The Lesser Man

He awoke that morning heavily burdened by what his father had announced at the dinner table the previous night. The words he spoke, though few, resonated within his mind, and their meaning embedded itself into his very flesh. He heard his father's tone as he spoke, could still see his poor mother's face contort as she processed their meaning, and could still feel his face made hot by what they entailed.

He sat now on the edge of his bed as the glint of the morning streamed in through the thin drapery and made visible his solid frame. Many moments would pass and yet he remained idle, engrossed in his thoughts. His mind teemed with notions of what could happen and at what scale they would happen. Stories long forgotten played now as though he had studied them word for word.

With the picturesque home behind him, he trailed through the field and neared the pasture. As a boy he was made to be extremely diligent in regards to where he placed his feet, one wrong step would lead him six feet underground with two fang marks on his ankle, like many others living in the area he did not perceive this as an ideal. And so, he commonly found himself with his head hung low and his gaze fixed on the ground ahead. It had been a fourth of a mile since he’d left his little home and he had come to notice the cuff of his jeans had grown dark in tone, he attributed this to the dew of the meadow grass. In frustration, he swiped at his left pant leg, in a vain attempt to wipe away the already absorbed water. If it had been a warmer day he would not have minded so much the cooling effect that his now damp pant legs provided, quite frankly, he would have welcomed it cheerfully. But today was a gloomy fall morning with a temperature barely above forty degrees. 

When an amiable breeze cut across the meadow it enabled creation to move with it, and in this, all of creation seemed to rejoice. Trunks of the tallest trees would break into song, all different species harmonizing together to create one so unique it would be understood as inspired. Grass upon being visited was led to hum and dance frantically, allowing joy to overwhelm itself. Water quite unlike the trees, the grass, and all else in creation, longed to imitate. The wind now passed over the little pond surrounded by the grass, which was surrounded by the trees. It chose to replicate the wind in its movement and desperately sought to join it in its venture, though the embankment surrounding the pond held it captive as it mourned the premature departure of its newfound friend. 

As the breeze finished its route it saw the boy on a distant hill and ran up to meet him on the path. When it did so it immediately sliced through the fleece he wore and embraced his lean body with its icy fingers. He hastily wrapped an arm around himself in an attempt to keep the cold at bay but the wind could not be refused. Up ahead, down the hill, he could make out the familiar shape of the small hickory-colored barn and beside it the fenced pasture. He was relieved at the sight, and not long after he made his way to the barn. Though capable of securing the barn, the door was in desperate need of repair. Years of subjection to the elements had made it weary and gaps were now evidence of that. With his rifle pressed firmly between ribcage and arm, he reached within the pocket of his pants, retrieved a small bronze key, and with it unlocked the door.

The rich, sweet fragrance of horse manure and mold coated the inside of his nostrils as he strode into the damp atmosphere of the barn. He likened the smell to that of wet leaves, though in comparison they reigned superior. With thoughtful drawn-out glances he inspected each stall, the echo of his father's words festering still in the rear of his mind. He thought now about how he would miss the old barn and its one inhabitant, the horse. He had nearly forgotten about the old horse. His eyes widened as realization found him. Frantic, he surged into the aisle only to find that the door leading to the pasture stood ajar and the stall where the horse had been lay vacant with only the name tag hanging at its entrance, mocking him as he studied it. Gideon.

Akin to a muddied picture so seemed the trees as he hastened toward the newly broken fence at the far end of the pasture. Within moments he reached the fence's edge, pausing only briefly to readjust the rifle that rested upon his shoulder by a nylon strap. Nowhere was the horse to be seen, the expanse splayed out before him was dull, and held a cold, eerie disposition. It would have chilled him to the bone had he not already been so. He began again in a sprint, darting past trees, and small creeks, and weaving in and out of brush, stopping now and again to free himself from the clutches of the bramble. With every step and every sharply drawn breath his desperation to find Gideon grew. He tried to think of where a scared animal would run in seek of safety but his mind drew a blank, already had he searched the easternmost part of the woods but-

A shriek rang through the treeline left of him. His mind truly did run a blank now. Though his feet had stopped instantly upon hearing what he could only define as a scream, time felt as though it were running even quicker. As if his final breath, he breathed in deeply the brisk air and reached for the rifle, steadying its barrel between his hands. Mindful of every sound he bade the land behind him farewell and ventured toward the scream.

