The Shadow of Life

            A light fog settled low, as the autumn twilight painted the sky orange. Ainsley watched a flock of geese take turns honking and flapping just above the tree line and rocked in an old chair. Wood on wood and breath on wind.

          Strong hands raised a glass of whiskey to ready lips, its warmth reached deep. This was his evening ritual. Daylight brought toil and sweat but dusk brought rest. He worked hard for the ache in his back and the food on his plate. 

         This life wasn’t for everyone. Most people required companionship. Most people shopped at grocery stores and went to movie theaters. Ainsley lived off of the land, alone. For years now he’d hunted and cured and fermented and grew. It was an honest and authentic way to be and a source of personal pride. 

        Light dwindled and shadows encroached. The night shift clocked in. A raccoon scurried in the brush beyond the clearing somewhere in the woods. Ainsley stood, stretched, and finished the last swallow of whisky from his glass. Movement along the trees caught his attention. Clear eyes stared hard into the dark as a figure stepped forward. It stood tall and still against the forest. He felt its presence like a weight in his chest. 

        Ainsley was a big man. His biceps pushed against the confines of his flannel shirt. His thighs were wide and strong. Little intimidated him, yet his heart knocked on his chest and adrenaline coursed through his body like a raging bull. 

        Ainsley lived in a clearing deep in an isolated wood. There were no roads, no neighbors, no errant hikers. He grabbed the rifle from the cabin doorway and turned in time to see the figure return to the shadows. 

        The wild, night sounds that had always brought Ainsley comfort seemed sinister to him, as he lay in bed that night. The shadow figure wouldn’t leave his thoughts.  Sleep came in broken bursts and thrashing waves. A metallic rattle, tentative at first, activated fight and flight consciousness. 

        A thunderstorm of breath, heart beats and rushing blood dulled the senses, as if his body was systematically shutting down to preserve energy for survival. Twisting metal, weight thrusting against wood. Someone was trying the door. 

         This fear didn’t belong to him. This was a child’s fear. A multitude of angry fists pounded, the door shook, its hinges strained. Then it all ended abruptly. Silence. 

         A soft knuckle knock, more upsetting than before. It was quiet. It taunted. A malignant voice, both masculine and feminine, called him by name. “Ainsley, I’m here for you and when it’s time no door can keep me out.” Wheezy words like an insect buzzed past his ears, almost as if the voice was coming from beside him. 

         Ainsley swatted at the air and then slapped his ears and face. He fell from the bed onto the floor and pushed his bare heels into wooden floor planks, scooting his body backwards until his back was flat against the wall. Tears, sharp like gravel tore from his eyes. Deferred pain hit all at once. The big man drew himself small, shuttering beside a dwindling fire. 

        Bob, a Banty rooster, called out the sun. It was his sworn duty and he took it seriously. Bob believed in three things, order, duty and punctuality. Bob’s call reached Ainsley who climbed to his feet, body aching from a night spent on the floor. 

        He pushed the curtains open a sliver and held his breath, peering out at the cabin porch. Nothing was out of place. This brought no relief. The safety of home, locked doors, closed windows beckoned but winter was coming and there was much work to be done. 

         “Morning Bob, sorry I’m late... long night.” Ainsley opened the gate to the chicken yard startling a group of hens to a far corner. Bob judged his master for his tardiness with a vacant, black eye, then legged it after a plump wayward hen. His chest ruffled and his rubbery red comb jiggled, as he hopped and jerked towards her. She let out an indignant squawk but joined the flock, complaining to anyone with an ear to listen. 

          After the eggs were gathered, Ainsley headed for the garden. The plan for the day was to harvest beans, turnips, and Brussel sprouts. The meadow was stunning, encircled by blazing crimson and yellow fall trees, mixed with towering lodge pole pines. The sweet decay of autumn foliage mixed with the spicy pine and  scented a light, morning breeze. Leaves clapped like a sea of applause all around him. Though everything was as it should be in the meadow, the voice from the night before haunted his thoughts and robbed him of peace. 

         Near the garden the man noticed the unmistakable smell of death. Normally this would not be cause for concern. Nature was all around, death was a regularity to which he’d grown accustomed. The garden was guarded by a tall wooden fence. Yesterday, green rods full of brussel sprouts and climbing bean stocks stretched over the top. A monotone hum sounded from the other side of the fence. He pulled the garden gate open and recoiled from the stench. 

