by A. R. Shaw
Having memorized the forest’s intricate paths over the past four years through all kinds of weather and forest fires—a yearly occurrence, especially in the summer months—Bishop knew every tree, bush, and stream; every boulder and ravine; and even a few of the bears and mountain lions by name.
The aroma of burning pine wood permeated the area. He’d noticed a sharp increase in the odor over the last few days. Since the power went out, people were relying heavily on their fireplaces for the first time in recent history. No longer was it nostalgic to light up the fireplace: it was a necessity. He wondered how long it would take them to run out of their meager piles before going for the green stuff lying around readily on the forest floor, the likes of which would cause them chimney fires in no time as the creosote built up along the walls. No, these people might live in the woods, but they didn’t know how to survive in the woods. And they would soon find out what they were made of when nature put them to the test.
He’d already traveled over three miles, and his eyes were beginning to lose their focus on the two-tone world of white with its few sparse coal projections. When he came upon his intended prey, too afraid to whisper the words out loud, which might spook the animal, he said them within, “Hello, buddy.” Bishop raised the bow while the elk stood and pawed at the snowy ground in an effort to get to the dry grass underneath. He aimed the broad head of the arrow at the side of the creature, near the heart, and let loose.
The animal began to bolt from an enemy unheard, but the broad head of the arrow opened a decent-sized hole in the animal’s essential organs and dropped him to the ground, dead almost instantly. The kill was swift, and Bishop was thankful that he hadn’t tortured the animal or had to track a suffering creature for miles farther.
Upon approach, he knelt in the snow, removed his glove, and ran his hand over the animal’s fawn-to-rich-brown fur. To him, each being was special and though he needed meat to survive like most people, sporting for an animal bothered him. Doing so was a waste of life. When he could, he used every part of the beast to honor the animal’s existence.
Bishop could tell it was a young elk by his size and by the few points on the small rack that crowned his head. Unsheathing his knife at his side, he pulled out several bags from his pack as well as a tarp to make the job easier and cleaner. He set to work and took the hindquarters, neck meat, and back straps. After nearly half an hour, Bishop packed up all the meat he could carry and left a steaming mound of entrails for the local wildlife to savor. If he passed the same area within three weeks, only bleached bones would remain, and even then the animal itself would return to the earth in time.
Bishop set out again, his legs burning and his pack overburdened with over seventy-five pounds of meat, but his efforts would keep Roger’s widow and the boy alive for a time; when the weather was too cold to hunt, they would still have meat if they used the gift wisely.
Struggling up an incline going back the way he’d come, Bishop adjusted his pack on his shoulders and looked up at the afternoon sky. The sun shone weakly through a veil, its outline as small as the moon’s. This veil was something he was sure would seem thicker in the months ahead, as if the sun had absconded from man, fleeing for a time and taking with it the warmth of life. He predicted not all would survive. In fact, only a few, if he was right. The thought of the ravages men had ahead of them saddened him.
As Bishop continued back to his cabin struggling ever more with the weight upon his back, he contemplated the best way to handle delivering the meat. Stopping first to saddle Jake, his horse, to help with the trek to Maeve’s, he could drop the pack on her porch after dark, but he wasn’t sure if she’d discover the meat in time and that could attract unwanted predators to her location.
In fact, the more he thought about how to deliver the goods, he found no way to avoid actually talking to her. He’d been eluding conversation with the wood deliveries. Part of him wanted to have a real conversation with the redheaded widow, but the other part of him did not. However, at the end of his argument with himself, he fell on the idea that taking care of them was a duty he owed to Roger.
She probably didn’t even know how to butcher the meat, and he needed to get into the house anyway because he had a new deadbolt to replace the flimsy lock on the back door. Also, he needed to see if she had snow tires in the garage that could replace the low-tread wheels on her FJ before he sought out new ones. That task alone would take part of the evening, and that was only if she let him inside the door to begin with.
Chapter 11
By sundown, Maeve had most of the first-floor windows covered in an extra layer of protection against the cold. Upstairs, she’d closed all of the doors and used towels or clothing to block the warm air from escaping under the doorframes. Even the drains in the sinks drafted cold air into the rooms, so she cut up a rubber mat to cover the holes when not in use. Once she was finished trying to insulate the house from the frigid outdoors, she heard a knock on the front door.
“Someone’s at the door, Mom,” Ben said as he sat up from playing with his cars on the living room floor.
Maeve left the kitchen and said on her way to the door, “I don’t know who would be out in this weather. It’s way below freezing out there.” She reached for her pistol on the high shelf of the hall closet on her way to the door. Ben watched her in surprise as she handled the Glock 17. She put up a silent finger to her mouth to usher him into quietness.
Holding the gun behind her back, Maeve peeked through the peephole in the door to see who was on the other side. She saw him standing there, the man who secretively delivered wood stacks to her door, the one her son called the hermit.
“I’ve got to ask him his name,” she whispered.
“What, Mom? Who is it?” Ben asked.
Without answering her son’s question, she said, “Ben, can you go in the kitchen for me and stay out of sight?”
