His highway shoes were of worn leather. The frost fought through the cracks in the soles. Wisps of wind painted lines in the road—the snow dancing first this way, then back across in great sweeping motions. He pulled his collar high and set forward. No reason to go crying about it after all. After all, many had had it much worse than he. No automobiles crowded him. None were on the road. So there was no chance for a ride. A tall black case clung to his back. His ungloved hands hid in his pockets. There was a town up ahead and he’d play some songs, and talk to people there and see what the consensus there was. Maybe he’d write a new tune if they said something that struck him. He had enough layers up top, but his trousers were soaked through, and his feet were numb. Lots of people were going numb though. That was just winter. His boot struck something in the powder. It was heavy. He withdrew a hand from his cold pockets and brushed some snow aside. It was a shoe, with a foot in it. He brushed more snow away. It was a man. “Hey buddy,” he said into the wind, “You better get up now.” The man didn’t move. He reached down to check the man's pulse. The arm wouldn't move from its resting pace. The man's skin was stone. The tissue was frozen solid. He withdrew his hand, and said a small prayer that didn't pay homage to the God he'd find in town. He set off on his way. People sure get it hard sometimes, he thought. From then on he walked down the middle of the road, pondering frost.
If there were no Gods and no heavenly ever-after, I would still love you. If this were all for naught, it wouldn’t be. For all the pain, and all the cold, and all the hungry, there is still you and I. There is still the laughter of friends we love. The boys run on. The waves crash over. The clouds still form and dissipate. The Sun rises, and it sets. The Moon makes her appearance again and again, even if we miss it. So it will be alright if we are for nothing, and I feel that’s the case. But wouldn’t it be pleasant if there was someplace after? If the journey carried on, and the boys ran forever.
They were young and could fly. Steam pulsed from their nostrils and lines revealing muscle etched down their legs as they ran. Paws dug into sand. Paws kicked at the sea. Teeth flashed as they fought. The sky roared its approval. The fir trees swayed in support. They didn’t take care to notice. Tongues hung low. A pair of eyes challenged another. Off they went again. Into the sea. Onto the beach. Up the jagged rocks. In them, the souls of knights burned blue. Chivalrous animals, loyal above all—they were capable of anything. But they only wished to play. Around them sea beat on earth, wind tore at tree, and the sun pulled on the planet, but they only wished to play. They had today, and they lived in it completely.
The man and the woman lived together and treated each other kindly. She did what she did well for him, and he did what he did well for her. It was not in return. It was not a transaction. It was coexistence. And silence became edible. A room came wild. They dreamed together, and apart. And they brought their dreams to the air, and shared in the birth of idea. They enjoyed each others company so they said they’d die together someday. Why not? But the man knew—he had seen some die—he knew it must be done alone. She insisted. It made him smile. She often did that. So he meddled further, their currents twisting into one. He came to read her movements. She could always read his eyes. A day came when she lost someone terribly dear. She cried on his shoulder, and he didn’t try to understand. A year arrived when he beat his own fists bloody at his failures, and she did not fear him and she understood. Time mellowed; the river ran faster. They ate together every morning. Every night, they were together and they sat and shared it quietly, laughing at little jokes of their lifetime. When the time came to go, they were as old as friends could be. They had not wasted a moment. She looked up to him with the soft eyes he knew so well in the bed they had shared for decades. She smiled, and then she was gone. He cradled her head close to his own. It was heavy now that he was old. He was scared to be alone. It had been so long. She had been such a friend that he had forgotten what it felt like. He held her and watched the sun rise through the open window. The sky grew orange. He felt like talking to her but he couldn’t find any words.
“Do not open the gate,” his captain had said.
So, who had? And in a blizzard, no less.
“Christ,” he said when he saw it.
The road wound its way up beyond the falls, high—higher—to the peaks that were covered in snow year round. The road was once a major thoroughfare. Travelers came down the path in droves on their way to the town by the river to trade. But one winter, people began to disappear. Somewhere in the mountains, their tracks would halt mid step and they’d be gone, without a trace. Whoever or whatever was taking these people could not be tracked. Snow fell so often that footprints disappeared in a matter of hours, and dogs keen on the scents were found to lose resolve high up there on that mountain road. Their keepers could not explain it. Until one day, a bloodied man came down the trail who could. “Evil,” he said as they caught him, exhausted and damp, both from the sweat and the blood. A gash, deep and red, ran from his shoulder across his chest. His last words he panted into the icy airs at the base of the falls, “Monsters,” he gasped, “ea, ea-.” He died there. The men stationed at the gate glanced to one another, each as uneasy as the next. The final clue the man gave them turned out to be crucial. A trail of blood ran clearly from where the man had come down the mountain. They rushed up the road to beat the falling snows, lighting each lamp they came across, for the fear in their bellies was transferring to the age-old phobia of the dark. The blood shined on the icy ground in the light of their torches. High on the ridge, the drippings led off into the wood. The guards looked at one another before continuing on into the dark. Out of the six men who went up, two came down. One grew insane by morning. The other shuddered as he spoke to his captain, “Men,” he shook under a blanket beside the gate, “eating men. Ther-there’s a cave. There’s,” he swallowed, “bones.” Even the captain, well-known for his steely resolve, shivered at the thought. A posse of twenty-three were sent up. Not a single man returned. It seemed the two guards who made it back did so only out of sheer bad luck, for neither would feel joy again in their natural lives. The gate was under order to be locked tight. Travelers were ordered to avoid the route. So who, he wondered now, had opened the gate? And where were the guards that were assigned this watch?