*****
Puck was doing poorly. By end of night, Brownie had slowed his own stride to accommodate his partner’s lagging pace. I allowed this for a time, but soon it became apparent that Puck was costing us our valuable lead.
“Hold up,” I called. “Let us take a short rest.”
I let Virtue down from Brownie’s back, and then hopped down myself, stepping close to Puck and laying my hand along his sweat-slicked shoulder. Puck stood on three legs, holding his fourth leg bent without weighting it.
“Puck old boy, let me take a look at that sore joint.”
I knelt on the frosty ground and examined the horse’s leg. It was bad. Twisted and puffed-up. One could only guess what was going on inside that knee bone, but I figured the apparatus was torn pretty bad. With our desperate push we had quite possibly damaged it beyond repair. I bowed my head and rubbed my eyes. I stood.
“Well,” I said. “I do not think you need to be carrying a load.”
Unstrapping the trunks, I lifted them down from the sawbuck, setting them side-by-side in the dirt. “Virtue, will you please take the minimum of what you need from the trunks, and then roll it up in a blanket that we can easily carry it?”
She moved to do as I bid.
I then removed the empty sawbuck and blanket padding from Puck’s back, propping it on a rock, and then I moved to his head. I laid my forehead against his cheek, stroking his neck. I had added up the situation a number of times in the last hour, but it did not make sense that we all should die for the sake of only one of us. And yet, I felt like Mister Iscariot himself for what I was about to do. I removed Puck’s halter, pulling it over his ears and tossing it to the side.
“Here is what we are dealt, Puck.”
He was still breathing heavily. He was beyond weary. But he held up his head, his spirited and puckish manner revealing itself to the end.
“You are not fit to run with us, and run we must. We will leave you here for now, unburdened, in the manner of a wild horse who is free to roam.” I bit my lip. I squinted into the distance from where we had come. It was very small, barely more than the thinnest black line on the horizon, but I could see the band of our pursuing riders. They were some miles behind, but had not given up on our trail.
“I do not think they will pay you any attention. They are after us, not you. And so I suggest that you work your way west.” I pointed in that direction. “There are some pleasant valleys yonder, grassy and with clear streams running down out of the mountains. It is a veritable paradise for horses. Perhaps you will meet up with some kindly Indians who will take you in with their own. At any rate, a new life awaits.”
I was having a hard time keeping the cheery tenor in my voice, as my throat was constricting with emotion.
“You… Puck, you have been a noble friend. I could not have asked for better. You should be proud of what you have accomplished.”
I patted him on the nose, but said nothing more. It seemed best that way. I walked away and climbed up onto Brownie’s back, taking the rolled blanket from Virtue and slinging it across my lap so that it hung over both sides of the saddle.
Virtue went to Puck. She took his neck in her arms and whispered into his ear. She held him like that for a long moment. The horse seemed to grow calm with her attentions. And then she came and climbed up behind me.
Brownie whinnied farewell to his good friend.
Then we rode away.
Simple as that.
I could feel Puck’s eyes watching us as we galloped over the rise. It was not pleasant.
After some time, Brownie’s ears pricked up. Then, very small, almost inaudibly, I heard a rifle’s report carrying through the crisp morning air.
One assumed they had shot Puck dead.
BUT FOR HIS LACK of wings, Brownie was an out-and-out Pegasus.
I had never known an animal to have such charisma and stamina, such vigor and grit. Without Puck to slow us down, Brownie was able to run at his top traveling speed. The Mormon hounds on our heels must have been quite confounded. How could a horse burdened with two riders maintain such a momentum? They could not close the gap. Surely Brownie was something special – an agent of the gods if ever there was one.
We continued by our northward route.
Virtue held tight to my waist.
On through another moonlit night, and into another day.
We entered up a long drainage into the mountains. Pines clung to the shaded sides of the hills, the slopes becoming evermore forested the farther we traveled, and higher. The air grew rancorous cold. Clouds began to build over the highlands, dark and foreboding. A harsh breeze gusted over the ridgelines.
Westron Wynde, when wilt thou blow…
It elicited ice tears from my eyeballs.
I snugged my elk skin robe up tight around my throat, and hunched myself up against the cold. It felt good to have Virtue hugging me tight.
Although Brownie was tough, I was less so. Some sleep would have been nice, and some food, but there was no way to have any of either while riding, and no leisure to stop for a rest. A few snowflakes began to spit out of the roiling sky. For the first time since we began our journey, I found myself praying for an all out snowstorm. Only something so desperate as an icy tempest could intimidate our pursuers. It would offer us a new challenge, but we needed the snow to cover our tracks.
At last we came to the high pass I had been searching for.
I gazed back down the valley behind us, but could not see the riders. Still, I knew they were there. Somewhere coming through the trees up that undulating basin, following our trail, sniffing us out like prey. Virtue was too important for them to give up on their chase just yet.
In the other direction – north – lay a wide valley. A thin river wound through the dead brown grass. On the western side of this valley, rising above the forests, stood a jagged range of mountains. They appeared almost gothic in character, so cathedral-like were their spires and tracery, so cloistered their innermost sanctums. It looked to be some sort of primitive kingdom. Independent and aloof. The tops of the peaks snagged and tore like goat horns at the blue-black bellies of the clouds.