“Why, Mom?” he said, looking confused.
The guy knocked again, and she jumped this time. She let out a frustrated breath and then opened the door a crack. The brisk, cold wind invaded her home.
He stood there with his pack weighed down and dressed in insulated camouflage as if he’d never left the war. He stared right through her with those blue eyes and dirty light-blond hair. The beard on his face gave him a wild man look, though the eyes were gentle. She would have feared him if it weren’t for the eyes as blue as glacier ice. His complexion was weathered too, and she could tell he’d once been an attractive man; he still was, but in a torn and rugged way.
The frigid air passed freely inside, and he suddenly said, “Don’t open your door to strangers, Maeve.” His statement came out harsh, a condemnation of her actions.
“I…I know who you are.”
“You can’t do that. It’s not safe,” he said, frustrated.
“I have a gun.”
He shook his head. “Don’t tell anyone you have a gun. Don’t say the words.”
She couldn’t believe he was giving her a hard time.
“What do you want?”
“I have something for you…and the boy.”
“What is it? We don’t need anything…”
His eyes stared through her again, and she knew he doubted her words.
“Elk meat. Do you know how to butcher it out?”
“Ugh…I’m sure I can manage. Thank you.” She opened the door wide for him to step inside.
“Don’t let anyone into your home,” he said in an urgent warning and then spied the boy peeking around the corner at him. She turned and saw Ben waving at the hermit.
“Well, you might as well come inside. I doubt you’d hurt us. Besides, you’re letting all the cold air in with the door open.” She found she was shaking already with the freezing air engulfing her.
He must have noticed because he stepped inside, and she took two big steps backward with the Glock still behind her back. He closed the door behind himself and bolted the lock, and when he stood right in front of her
, she realized he loomed over her and was at least six feet tall. He’d taken the heavy pack off his back and stretched and then looked at her and the boy as if he was assessing them.
“Always use the deadbolt, even during the day now. It’s not safe. Anyone can get through with one kick.”
His voice, she thought, was deep and wounded even though he was using it to condemn her now. She nodded that she should keep the door bolted.
He removed his snow-covered coat and hung it near the door and removed his knit hat. His hair stood out all over. He untied his boots and left them on the tile to drain as the ice melted and puddled all over. As he warmed, she noticed an odor coming from him. A mix of sweat and something else. She was sure he wasn’t one to bathe every day considering he lived in the woods. He didn’t smell filthy, just like a man who’d worked all day from sunup to sundown. She remembered Roger smelling the same way after working out or coming home from a long run.
He stood there in his stocking feet waiting for her to usher him inside further. Then he said, “Can you show me to the kitchen? I’ll help you get this parceled out.”
She didn’t say anything or move a muscle. She wasn’t sure she wanted him in her house, but then again something inside of her didn’t want him to leave, either. He was protective. He was strong, and something in her trusted the man even though she shouldn’t.
A slight smile pulled up the corner of his lips. “You can hold the gun on me the whole time if you think that will make you feel safer. I’m not going to hurt you or your son.”
She’d forgotten she had the Glock in her hand, but he hadn’t. The hand holding the gun, moved down to her thigh so that it was in plain view at her side.
He looked at the Glock 17 and then looked her in the eyes again. “Do you know how to fire that weapon?”
She nodded.
He looked skeptical.
“The kitchen is this way,” Ben interrupted, and the visitor looked at the small boy before he followed him from the foyer, stepping around Maeve as he did.
Maeve shook her head but followed the guys into the kitchen after putting the handgun back in the closet.
“What’s your name?” Ben asked the hermit.
Maeve watched as he set the pack down against the kitchen cabinet carefully. The bundle must weigh a ton, though he lifted it with ease. He turned on the water to let the tap warm, but even with a gas furnace only cold water ran out.
“Sorry, we ran out of hot water,” Maeve said.
Bishop used the nearby soap to wash his hands anyway. He looked at the boy while he washed and said, “My name’s Bishop. What’s yours?”
“I’m Ben, and that’s my mom, I mean…”
She stepped forward behind her son. “I’m Maeve Tildon.”
“Yes, I know your names,” Bishop said.
“Bishop knew your dad, Ben,” she said, not wanting her son to think she would just let any hermit or stranger into their home.
“He did?” Ben asked, but Bishop let his silence be his answer.
Maeve caught his reluctance to speak about Roger, but Ben did not. Perhaps that’s why Bishop was a hermit. He didn’t want to talk about anything to do with the war, not even Roger.
“Do you have a sharp knife?” Bishop asked.
“Yes,” she said and quickly rummaged around the kitchen to find her best tool for the job. She also retrieved a box of resealable bags to use and a marker to label the packages with.
“We were beginning to run out of food. My car isn’t working either, so this is very kind of you. We’re also out of power, so I can’t put them in the freezer. Can I keep the meat outside?” Maeve asked, trying to find a solution.
“No. Someone will take the meat, and the smell will attract the wildlife. Not safe to keep outside.”
“Where can I put it then?”
