Leave Your Worries Behind

The men neared a quarter way up the eastern face of the mountain, about as far as you could get with the horses and in this sort of weather. Ahead of them, the mountain jutted up and away into the darkening sky, a giant black wall of stone that disappeared into a savage flurry of clouds and snow. Jeb thought that the peaks, so far away and bleary through the storm, seemed to be an illusion -- cardboard cutouts painted and propped up on giant wooden stilts.

Jeb’s horse protested against the wind and the hale, swinging her head to the side, trembling and buckling with every step into a fresh patch of powder. His hands grew numb inside his leather gloves, and he struggled to keep a tight grip on the reins.

Pat rode just ahead of him, his figure bouncing in and out of the tree-line shadows. He stopped just as a sprinkle of hale washed over the two. The little chunks of ice bounced and scattered off of Jeb’s hat.

“I don’t know how much longer we ‘oughta be out here!” He called, twisting his body backward in the saddle. 

“We’ve got an hour, at least!” Jeb yelled back, cupping his gloved hand to the side of his mouth. 

Pat turned his horse so he was facing Jeb and felt over his coat, reaching between two of the buttons to pull a flask out of the inside pocket. “Ah-h-h-h,” he grumbled, fumbling with the screw top. “We’ll get caught in the worst of it on our way down.”

Jeb peered up at those far, far away peaks, which seemed to be growing smaller and darker by the second. Pat sipped from his flask anxiously. 

“How ‘bout I take this cliff up here?” Jeb said, gesturing to his left, where a fallen tree hid a small clearing in the snow. “You go up the rest of the trail.”

Pat tipped his flask upside down, sucked whatever was left of it. He turned to where Jeb had pointed and stared solemnly into the tangle of fallen branches. 

“Damn cold,” he mumbled, shoving the flask back between his coat and his breast. 

“Well?”

“Y’know we ain’t gon’ find him, boy. Y’know that’s the way of things here.”

Jeb nodded. He knew. “Luanne’d want us to, at least.”

Pat cleared his throat in a way that hid a wet, scratchy chuckle. “She’d be just as down whether we don’t bring him back now or in an hour from now.”

“But she’ll always wonder. You know he’d do the same for you. And you know your Kelly’d want him to.”

Pat sucked in his cheek, nibbled it on. Wet strands of his graying hair pushed through from under his hat and plastered his forehead, where crevices of worry etched into the skin.

“Alright, take the left. Meet me back here soon.”

Before Jeb could say anything else, Pat whipped his reins and his horse turned away up the trail. Jeb stood still for a moment, letting the wind slap his cheeks, and his horse stirred.

He could picture the coming night clearly -- Pat swaying on Micah and Luanne’s porch, him standing behind with his hat held down at his chest, them her telling her they couldn’t find him, no sense setting up camp in the storm, it was the way of things, they’re sorry. Luanne falling and wailing and screaming that terrible scream he had heard too many times -- an animal caught in a trap, knowing there’s no way out, knowing exactly what’s to happen to it. 

Micah left camp three nights ago, headed up the mountain with a scouting party, five men total. They went for a routine inspection -- in a few months, when the weather turned and the greens of spring started cropping up over the fields, they hoped to have a path forged through the mountains and to the civilization on the other side. Not everyone liked the idea of integrating into a place with laws. But most agreed, especially with how difficult this past winter had been, that dependable rations and safety were worth looking for.

That morning, just before the sun reached the height of the sky, four men and five horses returned to camp. Nobody could explain it. He disappeared in the middle of the night -- they had split up, and when they returned to camp, Micah didn’t join them, his horse tied ‘round a tree. They called his name, wandered around where he had been, they said. No sense in it all.

Jeb volunteered to go looking first.

“Oh-h-h, thank you, thank you.” Luanne was quiet as shock, rubbing her hands together like she was trying to get warm. “I’m sure he went somewhere to watch the sunrise, got turned around.”

Pat laughed, cold and deep.“If he walked off to watch a sunrise he deserved whatever he’s got coming!” 

A silence washed over the group. 

“One more body,” he continued, “that’s what y’all want, is it?”

Kelly, Pat’s lady, was holding tight the hand of their little girl, just barely eight years of age. “You don’t say that, now. Patrick, Jeb’ll go. He’s good, riding in a storm.”

Pat huffed, ran a hand over his face.

“If he’s going, I’m going with. Boy, go get the horses ready.”

Luanne followed and thanked them all the way to the base of the mountain, despite how the wind picked up, despite how the snow grew thicker and whiter all around, as if she was waving goodbye to a train full of boys headed to war. 

Jeb pulled his horse's head to the side now and started to the small clearing. She protested slightly as they navigated through the twisted and broken branches laid across the snow.