“Just a ways more,” I told my friends, and placed my hand over Virtue’s where it was pressed against my belly. “These are the Sawtooth Mountains.”
WE RACED ACROSS THE valley and climbed above tree line, entering into those ragged heights.
Clouds descended around us like curtains.
Snow began to fall.
Good, I thought. They cannot see us now.
Our tracks were covering almost as soon as we lifted our feet.
Abandon all hope ye who enter here.
The place was severe and forbidding – a world apart – one made of naught but stone and snow and air.
They will not dare to follow.
We seemed to be traveling within the protection of a large closed room, one made up of white walls and a ceiling. We continued on, more or less blindly, following some invisible path into the heart of this most austere wilderness. We rode Brownie for a ways more, but the terrain became too treacherous, even for such a docile beast, and Virtue and I dropped from his back and walked of our own power. Brownie did his best to stay with us.
The granite boulders were heaped up, in some places as large as small houses, and we picked and wound our way through the labyrinth. The sloping rocks were slick with the snow. We carefully scrambled over the boulders, oftentimes using our hands. But Brownie was an animal built for the open plains. It was hard for him to find good footing. When we came to a steep wall of stone, it became apparent that this was the end of his journey. I led him to the side as, once again, I prepared to say goodbye to one of the best friends I had ever known.
“Well, boy.” I brushed the ice crystals from his mane, and removed his bridle. “You have certainly done your part in this endeavor.” I removed his saddle and the rolled up the blanket containing Virtue’s kit. I rubbed my hands all over his steaming back,
wiping it clean of the wet snow. Of course, the falling snow began to cover his backside once again. I laid my hand on his neck and looked into his brown eye. There were snowflakes on his lashes. My own reflection was there, all abulge and shrouded in white.
“You have friends here,” I told him, and gestured to the space all around us. “Do you see them?”
Since we had arrived, we had been watched by the silent white goats who lived in these mountains. Their coal black horns and eyes floated before us in the ghostly fog. One could hear their breath on the still air.
“I am sure they will take care of you.”
I could not think what was left to say.
There seemed so much to say, and nothing.
Brownie nuzzled my arm with his nose. He seemed content.
“Anyway, friend,” I said at last. “Have a good rest.” I grinned and patted his neck. “Who can say? Perhaps we will meet again in paradise.”
I slung the blanket roll over my shoulder and stepped away, leaving Virtue to make her own goodbyes.
When she was finished, Virtue and I climbed up the wall and continued on.
ON AND ON WE walked, somnolently, as if through a long entrance to a dream.
Virtue led the way.
She floated like a shadow before me.
Our footfalls became muffled as we shuffled along in the deepening snow.
One sensed the stony steeples teetering in the clouds above us; bluebirds perched like angels on their tippy-top points.
I found my thoughts drifting off and away to all the languages of the world, and to all the truths. I wondered about all the people in America – both the young and the old – the Mormons and gentiles and the Indians, too – with all of their thirsts and hungers. Then I imagined every poem ever written and joined end on end to make one eternal and joyous elegy for all the creatures through all the ages. I almost believed I could feel that poem living inside of me now. Like Delight’s cooing voice. Like Turtle Dove’s song. Like the Prophet’s dreams. Like the Word of Words.
These were nonsense thoughts, to be sure.
Fluttering butterflies.
Wild flowers.
Shooting stars.
All but impossible to gather.
Gather ye rosebuds while ye may…
But such were my weary musings.
Until at last we reached a tiny stream.
*****
I knew this stream. From somewhere. In a sweeter time. I had been here before; of this I was certain. This was the stream that fed all the others. Surely this was the source of the seas.
It tumbled over the boulders, threading a wet black vein along its icy ripples. Pillows of snow mounded along its banks. Yellow and purple flowers slept there beneath their blanket of cold, waiting for the brief mountain springtide.
Virtue took me up this stream, delivering me to the pool.
“Here we are,” she said.
“Yes.”
The little pond was wide and calm and hemmed with snow-covered boulders. Snowflakes the size of small birds slanted into its black surface.
Virtue lifted the blanket roll from my shoulder and brushed it free of snow. She smiled at me. “I will go over there now,” she said, lifting her chin. “You wait here.”
I nodded dumbly, only half comprehending her words.
She stepped away into the fog.
I tipped my face to the sky. Snowflakes washed my cheeks. They dashed against my chest.
The world itself is the poem, I thought. And we are but its couplets.
I stood like that for a time, in something resembling an attitude of prayer.
“How do I look?” asked Virtue.
When I lowered my gaze, I was greatly pleased to see Virtue standing before me. The snowflakes bejeweled her blond hair. Her blue eyes flashed with happiness. She wore the wedding dress – as pure and white as the surrounding snow.
“You are truly beautiful.”
This pleased her. She bowed her head shyly, holding an arm out to the side and admiring its fabric and cut.
I thought of my mother, of her gentle ways.
