Frozen Voices IV
A Man is an Island
Reg came through the door and dropped the water bucket under the counter top. A wave of water rolled out of the bucket and splashed onto the floor. He threw the rifle on the table and in returning to the door, peeked out one last time before shutting it hard. He pulled on the knob in the dark of the room to make sure the latch had set. When he turned, all that was visible to his outdoor acclimated eyes was the dull red glow of dwindling fire from behind the stove door. He made his way in the dark as his eyes adjusted, first to the fire to add another log and increase the light and warmth, then to his bedside where he had left his flashlight, the door to the stove he left wide open to increase light. With flashlight in hand he returned to his pile of yet unorganized belongings and found the oil lamp. It took a moment of fidgeting but he soon had the lamp lit and brightly burning on the table.
After he had had a seat at the table, he looked into the bright orange light of the lamp. He took a long moment to gather his thoughts. The surprise he had felt out at the lake, when he realized he may not be prepared for hat was in the trees sat in his mind. Like a small pebble, it had begun rolling through his mind as he walked the path with his water. by the time he reached the clearing, he was checking behind him regularly. The pebble of of surprise had turned to rolling stones of fear. As he had closed the door and turned to the dark cabin rather than the bright day outside, his fear was now a tumbling avalanche of questions and anticipation. A feeling had struck him that he did had not planned for. The sounds in the woods had brought it bubbling forth in his mind like boiling water in an unchecked rice pot. His first day out in the bush, first day making camp. The first day, totally alone. He was completely alone.
When we live in the world with others, we, human animal that we are, go about our day in what we could call a certain measure of relaxation. We meet our friends, customers, neighbors. We hear the phone ring and we hear the mail man pull up. At lunch a conversation goes on behind us as we read the day’s paper. We call this a regular day, a meager and regular existence. A hard day is a bit more volume with slightly more anxiety and responsibility, and an easy day is perhaps the same with a few permutations and slightly less of the same. An day in our regular world constitutes a continuous flow of input and stimuli to our mind. A regular stream of data.
When one enters the bush, when a man is alone, he does not realize he has lived his entire life in this sea of constant input. Is the quiet room you sit in now really, truly quiet? How many cars have passed? Has your heater turned on, your refrigerator running? Do you hear the soft electronic sizzle of a light bulb at your bedside? The mind hears these things. It collects from the senses and sails on through these waves of sensation without even letting on that it does this. When a man goes into the bush, this river of stimulation trickles to a drip, and at some point, stops. The mind, fit and trained on its regular diet of inconsequential stress becomes hungry. Not a drop of stimulation for hours, days. The mind enters a state of withdrawal from its regular diet. The mind needs it. Reg has now felt the anguish of the solitary.
Reg sat at the table, surveying the room. He was beginning to understand it now. The mounting anticipation for nothing. The feeling that he was at the edge of a razor sharp precipice, swaying over it. If he fell, he did not know where he would or could fall to. He had removed his gloves and was now tapping his fingers on the table as he thought in solitude. He was thinking this was not so bad, telling himself, rather. Perhaps he was pleading. As he had awoke that morning He was beginning to feel uneasy. It had been building during the driving and the travel. Each hour traveling away was another mile from normalcy, from the safety of the familiar. The sound in the wood was only the final rush of water that breaks the levee. Now he was trying to control the flood.
“We’re good…” He whispered as he looked at the fire.
“I’m good.”
“… Okay.”
The feeling of anxiety was quieting in Reg’s mind. He was forcefully pressing it down, taking a few relaxed breaths. He took a long stretch as he stood up from the table. He was telling himself he just needed to think. The room was warming now. Walking slowly to the stove, he reached out to to feel the warmth of the stove. He was not particularly cold, but the sensation was calming and comfortable on his hands. He leaned forward and could feel the column of heat rising from the stove, radiating from the exhaust stack and filling the room. His hands warm, he returned to the counter and leaned over the old sink. He closed his eyes one last time, and let his head fall back.
“I’m staying. I can do this.”
“I’m here because this is what I wanted. This is it.” he softly spoke to no one.
Reg’s eyes opened again and he stared forward. With one more deep breath and then a sigh, he let his exhale bring his gaze down to the old sink as his head finally cleared. To his left by the basin, one of the bullets from the torn ammo box had rolled into view. The red light of the stove flickered in its shiny exterior. Reg focused on the little metal jewel, narrowing his eyes at it. The little flames danced in its surface, turned more red and vibrant by its reflection in clean brass. Reg thought more.
Like breaking glass, Reg snapped from his position at the sink. He moved back to the door, grabbed the knob and swung it open wide again. The outdoor light bathed the interior, bursting light and cool breeze into the cabin. He took a cautious look left and right through the frame and stepped out onto the porch. Then he waited. All was quiet. No more than the light breeze and the few typical bird calls. Scanning the woods told the same story. Trees. The stream bed. Waving grass. Falling leaves. He turned with intensity returned to the cabin, looked at the counter. The big handgun lie there as he had left it. Reg picked up the gun and stripped away the holster.