“Shhh,” he murmured, taking one hand to smooth over her wind-blown mane, “we’ll be home soon, girl.”

The clearing showed signs of the men’s camp -- a small circle of rocks jutting out through the snow from their fire, one of the logs dragged just beside it, some cut pieces of rope caught in the limb of a tree. 

He rode up further through the powder.

“Micah!” He screamed, his call muffled, ripped apart just in front of him by the raging of the air. He rode a little further along the cliff. “Micah! Micah! Call back if you can!”

He waited for a beat. The only response was the wind.

Ahead, the wall of jagged rock that marked the end of the clearing turned a steep corner, pushing out and away into jet-black shadows. The ground narrowed there into a small footpath, just wide enough to shimmy across, and then disappeared around the bend. Jeb turned around, wanting to call out to Pat, but he had long since disappeared up the trailhead. He again smoothed the mane of his horse.

“I’ll be right back,” he said to her, pushing himself up and off of her back. He felt for the coil of rope tucked away into the saddle pockets and grabbed it out, leading her to a dying pine trunk. She stood silently as he fastened the rope around it. “Be good, ‘right girl?”

He made his way to the turn-off, keeping close to the wall, calling out as he clawed through the flurry. 

“Micah!” 

Nothing

“Micah!”

Nothing.

“Micah, if you hear me, shout! Micah!”

Nothing. 

The wind bent the snow around the corner of the cliff face, and Jeb had to reach out and grab the tip of his hat to stop it from flying off. The path ahead broke off into what couldn’t be more than a foot of narrow pathway, jutting straight down and colliding into a patch of jagged, sharpened rocks, miniature mountains just barely visible through the haze. The fall was steep, smooth as butter. But not more than a couple of strides through, it widened into a small, flat ledge, a cavity scooped into the side of the wall. 

Jeb craned his neck around the corner so that he could see partially into the cave. The top of it bent just over, curving around and protecting the small space from the storm so the snow sat only a couple of inches high. It seemed packed, pressed into the ground in places. 

He bent down, leaning further out around the corner.

Peeking out, on the ground of the cave and brushed with snow, was a dark leather pocket-journal. 

Jeb stood, turning around. He searched for Pat’s shadow coming down the trail. There was nothing but his horse, standing straight and still across the clearing. Taking a breath, he shimmied across the narrow walkway, his back pressed against the side of the wall.

The pocket journal was lying open, its pages warped and dampened, the thin leather tassel meant to tie it closed strewn in a bundle against the white ground. Jeb reached down to the journal, ripping his glove off with his teeth, letting it dangle in his mouth. It tasted of wet leather. 

Property of Micah Critz had been etched into the inside cover page.

He flipped through the pages, careful not to tear them. The first entry was dated just over one year ago.

Nov. 17 1880

Camps nearly set up now. We found a place, we think it used to be a town on its own, just west of the base of a mountain range. The towns abandoned now -- the old schoolhouse is making out to be a good meeting place. Me and Hale have been working on a stable.

Luanne seems pretty happy to be about settled down. She wants to try for a baby. The rest of the group wants to keep going, find what's on the other end of the mountains. Nobody seems keen on staying in one place for too long. 

“Micah! Micah, you out here!?” Jeb screamed out into the nothingness to no reply. 

He turned back to the journal, flipping through the bulging pages. Most of the entries were short, only a couple of sentences, and there were gaps that lasted months at a time. The corners of the pages flickered and whipped, and his bare thumb pressed a deep indent down into them. 

June 23 1881

People are getting antsy. Lot of arguments. We’ve never stayed in one place for so long. There’s supposed to be a big city on the other side of the mountains. Luanne wants to find a doctor. She bled again last night. We thought this time the baby might make it.

I know it’s not on my end. Jemma is turning eight soon. She’s healthy. Strong.

Jeb stopped. The storm had folded itself into white noise, blurring all around him. Kelly had given birth to Gemma back east, a year after Micah had joined them at the coast. It was warm and beautiful and easy there. He flipped to the back of the journal, to the last entry before the rest of the pages went blank.

Dec. 6 1981

Going up the mountain again tonight. I think by spring we’ll have a way through. 

Luanne wants to get married. She thinks that might help. She says a baby before marriage is sin. Pat and Kelly were fighting last night. Lots of screaming, things banging around in their cabin. Kelly says Gemma is looking more like me as she grows, says Pat’s suspicious. 

Dec. 7 1981

Early morning now. We left yesterday and set up camp. Not sure if we’ll be able to stay too long this time. A storm is brewing in the sky, I can see it. 

Pat found me last night before we left. Told me he knows. He was all whispery and quiet. I was expecting a fight. But he left, and then so did we. He said it’ll get handled sometime. Told me I was a coward for not raising my kin. Maybe he’s right. Maybe if we reach whatever city is waiting for us in the spring things will be different.

