Footfalls

They come in the snow. Always in the snow. Always when the snow is deep and the woods are quiet. So very quiet. At first, it was just one or two who came. Silently moving up the pasture toward the house. They didn’t come too close back then. I thought it was out of fear that they held back, but I was wrong. I heard them…no, that’s not right. I felt them. The feeling of anticipation, then dread, would fall upon me like a shroud. I would go to the window and search the blankness to no avail. On nights like this I would spend hours peering out in search of any sign of movement. The feeling would gradually diminish, but once I left my post and returned to the warmth of the fire and the comfort of the wing chair that sat beside it, the feeling would subside. A good book and a carafe of brandy were my constant companions. The feeling of their presence, though, would eventually creep back into my bones until soon I was paying more attention to the brandy than the book.

I’ve learned over the years not to give into that feeling anymore. For the many times that I did, I was met with the same dark, empty view from the window that I’ve seen over and over.

Once in a while, I tell myself that I can actually make out their shapes. Some nights they are more distinct than on others. Sometimes, if the moon is full and the wind is light, I think I can see wisps of their breath condensating in the cold night air. Two or three over there…four, maybe five to the right.

They don’t move. I don’t know where they come from or where they go, but by morning, in the light of day, they’re gone.

___________

One crisp winter’s morning, a few minutes after the sun had risen and was trying, with great effort, to make its presence known through a thin layer of milky white clouds, I ventured out beyond the veranda where I thought I’d seen one or two of them the night before. As I trundled through the foot and a half of snow, I found no evidence of their visit…no footprints…no trail leading to or from the house.

As I looked around, my footfalls were the only ones visible as far as I could see. It was as if they had dropped out of the sky, hovered about the snowy blanket and returned the same way they came. That is, if there were actually there in the first place.

I have given some thought to the fact that my mental processes may be at fault somewhere along my synaptic highway. But since everything else in my existence is the same as it has ever been these past years, I tend to discount that theory. My health is the same, my daily routine is the same, comfortable, yet boring as it may be. I have my books and my writings and, of course, a supply of very fine brandy which I replenish on a regular basis.
I have no visitors and that is by choice. That is why I moved here. What some may see as loneliness, I see as solitude. What some see as desolation, I see as an opportunity for undisturbed concentration. The house I built affords me all of these and more. In the center of over forty acres of prime forest and farmland, I am disturbed by no one. Except the ones who come in the snow.

___________

Initially, they avoided the house. They would remain a good distant away, yet close enough for them to make their presence felt. As time passed, however, I could feel them inside the fence. I could hear their breathing. Perhaps it was my own. One night, as a moderate snow was falling, I ventured out onto the porch. Gazing out into the crisp windless night I could see nothing, but I knew. The feeling was stronger. They were close. Dangerously close. I backed away from my vantage point and as I headed back inside, I thought I caught a glimpse of vaporized breath lurking by the side of the house. I stopped, but as soon as I saw it, it was gone. Closing the door behind me, I shook the snow off my slippers and headed for the fire, my chair and my glass.

___________

I must have dozed. The warmth of both the fire and the brandy have that effect on me lately. Something must have awakened me, for usually in this state, I can remain in deep sleep until dawn. Was it the shuffling on the wooden porch that woke me? Was it the breathing and soft snorting sounds I heard by the den’s window? Was it both, or neither of these? My senses grow dull, the effects, perhaps, of my inactivity and, of course, my nightly brandy, which now commences before the sun even sets. I hear a dull thud up against the door every now and then. But there is nothing to fear. The door is of heavy, thick oak reinforced with iron strapping. Nothing can enter that I do not wish to invite in.

___________

The snow stopped falling hours ago. It is near sunrise, yet not one of them has come. Looking out the window, a faint glimmer of blueish light breaks over the eastern hills. Once again, there is nothing in sight except the fresh blanket of white that is such a frequent sight. I bank the fire and move to my desk after throwing back the curtains to let the sunlight stream in when it is ready.

I am nearing the completion of my ninth book. I am considered to be rather an expert on the subject. I am a hunter. I have been honing my craft since I was nine. I learned at the knee of my father and he, at his father’s.

The tricks and techniques of the chase and the disciplined patience of the hunt are ingrained in every muscle in my body.

The first several books covered topics such as what is the correct instrument to use and how the prey’s size and speed are determining factors. Little known skills such as tracking and seeing signs of movement in the wild…migration habits and following trails. My research and exploits covered several continents and almost every species of prey known to man. I absorbed the local ways by studying the many guides that assisted me.

Later editions delved into the mental discipline that is needed to succeed…the almost meditative state one needs to enter to successfully stalk…a Zen-like quality that is integral to the successful completion of any hunt.
This edition, perhaps my last, will reveal what consequences there are to successfully devoting your entire life to the pursuit of your desire to the exclusion of all else. I’ve alienated friend and family alike with this approach, but the total elimination of any distractions proved to be absolutely necessary.

___________

Darkness has fallen now. The quiet is deafening. The harder I listen for their visit, the less I hear. There are no lights on in the room. I stand by the window staring out at the snow covered landscape until my eyes hurt. I turn back looking into the dim room, the flickering of the fireplace creating small reflective stars in the eyes that look down from their lofty positions along the wall, the light catching the highlights in their fur, sometimes auburn, sometimes raven black. They rest there, mounted on my wall in that place of honor. Yes, they will come.

They always come. They always come in the new-fallen snow. I know they will come. The come for me. I know each and every one of them. I should, after all. It was I who killed them.

Credit: Thomas F. Gorham III