The Burning Man - Ch. 1

The wind was starting to come up over the trees. Brooke couldn't hear it through the thick layers of scarves and rags that her father had wrapped tightly around her face, but she could see the tops of the trees swaying violently back-and-forth like they were ready to give and blow away. The horse below her trotted forward at a near-halt, making an almost non-existent progress. The snow was so deep that even just staying saddled took some skillful maneuvering. Her father made just as little ground, riding nearly a yard ahead. He had sacrificed all of his extra garments to Brooke and kept for himself only what would barely suffice. He battled the biting wind with his arm like he was wrestling with it. But the snow was building up so fast on the thin cloth covering his face that he could have been riding blind. No sooner did he wipe his eyes clear then a new coat would form and obscure what little sight he had.

Brooke was frightened. She wasn't used to being frightened. Her father had taught her not to be. But now she was frightened of dying. It was the first real instance she could recall of being afraid of death. Everybody dies eventually, her father had once said, and she knew it to be true. Her father had never said anything that was untrue.

The rifle slapped against her back as she bobbed up and down on the wild horse. She hadn't even noticed that her traveling bag had been lost on the path a yard back. She struggled to keep her footing. Every time that the horse took a step forward she would be thrust up above the saddle. Time passed and little ground was made. Like a bird flying into the wind. Once she had screamed for her father but the wind stole her voice and carried it away.

He would look back frequently. Whenever a new gust would roar around them and throw the earth upright he would check to make sure that she was still saddled. Sometimes he would gain good ground but slow himself so as not put too much distance between them. An hour passed. Mere yards were gained. The blizzard never let up. The wind whipped the horses forward. It was the only thing driving them at this point. If it wasn't for the blizzard nipping at their heels they would have surely fallen in place and lay down dead. Another hour had passed before the gunshots rang out. Barley audible but enough to keep Brooke from drifting. Sleep was wearing at her eyes. Even from ahead her father could see that she was beginning to slouch. He let off two rounds of his rifle and after satisfying the notion that she was awake, turned back into the snow.

Finally Brooke and her father came around a bend and the mountain range provided some meager protection from the wind. But by now the ground was frozen into solid ice and it made walking for the horses more difficult. Trees were buried in snow almost halfway up the trunk and stuck out of the ground looking only a sliver of their true height. The horses were trampling over ice nearly a yard deep. Their steps were careful but slow. After a few slippery near-falls Brooke's father dismounted and said that it would be much safer to walk the horses across the ice on foot until the ground became soft again. Brooke took to her feet and side-by-side they guided the horses forward by the reins.

"Are we going to die, Daddy?” Brooke lowered the scarf around her mouth to ask, revealing her freckled face.

"No.” he said.

"Are you sure?”

"Yes.”

"What if we don't make it home?”

"S'pose we'll have to find shelter and camp out here tonight.” Her father said, nearly out of breath. He could see that his pragmatic response dampened Brooke's recently uplifted spirits. “We're gonna make it home,” he then said, “I promise.”

"What if the horses die?” she asked.

"They're tough creatures. Their coats are made for weather like this. Why, if we had a coat like they do we'd be sweating right now.”

"If they died would we bury them?”

"I don't know. Probably not.”

"Why?”

"Well, the ground is frozen solid,” he replied, “and we don't have a shovel.”

"If I died would you bury me?”

"Don't talk like that, Girl.”

"When I die I don't want to be buried. I want to be burned in a fire. How about you, Daddy?”

"I haven't thought about it yet.”

"Why not?”

“And you shouldn't either,” he said, ignoring her inquiry, “you're not going to die. You're not going to die and neither am I.”

"Really?”

"Would you ever lie to me?

“No.” she said without even thinking about it.

"Well, let's make a promise right now not to ever lie to each other. So you can believe me when I say that we're both gonna be fine. Now, I don't want to hear anymore of that kind of talk. I mean it, okay?”

"What happened to your leg?”

Brooke's attention was drawn to the limp that her father had been trying hard to hide.

"Just getting old,” he said with a forced grin that concealed his pain. He knew the severity of what it meant but tamed himself from letting it show on his face.

"Am I going to get old?” Brooke asked.

"Very old.”

"But I'm still going to die?”

Her father didn't know to respond, so he didn't.

"Ah,” he then exclaimed while poking the snow with his boot, “the ground is getting soft. We can take to the saddle again. I think the wind is letting up too. With any luck the worst of the blizzard is behind us now.”