God's Room

                   Snow fell in relentless droves, big fluffy flakes that smothered everything in a cold white death sheet. Trees groaned under the weight of the ever-thickening blanket collecting on their branches, dragging them down, pulling at their frail limbs like a hungry predator tearing through tender flesh.
He pushed forward through a particularly deep snowdrift and collapsed against an old pine tree, its thick trunk scarred by scores of hard winters and the attention of countless woodland creatures. He took a long drink from his canteen, the cold water burning his throat. He longed for a few drops of whiskey. He could almost feel the soothing wave of warmth reaching out to his aching muscles, relief from the stinging cold radiating from the pit of his stomach.
He dabbed gingerly at his cracked lips with the soft fur gloves he had taken from the old Indian guide four days earlier. “Got to get a move on,” he thought. He looked up at the grey sky, barely visible through the trees, hoping for a sign of a break in the weather. It felt like it had been snowing forever. In some places the snow had made the forest trail he was following completely impassable, forcing him onto old deer trails. He hated these detours. He kept expecting to step into a culvert or a deserted rabbit hole, concealed by the snow, breaking an ankle or a leg, but it couldn’t be helped. If he didn’t find some form of civilization soon, he would die. He had absolutely no misconceptions about that little fact of life.
He set off down the path again, each step an agonising reminder of the countless miles that lay behind him. He struggled against the soft white snow that pulled at his snow shoes like long cold fingers, grabbing at his feet, dragging him down. He kept expecting to look back and see the cold dead fingers of the old Indian reaching out for him, his expressionless dead eyes sunken back in their sockets, his face forever bent in agony. He could see the dark black stain which marked the spot where he had stabbed the old man, could still feel the sticky warmth spilling from the old man’s stomach. He couldn’t close his eyes without seeing the old man, bent over, frantically trying to keep his insides from slipping through his bloody fingers.



                   Night’s bony hands began to feel around for the dark little corners that always seem so eager to fill up with blackness, like deep pools of ink, long before daylight is ready to relinquish its hold on the rest of the world. He watched as the shadows got longer, dreading the cold isolation nightfall brought with it. His mind reeled at the thought of spending another night outside, in the freezing cold, stumbling blindly through the merciless heart of Mother Nature. He couldn’t believe that things had gotten so bad so quickly, that they had been sitting around a campfire, joking, less than a week ago. He could never have imagined how relentless Mother Nature could be.
Jack Reed had been the first to die. If nothing else, Jack’s death taught him that the worst way to die was to die without reason. It happened shortly after the snow started. They were starting back down the mountain, hoping to get back to the horses before the weather got too bad. It was snowing lightly. They were in good spirits, the kind that could only come from being out in the wild, high up in the mountains, closer to God and heaven than any man was ever meant to be. There was lots of friendly banter. Jack was in front, just behind Two Bears, their guide. Jack made some comment about how he was going to spend his fortune once they hit the mother lode, when he stepped into a gap in the rocky floor and disappeared.
It happened so fast that the others never even noticed Jack's absence. He dropped his pack, dropped to his knees and desperately groped around in the gap, hoping to find Jack hanging on for dear life, praying Jack’s pack had snagged on a tree root or an outcropping of rock. Instead he found that the gap opened up into a wide chasm, easily wide enough to drive a wagon through. Jack was gone –dead – for no other reason than God putting a crack where Jack had thought there was solid floor.
He rolled over onto his back and peered into the vast greyness of the oncoming blizzard. The angry black clouds on the horizon sent shivers down his spine. He knew they couldn’t waste any time trying to recover Jack’s body. He knew the stories about people getting trapped in the mountains. You didn’t have to be an Indian tracker to know that trouble was fast approaching, that pretty soon; hell would be unleashed on that mountain top.



                   “There has to be a hunter’s lodge around here somewhere,” he thought. He felt more alone than he had ever thought possible. The night had drained his soul more than the cold ever could have done. He was running out of time. He could feel his joints ache more and more with every step, every movement becoming an effort. He was chilled to the bone, shivering uncontrollably, his wet clothes locking in the freezing cold like steel bars caging a deadly animal.
“This is how it feels,” he thought, “This is what dying feels like”. He had watched the others die, one by one, until only him, Art Reynders and Two Bears had been left. The old Indian must’ve sensed death around the corner, or maybe he just fancied his own chances more without the two of them holding him back. They had stopped to rest behind a huge boulder that offered some shelter against the driving snow. He was tending to Art’s leg, re-wrapping the cloth around the strut they had fashioned for Art following a nasty spill down a steep ravine. He made sure the cloth was securely tied, keeping enough pressure on the fractured bone to prevent it from moving out of place. He was no doctor, but he had seen enough broken bones in his time to know that Art would never walk without a cane again.
When he was satisfied the support wasn’t going to let them down, he picked up his pack and helped Art back on to his feet. It wasn’t until he turned around that he noticed Two Bears was gone.



