The End of the Trail

by Louis Rakovich

  She made a roast with potatoes and onions and garlic, and I cut the rest of the meat into thin strips and hung it to smoke. I stood behind her as she cut the potatoes into cubes.

  “Did you know they would burn your house?” I asked.

  Her hands didn't stop moving as she answered. “Yes, thank God. I took some things and left. Found this house with a dead man inside. For a long time I thought someone would come, but no one did.”

  “There's nothing left,” I said, “Not even a chimney.”

  She rolled back a sleeve and took another potato. “I dream about it sometimes. That I'm in the house while it's burning. I wake up and I can't close my eyes again, and sometimes I see the thing standing outside in the trees.” Her hands grew still and for a second she leaned back into me. “Thank you for killing it.”

  After we ate she got up from behind the table and sat down on the bed. I sat beside her. I looked at her hair. I'd seen her brush it the night before, with long slow strokes. It was thick and clean.

  “The doctor that lives on the other side of the forest, the queen said he can wake up the dead. Do you think he could cure the king?”

  “Many years ago, maybe he could. But no one can help him now.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Your king's as good as dead, believe me, I know.”

  Her answer was a relief. I said, “Can I stay here?” and she said, “Yes, please stay.”

  ***

  VII.

  It's been exactly a week since that night. Now she's lying on her back next to me, hair as black as nothing and skin so pale I can see her veins in the weak light of the fire. The most beautiful woman I've ever seen. She says, “I had that dream again. I was still burning,” and we both fall back asleep.

  I wake up, I don't know how much time has passed. It's darker now. Suddenly I feel a strong thirst. The pitcher is empty. I pull on my boots and take it outside. The snow is white in the light of the moon, as white as if the sun were shining. The well casts a sharp black shadow. I kneel and fill the pitcher with snow. The night around me seems like somebody's dream. I go back to the sleeping woman inside.

  The room is dark. I can't see the moon in the window. I push a clump of snow in my mouth and place the pitcher on the hearth. I lay down on the bed. She turns her face to me and opens her eyes.

  “I should tell you,” she says. “He's not sick. I cursed him. You won't get to the man beyond the forest in time now. You can go back to your king if you want, but he'll be dead when you get there.”

  She moves closer until her face is touching my chest, and I put my useless left arm on her shoulder. It's so dark I can't tell the bed from the room, and quietly, in my heart, I betray the king, and I say, “I'm not going anywhere. Let him rot.”

  END

  A Message from the Author

  Thank you for reading The End of the Trail. I hope you enjoyed it, and would like very much to hear what you thought. Feel free to contact me through www.louisrakovich.com or hit me up on Twitter at @LouisRakovich. Also consider leaving a short review to let others know what you loved, or hated, about The End of the Trail.

  Subscribe to my newsletter to occasionally find strange dark things and new fiction in your inbox.

  Until we meet again.

  —Louis