foothill with only trees a few sparse hill at its crest. The hill itself was said to lie in an expansive prairie field. This was the place where Adam Brooks was said to escape everything and go hunting; nothing more than a deer path to the front door, it was nearly invisible to anyone who didn’t know exactly where to look.
---
Jonathan Brooks checked the map, rechecked the map and was always surveying the ground in front of him. Managing the contour lines in his mind, redefining his direction little bits at a time. His eyes were returning to their once systematic ways of searching- always looking for movement. One bear was enough- he didn’t want to even think about the possibility of a mountain lion. At this point a mistake would mean everything. Brooks knew this and he could feel the cold reality of his situation fuel his old instincts.
The jarred food was gone, but the bear meat wasn’t. It tasted like some cross of pork and beef. The Duchess liked it. It was enough to get by. Each day on the way to the cabin Jonathan Brooks got out a can or an oil cloth filled with bear and they ate.
They walked over tree dense hills, fields with yellow tall grass, or short grass or all sorts of kinds of grass. Brooks kept his eyes forward- the Duchess kept her nose in the air. They would jaunt a little here and a little there, diverging for a spell to stay on easier terrain. Going north when they had to and moving a bit more West when they could. Slowly things became more and more refined. Brooks would figure the most efficient route possible. His mind returned to its old way.
---
Jonathan Brooks woke up in a quick bolt and looked into the forests edge where he decided to stay the night. He was maybe, a day away from the cabin, and his stomach had gone cold. He shook his head quick to get rid of the sleep in his eyes and looked deep into the forest. He listened and heard nothing- then moved the pistol from underneath the blankets, took one more look around and put his head back down.
---
Jonathan Brooks spotted the cabin from about three miles away. A single hill in the middle of a sea of prairie grass- scraggly hardwoods on the top of the hill christened with a small, beautiful, cabin.
---
The Duchess led Jonathan Brooks up the grassy hill towards salvation and everything else. The gently worn path wound up the hill from South to North. The cabin was an 8x15, with a wood shingle roof that had just a slight bit of pitch to it. It was the most perfect, brilliant, beautiful thing Jonathan Brooks had ever seen. The door had a thick beam across the front- the windows boarded up and hinged with thick wooden shudders.
The door was heavy and required Jonathan Brooks to use his shoulder to wedge it open.
And then, there it was, in all its splendor and astounding glory.
Cartridges.
Sacks of flour.
Beans.
Sugar.
A rifle.
A hatchet.
Snow shoes.
An oiled, waterproof jacket.
Jars and jars of vegetables.
Coffee.
Bottles of bourbon.
Jonathan Brooks looked around, and lay down on the bed and began to cry he was so God damn happy.