 Everything was red, already had he been made sick by the horrific scene. Looking upon it again his stomach tightened and he was made lighter by its effects. Before him lay Gideon, ensnared. Razor wire bound his muscular body and cut deeply into his flesh, exposing the tissues within. His ebony mane once beautiful lay disheveled at his feet matted by blood. Making quick work of the crude wire and sufficing to only cut himself once, he had well-nigh freed Gideon. With his wounds almost fully visible they were seen to be four inches deep, had he not known the wire to be the rightful offender he may have suspected a bear. He dwelled on this thought as he gathered the wire and rolled it into his shirt to protect his hands. He wondered what others would think if they saw Gideon, would they believe too a bear to be the cause? Or would they immediately recognize his wounds as a result of the wire? After moments of considering this, he urged Gideon to his feet. The horse rose with shallow breaths and was made steady by the boy's firm hand. With glazed eyes he watched the maimed creature tramp through the brush back towards the pasture. In his absence, the words returned to assail him.

“The draft has begun.” As though he had been drained of blood, his already grim face grew pale, and the nape of his neck cold with sweat. With resounding blows, images of war clawed at him, beating him violently with their coming realities. He tore the rifle from his shoulder, cast it beside an oak, and threw himself to the ground. After a few moments, he collected himself and stood from where he had been sitting against the tree. He cupped his face into his hands, his eyes ached horribly. They seemed to create pressure within his head so extreme he had almost been tricked into thinking his headache could be heard audibly. Being able-bodied and three months past the age of eighteen he was expected to go to war, though his return from it, remained unexpected. As he saw it, he was to die a death worse than those who were hung. Was he not to be tried as they had and be found unworthy of such a horrific fate? He felt hollow, indifferent to what he had before lamented. He would not die at war he decided, he couldn't in fact. He devised a plan, and as it appeared, it was already set in motion. 

He now found himself stalking through the brush being mindful of each step so as to draw no attention to himself. In doing this he soon stumbled upon a deer. As quickly as he found it he drew his rifle, caught the deer in its sight, and dispatched it. He carried the body to where Gideon had lain, finding the area easily seeing as it had been marked in blood. He drew a blade from a sheath located on his belt and haphazardly carved the deer. Finding the major arteries along its body he severed them and by the end of it all made a scene wholly recognizable as a slaughter. As he traveled back to the pasture he left behind him in the woods a mess of monotonous leaves and contrasting crimson. Not only that but also his fleece shirt now tattered and bloodied by the wire, and his rifle lacking in ammunition. Returning to the pasture the horse could be seen rigid near the fenceline, teetering side to side. He pitied the animals suffering. Quickly turning his face from Gideon he walked back up the path he had come earlier in the morning. In passing the little pond he disposed of the deer's remains and the entire length of barbed wire fencing including what never grazed Gideon. In this, it would seem as though none had ever been in the brush to start. Now that all had been accomplished he breathed a sigh of relief as he passed the dandelion-colored home. His parents would return to it that evening expecting him to have come back from the woods with game, but never again would he set foot in the house.

Years had passed, the boy once young had been made gaunt by the hardship they brought and his almond hair that had once shaded his face lay now upon his head, sparsely covering and gray. His name was John Badeaux, or at least it had been when he was alive. Just as he had presumed, his parents arrived home that night to find him missing. With unexpected composure they set off in a search for him, hoping he had only become lost or decided to go off somewhere without paying them notice. When they arrived at the barn however to find their boy's once beloved horse struck dead their hope too died. Not long after finding the horse lacerated by what they recognized as the workings of a bear, they found the site where their son had been killed. Upon seeing his shirt tattered and swimming in a pool of blood they silenced the woods with deafening cries; their mournful screams haunting still his mind. They concluded that he had been ambushed by a bear. It had probably followed him for a while and finally after much deliberation chose to rush the horse. In battering it with no avail, John was made the next target of the bear's rage. However, he also would put up a fight and ring off seven shots before drawing a final breath. Forty-nine years had passed since then, leaving the memory of his parents and the story of a boy mauled by a bear, one of many. 

