Cold Respite

My time in Kirketsville is, and was, something of a romantic getaway. That is, however romantic such an excursion can be when it is taken in isolation. The destination of my winter getaway was often the subject of scrutiny among the others in my profession. While taking time to “get away from it all” was hardly unheard of, if not downright common, the customary locations for these retreats were more often to warmer climates. In this way, writers can be compared to birds -- warming up their feathers and finding their way south for the winter. 

I have a colleague in Dubai, I know of two that have left their wives back home and are currently taking in the Caribbean “local cuisine”, but such a hedonistic vacation seems counterproductive to my task. I have made my way to Kirketsville this winter, like many winters before, for the arduous process of writing my latest novel. But perhaps “writing” is too generous. More accurately, I have positioned myself here in the Pennsylvanian mountains to visit my muse, a river that runs across the East side of the cabin.

Muses are an antiquated inspiration strategy at best and a crutch that breeds over reliance at worse, and I find myself happily in the latter category. The river runs down the mountain’s peak, bringing the melted snow and rainwater to the townspeople many miles down, but before it continues its travels down the hill it pools briefly in the small body of water outside the cabin. Nothing big enough for fish or even the occasional swimmer, but certainly the perfect size for me to stash away my ideas for safekeeping.

From under the water’s surface I have plucked themes, motifs, and conflicts for each of my books, as well as a few plot lines I’ve sold to my aforementioned hedonistic colleagues. Yet during this particular winter I find myself three weeks into my month-long excursion without a word to show for it. But do not misunderstand; I do not blame my muse for my struggles. She continues to flow just as she always has and the pond is no less magnificent as it reflects the morning sunlight in through the open window. 

Instead, my animosity rests on my own failing mind. The residents of Kirketsville rarely bother me with their presence, usually choosing instead to turn their noses up at the outsider breaking into their community. The exclusion is one of the things I look forward to most during the year, but this season in the mountains has been dotted with interruptions.

First there was the mailman -- bothersome for both the break in concentration but more so because my cabin has no address. No one in my personal circle knows of my secret muse and certainly none of the townsfolk have any interest in mailing letters to their annual intruder. So imagine my surprise when after I accosted the young man for an answer as to why here was here, getting nothing but silence in response, that I opened the letter and saw that the pages inside were all blank. No return address, no stamp, and not even so much as an errant pen mark. Just my name etched across the envelope.

I cast aside this event as a mistake of the local post or even perhaps even a prank and returned to my work as best I could. I could have shoved this event out of mind with ease if not for those that followed. Days later I was casting stones into the river while partaking in a cup of coffee when I heard rustling in the woods. Nothing unusual -- I rather enjoy it when the wildlife stumbles upon me. In this particular moment it was a doe. 

I saw her coming out from the brush slowly and freeze as we made eye contact. I was quick to avert myself and return to the river for, in fairness, I was the intruder on this land that she called home. But no sooner had I turned my back from her that I heard the sharp snap of a bowstring and a quick anguished cry. I turned back to see her splayed out on the ground, arrow clean through her neck. 

To my knowledge it was illegal to hunt in these woods, but I suppose hunters will chase their prize regardless of location. Not wanting to intrude, it was the hunter’s fair kill after all, I left her there outside the cabin and returned to my work. Two days later the doe remained on the ground. For the hunter to shoot such an arrow they would have been close, but they never retrieved their prey. So there she laid, now infested with maggots and smelling of death. 

I am aware that my lungs are lined with tar, I know that my liver is nearing failure, but I refuse to bring my sanity into question. My senses have always been sharp and I have built up a career on the validity of my mind. But maybe I have become so dependent on the cabin and my river muse that my judgement has turned cloudy. Visions of mailmen and hunters acting as physical distractions to keep me from my goals. 

Ignoring the distractions I let the days pass by. As I quickly approached my deadline the cabin closed in around me, as it usually did when my productivity failed to live up to my expectations. I had stopped going into town the day after the doe and refused to leave the cabin all together by the beginning of the fourth week. And while I can usually keep myself busy with my work I was unable to separate myself from the outside world. 

The mailman returned each day with more blank notes. The hunter continued to shoot arrows into the doe’s body. Never before had I considered the situation I find myself in, but for the first time since I first stumbled upon Kirketsville I felt threatened. Though the hidden horrors surrounding my small wooden cabin attempted to lead me off the ledge of my own rationality, I manage to cling to what remains of my aged mind. As I gathered my belongings and cleared the snow off my truck I could not help but open the window again and look for the doe. But no matter how much I scanned the terrain I could see no trace of the animal. 

No predator, human or otherwise, would have taken a decomposing deer carcass. It would offer no use as a trophy or sustenance. There was no mark in the snow where it had laid and no blood trail to follow. Only my own footprints leading to and away from the place I had first spotted her.

I slammed the window shut, hoping to awaken some sense in me, but then found myself staring at the side table where I had been keeping the mailman’s letters. Though I recall holding each one in my hands and placing them on the wooden table, there were none to speak of. I managed to convince myself that the deer had been taken away by some larger predator and that the mailman had become aware of his error and had come to collect the letters that he mistakenly gave to me.

Alone in the cabin, I realized that I had overstayed my welcome in Kirketsville. And though I was, and continue to be, confident in my sanity, I never could bring myself to return to my muse. As I drove down the twisting turns of the mountain I could almost make out the faint scribbling of pen on paper. I looked around me but the truck was empty, save for myself and my belongings. 

Yet still the scribbling grew louder and more erratic. I could hear the pen ripping across the thin paper, digging into the wooden table underneath. And suddenly, but not unexpectedly, with my other ear I began to discern the snapping of a longbow. I could hear the strained stretch of the string and the notch of an arrow. When the snap came I almost swerved off the road. 

The pen digging its way into my head and the snap of the arrows within my ears were too much. I pulled my car to the side of the dirt path and let my head into my hands. Then there was silence. Normally, I would welcome silence as a gift, but being devoid of sound brought a shiver down my spine. Luckily I was released from the silence when a faint, hollow knock came from the front of the truck. 

The mailman. Without letters or messenger bag, but holding a copper-colored longbow. 

For years I had used Kirketsville as a sort of respite -- an excuse to leave the tribulations of my life and live out some authorial fantasy in the woods. But the past has a way of clawing back to the surface of our awareness, doesn’t it? As for this humble writer, I once thought I would never be able to return to the small town of Kirketsville. However it seems now that instead I will never be given the chance to leave.