                   It took almost two days for him to catch up with Two Bears. He hated leaving Art behind, but Art had insisted he go. Neither of them had any misconceptions about their chances of survival without the old Indian to show them the way. Besides, Two Bears had conveniently forgotten to leave them any food and had been carrying all that was left of the whisky.
Two Bears didn’t seem to be too worried about being found. The old man didn’t seem to be heading in any particular direction, instead he moved in a zigzag pattern. He didn’t seem to be too worried about leaving tracks either.
He began wondering if Two Bears hadn’t simply lost sight of them, or if he hadn’t gone ahead to scout and then couldn’t find them again. Not that it mattered. All that really mattered was that he found Two Bears.
He pushed hard, driving himself to the limit, desperate not to let the more experienced woodsman get too far ahead of him. He fought his way through thick underbrush, over rough terrain, al the time hoping Two Bears’s disappearance had some logical explanation.
When he finally caught up with Two Bears, he was so surprised that he almost yelped like a little girl. He was concentrating hard, carefully shuffling along the edge of a shelf of rock that formed a little ledge overlooking a steep gorge which had been cut through the mountains by years of raging waters from melting snow and flash summer floods. He took deep breaths, the icy air burning his lungs. He was concentrating on his footing. He was terrified of losing his grip and tumbling to his death like some spoilt little girl’s rag doll. He came to a large boulder that stuck out over the ledge, blocking his way. He could see the ledge on the other side, opening up to form a table-like amphitheatre surrounded almost all the way around by an outcropping of rock. He recognised the place immediately. They had spent some time there on their way up the mountain. Jack had called it God’s Room. They had sat on that almost unnaturally flat rock surface looking out over the valley below in stunned silence. At the time they had thought there could not be a more perfect place in the world.
He half pushed, half pulled himself around the large boulder. He closed his eyes, thinking it was better to see nothing whatsoever than to look down into the dizzying chasm below him. Once he had rounded the boulder, his feet safely on terra firma, he collapsed against the firm cold surface of the rock. He took a few deep breaths to calm his nerves and realised his eyes were still squeezed shut. He slowly, almost carefully, opened them, half expecting to find that he still had some distance to go to get to the other side. Almost expecting to look down and see that he was floating above the gorge, the realisation of the truth, breaking the spell that kept him airborne, sending him tumbling to his death. Instead, he saw Two Bears. The old man was sitting across from him on the other side of the amphitheatre, grinning his old toothless grin.
He immediately felt guilty about ever doubting Two Bears. The old man seemed relieved, almost happy, to see him. He slowly got to his feet, his old bones seeming to protest against the abuse they had been subjected to the past couple of days. He slowly straightened, himself out, stretching his back, groaning as his old back muscles tightened painfully.
The old man’s friendly, seemingly calm demeanour relaxed him. He un-slung his pack, taking his eyes off of Two Bears for only an instant, giving the old man the opportunity he had been looking for. With the agility of a mountain cat, Two Bears sprung towards him, knife in hand. He swung around in time to see the old man bearing down on him. The murderous intent in that toothless grinning face sent shivers running up and down his spine like armies of confused ants. He unsheathed his own knife and braced himself for impact…


                   That had been four, no five, days ago. He was fast beginning to lose track of time. Nature seemed to be driving out all but the most primitive of survival instincts, including it seemed, his sense of direction. He was lost. Following his encounter with Two Bears, he felt sure that he would reach the horses in a matter of hours. From there it would be as simple as finding an animal trail that lead down into the valley and following the river to the nearest town, maybe half a day’s ride, if one was taking care not to injure the horse. But as time passed, and the miles piled on, he began to realise that he was in serious trouble. At first he forced himself to look for, and follow, predetermined landmarks to make sure he didn’t end up wandering around aimlessly, but after a while he simply got too tired to do even the most menial of tasks, let alone concentrate on his surroundings. His mind stopped registering anything but the most basic of things, pain, thirst, hunger. He no longer registered the terrain, couldn’t tell up from down. It wasn’t until he nearly stumbled over the edge of a cliff that he realised he would have to rest, that he needed to light a fire. He had to get some sleep. His life depended on it.
He looked around for anything that could serve as shelter. It had stopped snowing sometime earlier, but the wind was blowing, chilling him to the bone. The only feature he could find that would offer some reprieve from the elements was an outcropping of rock some distance away. He managed to gather an armful of dead wood and wearily made his way over to the rocks.


                   He leaned in close to the fire, savouring the warmth that radiated from it. His body seemed to absorb the energy released by the dancing flames, recharging, lifting his spirits, until he was sure that he would be able to push on before too long. The simple luxury of warmth made him feel in control again for the first time in days. It gave him hope, renewed energy, the will to live. He sat back, propping himself up against one of the rocks, warming his feet, watching the dancing shadows cast against the rocks by the flames licking at the wood pile.
It took some time for him to realise he was not alone. Sitting across from him, some distance away, in the shadows, he could barely distinguish the figure of a man. He strained his eyes against the darkness. The stranger was sitting just beyond the glow cast by the fire.

“Hello,” he called, his voice sounding alien in the darkness. “Who are you?”
No reply.
“That you Art?”
No reply.
The stranger’s silence made him uneasy.
“I aint fucking around here, mister!” he managed nervously, “I got a gun. I’ll shoot if you mess around with me!”
No reply.
He picked up a piece of wood from the fire and tossed it over to the silent figure. The torch bounced off of the rock wall, exploding into a shower of sparking ambers, lighting up the face of his mysterious companion. His heart missed a beat.
Even distorted by pain, with its toothless mouth forever contorted in a silent scream of agony, the face was unmistakable. Two Bears still sat holding his stomach, dead eyes wide. His fingers, stained an ugly purple with dried blood, were still trying to hold his intestines in place. The old Indian seemed totally oblivious to the beautiful view from God’s Room.