by Stephy Smith
She led the horses down the mountain trail. Glancing back to the cold campsite, she mounted the horse hoping another body didn’t appear. If one did, he had to have walked in since there weren’t enough horses. A tug on the reins twirled the stallion toward the warmth and safety of the log cabin. Her mind concentrated on the men.
Their tattered, thin uniforms told the story of the hardships they’d endured from the war. Times when they would pray things would end, maybe praying for their own safety or life to end to escape the horrid scenes surrounding them. With no more than what they had with them, she wondered if every winter for the last four years had been brutal.
She envisioned the men on their knees asking for mercy, to be relieved from the hands of the enemy, or the nightmarish howls of the wounded men that echoed through the air. No matter where they were, the harshness would burn into their minds like the brand on the hide of cattle.
How could she even think her life had been rough? Look at the things these men had endured for four long years, and she doubted they would complain about the life they had been dealt. How could she have been so selfish to think she was the only person on this earth who endured a pain so deep she never wanted to return to society? She was happier living with the spirits on the mountain.
How had they come to be on the mountain? Unless the new man survived, she would never know the answer to that question. She only wished she had known they were there earlier. Maybe she could have helped, or at least taken them to her cabin out of the vicious winter storm.
A frigid wind whipped up the side of the mountain. Lizzie’s eyes burned against the glitter of whiteness. Her lips threatened to crack with each minute it took to escape the sleepy slope. One last glance at the men rendered a need to coax the horses to move faster.
“If the man wasn’t still alive, I would be wrapped in the warm rabbit fur scarf placed over his face. He’s a lot colder than I am, and closer to death.” Guilt swam around in her mind, twisting and turning her torrential flood of emotions up a notch.
For the first time, she was burdened with the life of another human. Fierce determination to save the man hit hard on her soul.
“This man could die if I don’t get him home before long. Why is it taking so long to get off the mountain today, Oro?” The well-placed steps of the horses were detrimental in the outcome of the journey downhill. She prayed to the spirits for guidance and more strength to endure the wickedness of the deadly storm that pierced like one of her grandfather’s long buffalo spears.
She raised her fingers to her face. The face she could no longer feel from the bulkiness of the fur, and the stone weight on her cheeks, nose, and lips. Her eyelids, heavy with accumulated ice, burned with the fury of stickers pricking her eyeballs.
“Not much further now. Not much further.”
Astraea Press
Pure. Fiction.
www.astraeapress.com