Reminiscing constantly on all he had done to avoid inevitable death, he rarely felt a twinge of remorse. Rather he looked back on the memory with contentment, pride even, for he was clever enough to escape, and not only escape, but never get caught. And after all this time he had only found one thing unchanged, and that was within his mind. He referred to the house he had grown up in as home; home because despite all of the footpaths he had walked, no path led him to a place he could call by the same name. Unaccompanied the majority of the time he came to recognize the voice of the lesser and the better man as he called them. With them he would share his innermost thoughts, telling them of his concerns, his hopes, and on rare occasions his sorrow. The lesser man, whom always spoke over the better, gave his opinions constantly. He rushed to make every point, being sure to clarify after each sentence. When the lesser man was around his own thoughts seemed inferior, though he was assured the contrary. Unlike the lesser, the better man spoke softly, so soft at times his voice could hardly be made out, though when it could be heard his voice was direct. He compared the two men to the night sky, the lesser man being the clouds and the better man being the stars. At times the clouds would cover the stars and make them near impossible to see yet behind the cover the stars would still shine, having never actually dulled in light. Yes, he thought, this was the lesser and the better man.

The night was serene, characterized by the sweet song of the cicadas and his accompanying footsteps. He had been meandering down a small dirt path leading away from the town he had come to earlier that day. In his hands he held a few cans, he peered down at them studying their labels, they would suffice he thought. Food had been scarce since he left home so long ago. Out of fear of being recognized, he never took a job and now he could hardly afford a can of soup. Reflecting on this now, the cans might as well have been bricks in his hands, for they increased in weight the longer he continued and he would have much rather been rid of them. Justified by the words of the lesser man, he had earlier taken the cans in the convenience store, concealing them beneath his coat. He had been reminded of his hunger and the vitality that food had. As well as he knew this, he also knew that the better man would oppose, though he would never hear him say so. He noticed that the lesser man needn't ever be waited on, or listened closely for. He spoke incessantly, his sentences charming all who heard them. Perhaps that is why he more often than not found himself heeding his advice rather than the better man, the lesser man was simply easier to hear. 

As the fog laid heavily upon the morning landscape, so did a gloom rest upon him. The trees stood somber, their branches reaching out in hopes of being warmed by the sun. Relying upon the lesser man's words for comfort, he rose from the ground and began walking the treeline. Visible to his right was a wheat field of which he considered the length and wondered when the farmers would begin harvest. This brought him to think of family and without knowing he found his thoughts upon his parents. He recalled them now, heartbroken as they were until death. Upon realizing he discarded the thought and quickened his pace. When they still lived the better man commanded him to go back. He would have obeyed, had he not allowed the lesser man to interject and chosen to listen to him instead. Seven times had he the opportunity to turn back to his parents, perhaps if he had, he too may have had a field to harvest this year.

 In the field now, the wheat stood around four feet in height hitting him at the waist, burdened by his iniquities he paced the field. Growing restless soon the lesser man would be upon him berating him over things he himself had once encouraged. 

A voice could be heard from within the wheat. It wasn’t the voice of the old man that induced such unease among his hearers but the fact that he was speaking to himself. His tone rose cursing a name unintelligible. 

“If I had gone to war I might have survived,” He paused, his face splotched with color. “I could have had a family, or at least been with my parents in their old age.” 

“They wanted you to die in war, had you come back alive would have grieved them. Luckily you were mauled.”

“No, they loved me, I am sure of it.” He cried.

“They never loved you, John.” 

He screamed at the man now, refusing to believe his words, he could feel the lesser man leering over him, his eyes like pitch pressuring him to move. In angst he broke away from his gaze, the stalks of the wheat tearing at his legs as he sprinted. He was blind with fear. The sound of the lesser man was deafening, his breaths coming in short rasping huffs behind him. The very ground beneath him trembled with his steps. Seeing as he was unable to urge his feet any faster the lesser man caught him, grasping him by the leg and knocking him to the ground. He lay on his stomach now gasping. The lesser man had come upon him quickly and did not allow him to take a final breath as he pressed his weight into his back, compressing his lungs. He felt his hot breath against his neck and the soft fur upon his skin. With the end so near he could think of only one thing, it was easier to listen to the lesser man.