“In a cooler in the garage where the temperature is still well below freezing,” he said as he dried his hands on a towel.
“Can I get you something to drink before you start?”
“Water, please.”
Maeve rolled up her sleeves and washed her hands too after she gave him the glass, which he drank straight down at once.
Then Ben pulled himself up on the barstool so that he could watch what was going on.
Bishop looked for a knife sharpener from the drawer where Maeve retrieved the knife, but there wasn’t one in sight, so he opened a cupboard and grabbed a ceramic mug, the big kind that a devout coffee lover would continuously refill.
She watched him as he flipped the cup over and ran the flat side of the blade against the exposed stone. He did this a few times on each side and tested the edge again. He seemed satisfied with the sharper blade then and opened the pack of elk.
Pulling out a clear bag with two long strips of meat, Bishop rinsed them under cold water and then patted them dry with clean towels that she’d laid out for him. He began slicing the lengths into small steaks about an inch apart, and Maeve picked them up and put them into the smaller bags, sealing them inside with as little air as possible. When they were done with those, she retrieved a large clean blue cooler from the garage and had Ben put the finished steaks inside.
She kept out one set of steaks for their dinner later that night. Though they would have meat to eat and beans that she’d cooked on the woodstove, there were no other vegetables to go along with their meal. She had a feeling that the lack of vegetables would be an issue they would have to contend with until this weather thing passed over or when she could get to the store.
“Um, do you know anything about cars? My truck isn’t starting, and I need to go get some supplies before this gets too bad.” He shifted his weight from one foot to the other but instead of answering handed her a few more steaks. Maeve slid them into the next bag and wrote on the label, then gave the package to Ben to put in the cooler. She wasn’t sure why he had not answered her question. “I mean, if it’s not too much of a problem for you to check the truck out while you’re here.”
“I’ll look at it. Do you have snow tires somewhere?”
“Snow tires? Yes, they’re in the garage stacked in the corner. I know it’s a lot to ask. You must be exhausted after bringing this to us.”
“That’s all right. I’ll take a look at it when I’m finished here, but you really shouldn’t drive around with that truck. It needs to be locked up in the garage and out of sight. I also brought a deadbolt for your back door.”
She looked at Ben before asking the question on her mind. Scaring her son was something she was trying to avoid. “Do you think we’ll get looters as far as up here? I mean, we know a lot of our neighbors. I can’t imagine they’re the type of people to steal from others.”
Bishop continued to slice easily through the meat and divide up what he could as quickly as possible. She thought he was probably used to being alone and wasn’t used to so much conversation at once.
He seemed to wait longer than the social norm to respond to her questions, perhaps trying to formulate his response using the least number of words.
“Desperate people are dangerous. They do things you couldn’t imagine.”
His expression told her more than the words, as if he too were trying to limit the fear in front of her son. A tingle of fright ran up her spine.
“So you think this will get worse?”
Again, he didn’t respond for a while. “Don’t open the doors when someone knocks. I’ll check on you every few days.”
That certainly wasn’t enough to stave off her fears. In fact, she was more terrified than before. Not only that, the room had become quite dark with the waning light fading through the blocked windows. She lit several candles so that they could see as they worked.
“Surely this will blow over in a few days,” she said and smiled at Ben.
“It won’t,” he said, shaking his head while handing her a few more steaks to package.
“What do you mean?”
“We’re in the Maunder Minimum—for ye
ars now. This will go on for at least ten years if we’re lucky. The last time this happened, the ice age lasted seventeen years.”
Ben piped up, “Ice age? Like when the mammoths were here?”
“Yes,” Bishop said, nodding. He was working diligently while answering when asked, though a little delayed. He looked healthy enough, but she knew he was scarred by war or at least suspected that was the case.
Once he’d finished boning out the last hindquarter, his arms were completely bloodied. Bishop washed them in the frigid water from the tap and then moved the heavy chest full of elk steaks out to the garage while Maeve held a flashlight to guide the way. It was completely dark outside by then. He set the chest next to the inside wall of the garage. “The tires are over there,” she said and flashed the beam in the corner of the garage.
He nodded and then stepped inside the house next to her and closed and locked the door to the garage. “Keep this door locked all the time, too. Even when you’re inside,” he said.
Nodding, she replied, “Um, would you like to take a shower while you’re here? The water’s cold, but you could clean up, and I’ll make the steaks. The least I could do is feed you for all of this work you’ve done for us.”
He didn’t delay in his response this time. “No,” he said and stepped around her.
“O…kay,” she said, following him back to the kitchen where she found him cleaning the knife he’d used with care.
It wasn’t that he was rude before, she thought, but how do I communicate with this guy? Maeve began cleaning up their mess with hot, soapy water that she’d heated on the woodstove, scrubbing the counter free of blood.
“Do you have extra 9mm ammunition for the Glock?” Bishop said, interrupting her thoughts.
She looked up at him with a blank stare. “Uh, I think there’s some bullets in a box upstairs.”
He let out a somewhat frustrated breath.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t pay attention to this kind of thing. Roger took care of all of that.”
