The Storm and the Cave

       The cold seeped in from the dark maw of the cave entrance, chilling the disheveled man.  The fire helped keep the chill at bay, but it had been reduced to coals for quite some time. The little life it would have breathed into him had it blazed wouldn’t have been enough for him to rise and revive it anyway. He continued to lay against the hard stone floor, his head stiffly propped against his rigid arms. He could feel himself begin shiver, but his depleted body lacked the energy to even commit to that. All he could do was stare at the fading orange glow of the coals in front of him, listening to the storm that continued to howl outside. It had raged for days and showed no signs of slowing. For all he knew, it could have been going on for weeks. The passage of time was as inconceivable and mysterious as the forces that kept him prisoner.  What he did know was that as cold and desolate as the cave he hid in was, he couldn’t venture outside.  

Bored by his infinite failure to fall asleep, the decrepit cave-dweller admit defeat in his infinite battle with wakefulness. He could spend the rest of the day, night, or whatever time staring into the abyss. With reasonable certainty, he had done so in the past, letting an unperceivable amount of time pass by. Finally goaded enough by the weak flicker of neurons that sparked in his hibernating brain, the man rose from his rocky mattress. Muscles, tendons, and what one might consider a soul creaked awake from a lethargic slumber. At a pace that challenged sleep itself to a race, they unfolded with a dust twist and unbinding, bringing along with them a shrivelled stomach which slowly broke away from its own leathery nap. Together, they woke a ceaseless hunger that was never satisfied, only marginally satiated. He brushed off the dust from his legs, though the severe lack of light gave him little concern for his appearance. The action served a more practical purpose of pumping blood down the dilapidated roadways that were his veins and capillaries and moving the decrepit machine his body had become. It would have to suffice, since the sound of tiny scratches caught his attention. 

His flesh might have withered, but his ears were sharp as ever, capturing the minutest of changes in his miniature realm. Scurrying feet let him know the source of the noise nearby. In his mind, he could see tiny nubby toes attached to the boney legs of what was one of his mainstays of sustenance. The cave-dwelling lizards were relatively easy to hunt. They had nowhere to go except deeper into the cavernous hole or into the dreaded tempest of elements outside. Cold blooded animals they were, they sought the warmth of the small fire as much as the cave’s other inhabitant, even if basking in its glow risked getting caught by a hungry hand. 

The lizards were damned difficult to capture in the dark, but not impossible. As limited and unpalatable the options for sustenance were, all came at a high price. Any source of food either avoided or simply didn’t grow near the small fire that came to be in the cave. They fled to the cracks and crevices that hid themselves from the lone predator. In order to see what took to these hidey-holes, a chaotic exchange had to take place: the fiery goddess and her haven of heat and light had to be spurred so that the deity of darkness could be given attention. After some time, the man’s eyes would adjust to the dark well enough to spot and capture the lizards. Life needed to be given so life could be gained, in more ways than one. 

As bereft as the cave was, there were more than just scrawny scavengers about. The long stretches of darkness were also home to a unique fungi. Like the animals amongst them, the small mushrooms refused to go anywhere near the entrance, though this did not make them any safer. Much like the lizards, their lives were also ended when plucked by a frail hand. The man would usually hold the latest specimen against what little light snuck in from the entrance or next to the fire whenever he could get it bright and lively enough. With heavy eyes, he could barely make out the discolored spots atop their rusty caps that sat upon fleshy brown stalks. They tasted like sponges that had absorbed the essence of dirty nuts. Aside from the resident lizards, the acrid mushrooms were all he had to eat inside the dark desolate cave. 

The blind hunter contemplated the last time he had dined on the taste when he saw a small blur flee to a rocky corner. He readied his hunting rock. It was a hefty stone, easily gripped with a flatter side. Normally smooth, he could feel the blood from previous hunts that had partially dried, giving it a powerful grip. The rock gave a secondary purpose as a rudimentary watch or sorts. When the blood was dry, it indicated the passage of time, although precisely how much was still impossible to gauge, merely that it had in fact done so. First and foremost, it remained an effective killing tool, the favorite. A guttural splatter after a jerking smash let the wielder know it had been successful in its utility once again. 