But then Virtue turned solemn, and gazed once more into my face. “What will you do?” she asked.
“Oh,” I answered. “I do not rightly know.” I looked at my hands. “But I have heard it said that the islands of the southern seas are a nice corner of the earth to visit. They are rumored to speak a language down there, one made up entirely of soft sounds.” I considered this. “Perhaps I will find passage on a boat, and work my way across the ocean.” I nodded at this idea, and sheepishly grinned. “It is surely a boyish notion,” I said, “and probably not reasonable in this terrestrial sphere, but a land without the hard edge of consonants seems to me like a veritable paradise.”
She smiled at my innocence. And then she stepped forward. She took my hand, placing a small stone in my palm, and then closing my fingers over its smoothness. She laid her fingers on my chest, over my tattoo. “Thank you, Rain,” she said, “for delivering me.”
A sizeable knot had formed in my throat right then, and I could but nod.
And then she turned away.
She walked to the edge of the pool.
She stepped into the water.
She waded out into its middle.
While I watched without moving.
She sank away into the black water, her white dress fading into the depths, a ring of ripples spreading out and then melting away.
The falling snow ticked and hissed as it crashed down to the earth like so many falling stars.
There was no other sound but my own breath, and my thumping heart.
I stood there, full of longing, watching for some sign of her to return. But it was no good. Such angels do not show themselves to us every day. Such miracles are too often hidden beneath the surface of our banal existence. I knew this to be true from my own experiences. On this earthly journey, such would have to suffice as my truth.
I stepped to the edge of the pool, crouching at its bank, and dipped my empty hand into the water like a cup.
I drank of that water.
No wine compared to its sweetness.
No kiss.
I stood, peering down at the blue teardrop stone in my hand, turning it over in my fingers. I tossed it out over the water – Plunk!
And then, before that little stone ever reached bottom, I turned away, heading in the direction I felt to be west.
I walked and walked.
Alone.
And as I dropped down out of the mountains,
the snow
turned into
rain.
Thank you for reading! We ask you to PLEASE (yes, we are begging!) share your thoughts and opinion of DELIVERING VIRTUE with other readers by writing a review at your favorite retailer. For more information visit www.briankindall.com,
and if you like this story, sign up to my list to get my free ebook, SIDESHOW,
entertaining blog posts, and news about new books. SIDESHOW is also free at most retailers.
OTHER TITLES BY BRIAN KINDALL:
FORTUNA AND THE SCAPEGRACE, Book Two of The Epic of Didier Rain:
Didier Rain has never been so destitute, forlorn, and in dire need of a bath. As he roams the rain-muddied streets of San Francisco, it appears the angels of good fortune have finally forsaken him. Hunted by factions that would seek to do him harm, and suffering an acute case of soul pain, the once dandy rogue sees little promise for sunnier days.
But then, miraculously, all the stars of the cosmos move into a seemingly favorable position as a seductive albino soothsayer launches Rain onto the next leg of his life’s stormy voyage. Will said voyage carry Rain to the soft bosom of comfort and contentment he so longs for? Is he the Chosen One, singled out by Providence to lead God’s people in their new South Seas church? And is Rain truly the newfangled man he believes himself to be? Or, as he fears, are the gods just having a bit of fun with their favorite gullible scalawag?
At t
urns ribald, horrifying, and hilarious, Fortuna and the Scapegrace follows Delivering Virtue as book two in Didier Rain’s unfolding epic adventure of foibles, hope, and quest for love and redemption.
BLUE SKY, middle grade novel:
Blue Sky can climb like an ibex. She was raised in the highest peaks of the Alps by the herd and named for the color of her eyes. They say her father was a fallen alpinist and her mother his beautiful dying dream… and so, as you may guess, she’s somewhat magical – strong and sure-footed on the peaks, and natural as an ibex in this harsh environment of wind, rock, and ice. Until the day she rescues a young alpinist from a stormy peak. The boy looks like her, and he tells her of the mysterious world beyond the crags. Sky longs to follow him. Can a girl raised by ibex in the mountains ever join the world of humans? Blue Sky must first fulfill her destiny with the ibex and find the courage to leave everything she’s ever known.
A tale of self-reliance about a girl who finds strength in being who she really is and the courage to follow her dreams.
PEARL, middle grade novel:
Pearl can’t move. She’s never wanted to, until now. Life above the waves beckons to her as she watches the boats moving along the surface of the water above her. Pearl is a statue carved of milk-white stone that has stood on the floor of an ancient sea for a thousand years, but she’s waking up, and she wants more. As desire builds within her, it propels her on a journey that takes her to an exotic island grotto, into the midst of a bloody revolution, underground into a rat-infested tomb, and, at last, to a magical mountain paradise. Crazed rebels, wise philosophers, greedy grave robbers, and a few other friendly people and fish accompany her along the way, as she asks the question, “Is desire enough?” She'll have to have faith in the stars. She'll have to muster more courage than she's ever imagined. But perhaps by journey's end, Pearl will believe in herself, experience a miracle, and realize her greatest desire of all.
Delivering Virtue Page 25
