The Parted Way

Chapter 2

And the stars of heaven fell:

************************************

I awaken at first light, feeling as though I'd hardly slept at all.
The sky overhead is pale and overcast.
Dappling through the gnarled, spindly branches above my head. Forming a monochromatic canopy of contrast against the divide of earth and sky.

The condensation on my face stings as I emerge from the warm, sheltering cocoon of my bedroll.
Shifting into an upright position, I take in my surroundings.
Bleak, lifeless; not a breath of wind.
Silent, save for the cries of a solitary raven, squawking, somewhere off in the distance.

Slowly, I stretch and begin to shift; cracking through the compressed walls of my solitary igloo. Before Rising from the frozen coffin like some terrible ghoul of folklore.

A deep chilly breath and the cycle of routine begins anew;

I start by beating the snow from my blankets, before binding them together with a length of leather cord.
Then after relieving myself against a tree, I check my pockets for anything I might have lost during0 the night. Sadly recalling the misplacement of my compass months prior.

Finding nothing amiss, I sling my pack over my shoulders and begin the short trek back to the campsite proper.

The foliage of the treeline is thick; far thicker then I remembered. A veritable wall of tangled alder branches, interwoven with sharp brambles.
Pushing through is a painful experience, that (despite my caution) leaves me with an oozing scrape across my right cheek and blackthorns hanging from every limb.

At last, I stumble blinking into the open air.

"Well this day is going swimmingly thus far"
I mutter to myself.
"Its as though the very trees are in the midst of a power struggle, and we're so frequently caught in the middle of it."

I'm musing over the merit of forest fires when I finally see it.

Smoke.

Columns of smoke, great and terrible, coming from what remains of the camp.
The icy grip on my thundering heart is all I perceive as I sprint panicked into the ruins of the clearing.

I cry out for help but receive no response.

The carts are all but destroyed; some are overturned, others are smashed beyond recognition, jutting from the snow in splintered fragments like monstrous wooden teeth. Wheels are missing, many appear scorched, and one (the wood cart) is fully engulfed in flames.

The oxen are dead, those that remain anyway.
Mangled and bloody, their twisted bodies sport the same brands as the carts. I'm nearly overwhelmed by the sickening odor of singed hair and charred flesh.
Though most worrying of all is the silence.
The camp is empty; not a person in sight. No corpses nor signs of retreat, just…nothing.

"What did this?"

"What COULD have done this?"

My hands are shaking, and I'm beginning to hyperventilate. The cloudy haze of panicked breath obscuring my vision.

"My Gun."

"Where's my Gun?"

The cart that housed my belongings is turned on its side. Its scattered contents smoldering weakly in the soot-stained snow.

I spot the distinctive plaid of my pack; lying torn and ruined, half buried in the blackened slush several yards away.
Most of my things are destroyed; reduced to ash or broken into bits. My hymn book and journal are both singed beyond use; their dark shriveled pages crumbling between my fingers.
Thankfully, the pistol appears unharmed, though its holster is cosmetically trashed.