Eating the small meal lasted as long as it took to procure. The man’s beard had grown wiry and matted, no doubt from the uncouth blood and entrails that dripped from his maw whenever he tore into the soft underbelly of his scaly food. He had a hunger that needed to be driven away. Manners didn’t matter when one lived like a troll, eating like a beast or a savage. The only guests he had, he ate anyway, and with less and less empathy each time. He had no choice. They were the only other living creatures in the lonely cave. Every deathly smash he struck with his blunt tool was met with an abhorrent pang of remorse. What made each visceral blow to his companions worse was how he felt less regret each time, as if he chewed and gnawed away his humanity along with the morsels of meat he tore from them. The drips of blood from his mouth could have very well been his own, having grown numb to the scratches, pokes and pierces from tiny bones. 

It wasn’t long – it was hard to tell - before the greasy carcasses were carelessly cast aside when done with. Somehow their spindly bodies never seemed to accumulate into any sort of pile. Perhaps the live ones stole them away before their hungry killer went back a second helping. Whether they nibbled on their brethren or mourned for them, their post-food fate was likely more humane than he who devoured them. A wayward thought suggested that the fungi might have derived life from these corpses, chemically breaking the bodies down so that vulturous mycelium might absorb the nutrients. Whatever sort of ecosystem took place in the cave, the lizard carcasses always seemed to disappear when the man woke, leaving him once again lonely.

Despite the chilling tendrils of ice that clawed their way inside, their encroachment meant the entrance to the cave had not been completely enveloped by snow. As bemoaning as it was to look in that direction, the man was more terrified for the day in which nothing, sound nor cold, would penetrate the earthly chamber. He remain vigilant to that day, paying a dull but constant attention to any changes to the storm. 

While it kept the lonely man prisoner, it was never the same storm except for the fury it prevented his leave with. Some days it howled, other days it roared. It wasn’t always snow barricading the man inside either. Peering out from his dark tubular cage, the world was an astigmatized blot beyond the rocky window. 

One day it would be a menacing deluge, a monstrous monsoon that threatened drowning for those foolish enough to get close enough. To do so would bring an attempt to both swim and fly while standing. The gritty water lashed at any dry skin that longed for moisture that wasn’t the salty blood of lizard or sucking on the sticky sponge their tongue had become. Even errant puddles were too terrified to venture into the cave, away from the mother that had born them. Their odd absence left pools of jealousy in their stead, but these quenched no thirst.

Hurricanes weaponized leaves, sticks, and other debris that flew by at unconceivable speeds, mere blurred chunks in the grey stew outside that was the weather. Those who stood too close to the entrance had their emaciated skin whipped, a punishment of their curiosity.  As cruel as the guard was that held him captive, it was not without its gifts. The woody debris flung indiscriminately during these kinds of interminable storms were gathered with great apprehension to be used as fuel for the fire. Prolonged timidness would anger the guard and the gifts bestowed would be ripped back into the mottled nether outside, never to be given again until it was seen fit to do so by the givers whim. 

No guards were as vicious as the sandstorms which punished relentlessly. The fine particulate lacerated like a thousand knives, wielded expertly by a luminous soldier that hid behind a veil of a million tiny beads. Peering eyes were punished by the serrated cloak, teaching countless painful lessons to a troublesome student who was slow to learn. Nightfall brought its own terrors with the windy sands though. Sleep would be invaded by the sounds of invading armies of ants. Although disproven time and time again, this deception remained effective, even by the calming crackle of a fire.

Whatever terror raged outside, it never relented enough to allow for escape. Outside there was always a powerful atmospheric agency beyond control or influence. Nothing would affect it in any way, just as nothing he could fathom would protect him. Whatever ire nature decided to deliver that day, he grew less concerned with it. It was ever present, never indicating anything worthwhile beyond the cave. No salvation, no life. No goals, no signs of additional security or safety. For all he knew, the world was worse out there past the mouth of the cave. It lacked what he had there in his safe, sheltered cave. 

The man lay his head down against the flat of his hand pressed against the dusty rock beneath him. He stared at the glowing coals from the fire with drooping eye lids that seemed content to taunt him for eternity. Tomorrow he would wake up, as he always did, and find himself unable to leave. Until then, he would simply listen to the howling storm, hoping that it might one day finally lull him to sleep.