“Jeb?”

Jeb looked up through the slurry. Pat’s voice cut through and around the corner.

“Jebidiah?”

He went to close the notebook, fumbling with the button on his coat pocket; the cold numbed his fingers, making it difficult to get a grip. A sudden desperation washed over him, everything falling into place. Pat’s head appeared around the corner across from the narrow passageway. His eyes fell onto the journal.

“Whatcha’ got there?”

Jeb said nothing. He backed away slightly, finally getting the button undone. He shoved the journal into his pocket, took his glove out from between his teeth and pulled it back on.

Pat closed in, inching over the passageway. “Jeb?”

A growing numbness pressed over Jeb’s senses, a wet blanket draped over top of him, the walls of the cave pushing in and in and in. Pat lingered just over the passageway, hat tipped down and casting a shadow over his face, nothing but a black hole atop his body.

“Why don’t we head back?” Jeb said, although he didn’t move an inch from where he stood.

Pat laughed that growling, itchy chuckle.

“What’d you find, boy? A clue?”

“It’s nothing,” Jeb replied, although he knew Pat had seen it - “a notebook. Pat’s notebook. Might be nice for Luanne to keep.”

Again, Pat laughed. “You really think that’s a good idea?”

Jeb fumbled, tripped over his words, not sure what to say. In the corner of his vision, the slanted edge of the cliff lingered, plunging away into darkness. Pat stood in front of him like a wall of ice. 

“Well I… Why wouldn’t it be?” He said.

Pat inched closer now. “I think you know, boy.” He put his hands up in defense, pushed towards the cave, slowly, all calm. Jeb took another slow step backward.

“Why don’t you hand me that book?” Pat said, closing in across the passageway. “Why don’t we chat?”

In a moment, he leaped across the rest of the ledge, lunging towards Jeb, hands outstretched. Jeb flew backward, his back slamming into the cave wall. Pat grabbed the sleeve of his coat, swinging him around and against the cliff so the bottoms of his boot heels scraped against the drop-off.

“She isn’t even my kid!” Pat screamed, and Jeb pulled away from him, the wind slamming his back. Pat’s face, so close that Jeb felt hot breath on his forehead, flickered in the shadows of the moving clouds above. “What was I supposed to do!?” His voice boomed snarled and desperate, cutting through all the noise of the storm.

Jeb swallowed, time coming to a still. He used all of his strength to shove Pat forward into the curve of the back wall of the cave, and his head slammed and bounced off of the rock. Jeb pushed up off the snow, backing away towards the passageway.

“You would have done the same!” Pat started towards him again, as if the fall was nothing, his eyes red and prickled with moisture, his brows furrowed into a deep, hateful rage. He went for Jeb’s jacket collar. “You! You would have-”

Jeb didn’t think when he did it. The looming dark below them, the pointed rocks, the whooshing of the flurry and the hale and Pat lunging toward him with that look in his eyes -- everything was all at once, a tiny point, tunnel vision. He dodged Pat’s hand, swinging himself backward and then forward again, shoving Pat out and away. Pat stumbled, careening backward, one of his feet landing just at the edge of the cliff, and then off it, and then the rest of him with it, down, down, down. Jeb barely saw it -- he was a blur, there and then not. 

All was silent save for Jeb’s ragged breaths, in and out, steaming the air in front of him. His mind raged with emptiness. The sudden loneliness of the cave didn't register, as if Pat still stood just in front of him, etched into the air. The footprints of the struggle screamed out from the ground. He stood deathly still, a hare in a field with a hawk circling overhead. 

After what could’ve been forever, Jeb turned, made his way across the passage and back to his horse on default, his body moving without him there. Pat’s horse stood next to her, tied around the dying tree. He tore his gloves off again, reached for Micah’s journal.

Dec. 9 1881

We split up today. I’m back at camp now, waiting for the rest to join. I think I found a promising trail - I want to tell the rest and check it out again in the morning, make sure. It’s not good for the horses, but I think we can get up on foot. It’s just north of the second peak, through the trees and up a little before it cuts down across. Pretty thin, but doable. I swear I could see lights twinkling from across. Will sketch a map tomorrow.

Maybe I’ll stay put or head somewhere new. Maybe Luanne will go, if the truth comes out. Maybe she’ll find her doctor.

The sun had nearly disappeared out of the sky, but when Jeb looked up, he could see the second peak of the mountain, now too real, thundering up, slamming through the black. He closed the notebook, pressed it back into his pocket. He didn’t untie the horses. Someone would come find them in the morning.

He started north, numb to the cold, one foot in front of the other. Behind and below him, the smoke from camp twisted up into the dark like creamer spreading out into coffee.