Red - Introduction + Part One

RED

It had been merely a year since the first boat had debarked upon the shores, carrying its cargo of citizens to the New World. The ageing ten-eyed wooden beast had watched them from the water, having brought them so far from the mainland. Anchoring in the virgin bay, it had dispelled from its hold those pioneers who had inhabited the beast’s belly for nearly a month to the sandy southern shores, as a deity sending mortals to do his bidding; and just beyond the beachfront, after some initial scouting and debating, those people once held captive by timber and sea began their civilization. Constantly, it eyed them from the center of the waters as they erected their first government center and during the construction of their market place. Houses popped up on the outskirts of town, succeeding the primary buildings, as did a sturdy harbor. Not but a few days after the completion of a small church in the heart of the town, the once occupied bay was abandoned - the beast sent back to the old East, having served its intended purpose for the townspeople.

The land was quickly carved up among the citizens, as the local area was void of the heathen Indians that haunted other towns. In the first use of the government center, those elected to office began to measure out the land into chunks, and started allowing citizens to lay claim to the surrounding grounds. To Mr. Whittle, once a farmer in the old world, went a twelve acre strip just north east of the town center. To Mr. Bilberry, a former doctor, went the fourteen acre plot of land just below Mr. Whittle’s. Beside both property, the governor, one by the name of John Lewis, selected the plot that spread forty acres. In a similar fashion, the land was - as the self-elected executives said - sectioned honestly among the other men, plowed, and readied for farming for the early summer season planting.

The citizens quickly settled down in the rough world, cutting into the lush growth, and establishing a clearing in which to live. The wood surrounded the little civilization, enclosing them in a green canopy, and, as noticed by some of the more spiritually acute members, encapsulating a sense of anxiety throughout the town. As the church bells of home would once ring through the clear air with such dignity and power, the church built upon the bay only loosed a dull, unattractive series of tonal thuds as the hours passed, as if the very air suffocated its potentially beautiful vibrations. As citizens of the Old World would feel free to roam the cobble streets without true purpose or direction, here, upon the dirt paths of the bay-set town, few felt comfortable under the forest’s gaze as they moved from their homes to the Sunday mass. Many feared the trees, though never openly proclaimed this to their neighbors. Under the moon’s gaze, branches would scrape and claw at the walls when the wind rolled through the leaves. Strange rustles and movements held captive the ears of the sleepless people in the early twilight. They were quick to blame this on animals with their tongue, though none could convince themselves of this within their mind.

Stories soon emerged from the mouths of those living outside the town: of blood-red eyes peering from the undergrowth; of children disappearing without warning; of odd hymns being repeated by the most obscure birds. So, as a true devout and pious society is prone to do, they were quick to blame their fears on the darker spirits. So they erected a twisted tale, based solely on their spiritual values. A demon lived in the forest - said those gossips – cardinal-red hide, horns the length of a human limb, and teeth sharper than the tip of a bayonet. “Aye,” said they, “and ‘e’s out for the town, he is. We’ve seen ‘im sulkin’ ‘bout, ‘aven’t we, gossips? Aye, ‘is revenge ‘ll be quick on us. Quick as Beelzebub’s dark ‘orses can ride.” And, so, fear was personified by the townspeople, moderated and renewed daily by those with perpetually running mouths.

As Time’s beard extended ever further to his toes, he, holding the sun and moon in either hand, let the days rise and fall with indecision; and the storyteller’s tall tales grew ever longer, and ever more complex.

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All throughout the evergreen forest, the scent of autumn touched the senses of both human and beast alike. A husky pumpkin-orange hue radiated from the earth as a transparent fog, and expanded across the stratosphere and into the hearts and minds of those under its shadow. The animals felt the cold autumn nip on their sides, and began preparation for the eventual snap of winter’s bitter teeth. As some hoarded and stored food in their natural banks, others consumed all they could, so as to out-sleep the coming season. And so, the civilized hunters began their work, picking through the thick brush that was virgin to the touch of human hands, praying that the fat buck would cross their path, and not the falling paw of danger.

Such a hunter now lay deep in the mixture of the grasses and weeds that were growing under the shadow of a strong pine. The constant roll of wind bellowed in from the east, splashing up against the face of the motionless mass that looked on with interest in the direction of a weighty buck. Eyes ablaze with desire, the hunter felt for the musket beside him, his only company within the lonely forest, and, with slow and controlled movements, he drew the “Fusil de Chasse” closer. Careful to not make extraneous noise, he pointed the muzzle towards the distracted prey, using experience to deduct the lead ball’s path; the beast, all the while, nibbling weeds under a rather large poplar tree, which overshadowed it as a mother protecting its child from certain harm. After this, little action was made from either party: The beast innocently chewing the weeds; The hunter, musket still only half cocked, leaving little possibility of the preloaded shot being loosed prematurely.

In its search for more weeds to fill its empty stomach, the buck moved into such a position that the hunter’s line of sight was not blocked by brush or leaves; a shot straight to the ripe golden hide of the beast. Slowly making ready his firearm by pulling the hammer back to full cock, the mysterious man made his final adjustments, ensuring the perfect shot into the exposed flesh below the shoulder, and so, into the heart. Daintily placing his finger onto the familiar trigger and exerting an increasing pressure, he relaxed his shoulders, and inhaled while making a quick prayer that the movement of air would not alarm his prey; and just as the stress of the squeezing reached a pivotal point – as the musket was not milliseconds from ejecting the tiny lead comet – the buck erected its ears, startled by a sudden rustling in the tangled bushes not a step away. From this thicket sprang two silver flashes, which latched onto the buck; one gnawing on a leg, the other thrashing with a jugular gripped firmly in its blood-smothered mouth.

Bringing the firearm down from its primed position and leading the hammer back to a safe state, the hunter looked on as three more wolves entered the fray, each to its own particular leg, each brutal and quick in the assault. The buck struggled to pull out of the deadly blitzkrieg, dragging the five silver warriors through the grass-like weeds and closer to the trunk of the poplar tree as they tugged back, ripping skin from muscle, and flesh from bone. Blood splashed onto the ground and matted the thirsty canine lips as the scene struggled forward.

Upon reaching the tree trunk, the buck sighed heavily, as if openly surrendering to the will of fate it had attempted to counter through brute strength alone. It fell gracelessly, thudding against the poplar and sliding down, staining the tree with a trail of crimson as it slid down further to the ground. There it lay, defiled – its once golden coat now spotted red with the life that once coursed proudly through its veins – the once sturdy frame laid bare and without purpose like the pillars of a dilapidated mansion.

The hunter, witnessing all of this with an expression of awe and wonder, took up his gun and light supplies without a worry about attracting the attention of the preoccupied wolf pack as they continued their feast. And how they feasted! Even as the hunter made his exit from that gruesome scene, the wolves tore all that was edible from the bone, leaving only an exposed milky-white surface. Limbs, torn from the sockets, were left strewn all around the base of the poplar, deep under the surface of the weeds. With this, the victors lay under the poplar, relaxing after their successful skirmish, chewing the remains of the marrow, and falling victim to the hypnosis of a full belly, all content in their triumph.