         What was once alive and thriving was now dead and rotting. The heavily decomposing corpses of pumpkins and squash spread across neatly tilled rows. Shriveled bean pods dropped from their vines. A black mass of flies congregated amongst the waste. Ainsley doubled over and retched, then pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket, covered his nose and mouth, and inspected the spoilage. He had never seen rot such as this. How had it developed and spread overnight?

       The garden was a crucial part of his survival. Nothing could be salvaged. He exhaled worry. There was still time to forage for mushrooms, roots, and berries. It would be a long hard winter, despite many months of hard work. Defeated, the homesteader continued his chores and returned to the cabin well ahead of sunset. 

        A plate of eggs sat untouched on the dinner table.The sights and smells of the rotting garden continued to trouble him. The man was withering like the vegetables he worked so hard to grow. Ainsley took a sip of coffee, its acrid bite fell short, so he tipped the whiskey bottle over the cup. 

        Shaking hands made the nightly offering to the fire, dull eyes peered beyond the curtains a couple dozen times. A deep seeded ache made it difficult to be still. Feeling like a child again, the man hugged his arms across his chest. Exhaustion overrode fear and pain. Eventually sleep came and when he woke his clothes clung to his sweat soaked body.

         Muscle and bone shivered violently, his teeth chattered so hard that he thought they would break. Something slammed against the side of the cabin knocking a framed picture off of its nail. Footsteps fell, slow and steady across porch planks, the crunching of leaves, then came the voice in his ears. 

       “You know my name, you feel my end, I smell your hope and your rot.” The room went black.

       A stiff breakfast of whiskey and coffee was all his nervous stomach would allow. The mirror showed a pale, aging man with dark eyes and cavernous cheeks. Tremulous fingers pulled at his bottom lid exposing veiny red bloodshot. His once iron body hurt everywhere. He winced, bending to lace up his boots. 

       After the eggs had been collected, Ainsley took the trail into the woods. Blue and red birds called down from the canopy. The air amidst the trees was wet and smelled of earth. Heavy feet stumbled across uneven ground, each step required more effort than the last. 

          Oyster mushrooms shot up from a fallen beechwood tree. The broken man stopped to gather them and some sumac from a nearby shrub. A twig cracked on the trail ahead. A white-tailed deer stood like a statue forty feet away. Ainsley pulled the rifle from his back. Their eyes were locked together, unblinking. He raised the barrel of the gun. It was almost too easy. He’d killed animals for survival since the age of six, when Uncle Jake had taken him on his first hunting trip. Even as a boy, looking into a prey’s eyes and taking its life had never been difficult. 

         The deer held its place on the trail, inviting the bullet. A sure finger tightened on the trigger, deep breath out, time to squeeze. His stomach fell. Shaking arms lowered the gun. The deer was him. He couldn’t bring death, not now. 

         Another dusk dropped down upon the world, as Ainsley dragged himself up the porch steps. His body was weak. The man with an enormous appetite, again, wasn’t hungry but needed fuel. He cracked two of the morning’s fresh eggs into a bowl, they were tar black and spoiled.

         He burst outside, gagging, fell to his knees, and retched violently onto the grass. When the convulsions subsided, he sat back on his heels and wiped his mouth with a soft sleeve. There was just enough light for him to see the same black rot and decay that had killed the garden and ruined the eggs. 

         The world took a hard left. He turned along with it and ended up on his back beneath the black dome of night. No stars, no moon, no cricket song. There was only darkness and him now. There was no fear left for the shadow figure. He knew its name and accepted a truth that has been lurking in the corners of his mind.

       The shadow figure was in him. It had been all along. It ate life and hope, friends and family, and there was no place on the planet beyond its reach. The thing had been taking him a little at a time, weakening him, waiting for this moment. Now, it was finished. 

        Winter killed the meadow the way it had since time began. Bob woke up the sun like his ancestors before him. Ainsley returned to the earth. Grass covered his body over with life. Life follows death the way spring follows winter. It’s ancient, it's inescapable, and it never fails. The shadow figure died its own death along with Ainsley. But, the truth that applies to human beings and nature is true for it too and death is not the end.