He held the gun with both hands, rubbing his fingertips along the edges, understanding its angles. It was a fairly simple affair, albeit extremely robust. It was not a modern design by any means, like those fancy pistols policemen used in television shows with the cylinders that swung out. It had an old look, like a gun from a western, simple. No adornment or frills of any kind. A curved thick grip like a cowboy’s gun, dark blackened wood slabs on both sides, Leading to a thick steel frame. The frame held a massive cylinder with no fancy cuts or lines, just bullet shaped mill marks pointing around the cylinder. On the right side there was a loading gate that flipped open with a hard soundless pop. The holes in the cylinder for the large rounds were big enough that reg could almost the tip of his last finger in. The barrel was a simple thick tube of metal extending out with a shark fin of a front sight. It was short, maybe only four or 5 inches, Reg did not care to measure exactly. There were portholes drilled in the end of the barrel to vent gas, it looked like someone had done that themselves. Along the right side of it was a spring loaded rod that would push the used brass back out through the loading gate. On the barrel were esoteric letters and numbers, meaningless to Reg. Some company name he had never heard of.
Reg knew enough to look through the cylinder to check if it was loaded. He took one of the brass cartridges from the counter and dropped it into its home in the cylinder. He then held the gun up in one hand and walked out onto the porch. His eyes fell on an errant log left standing up near the fire pit a few yards from the porch. Extending his shooting arm out, he leveled the sights with is gaze and took aim at the little wood target. The gun was heavy, quite heavy, and holding it steady enough to place a shot proved no easy task. Reg’s cooling nervousness was not helping either. Finally, when he had given up on not shaking, he winced and squeezed hard on the trigger, biting his lower lip. Reg watched the gun yaw and wobble through slits in his gaze as the twitch of muscles in his had pulled him off target. Nothing happened. He released a breath he realized he had been holding. Nothing except a foolish man on a porch weakly wiggling a gun around at a log. Reg squeezed again. The trigger didn’t budge. He retracted his arm to fiddle with it more closely, continuing to try the trigger.
“Oh, you idiot.” Reg exclaimed.
He remembered, the man who sold the gun had said it.
“… a .454 Casull. Single action.” it repeated in his mind.
Reg had been shooting before with acquaintances, but owned no firearms before these. His limited experience was now apparent.
“Single. Action.” He rolled his eyes.
“Now I get it.”
Reg took the gun in both hands and with his thumb reached to the hammer and pulled it back. It made a few very solid audible clicks. It was an action that required some practice if he were to do it with one hand, the springs holding the hammer were very crisp and tight.
“Now were in business.” He said as he widened his eyes.
Reg pointed the gun again at the log. He did not wait this time. He squeezed the trigger. The mechanism reacted flawlessly and instantly with a metallic *CLINK* as the hammer snapped forward against an empty cylinder. Reg released the wince he again had been holding.
“Oh!” reg was exclaiming to no one in particular again. He had forgotten where the live round was in rotation. Moreover, he had not though to keep track of it once he had closed the loading gate.
He lifted the pistol and pulled back the hammer again. He aimed in the general direction of the target, made a wry face, and squeezed the trigger again.
*CLINK*
This was the one, then. Reg, who had now faked himself out more times than he remembered to count, raised the pistol one handed. He spread his feet, focused on the shark fin at the end of the barrel and placed it over the target in his vision. The pistol was calmer now, he had relaxed.
“Here. We. G—-”
A great clap of thunder shook the air, pummeling Reg’s eardrums. A tangible shock wave climbed from his wrist, up his arm, and pressed against his face. His eyes shut automatically as a halo of white light burned like lightning into his retinas, leaving the white-red splatter in the blackness behind his eyelids. Reg was listing backwards in his stance as the top of the gun flew backwards dragging his loose hand and arm with it. He felt a sharp painful thud on his forehead as the tip of the gun in his hand bounced off of his head and settled back at the end of his collapsed arm. Reg fell back through the door onto his rear in painful surprise.
He yelled in reaction to the fall, but his voice sounded different. It was now a muddled warped version of itself echoing through his head. Reg dropped the gun and shook his head, placing his hands at his ears. His hearing apparently had fled for the hills leaving only a high pitched whining, like microphone feedback. It was fading out slowly leaving actual sounds to fade back in. Reg yelled again.
“MmmWWWWWhhaaattt the FUCK?!” he heard the echo of his expletive return from the trees as the phrase melted into understanding from muddled hearing.
He put his hand to his now reeling head to find not blood, thankfully, but a considerably sore spot on his head over his right eye. It would be a throbbing knot soon enough. The gun lay on the wood in front of him, he reached for it again, now feeling a growing pain in his buttocks where he had fallen on the door frame. He checked himself thoroughly. Aside from his thumped head and sore ass, and equally sore pride, he was unhurt. He rose gingerly with the gun in his hand and looked for his target. He had completely missed it to the right and instead hit a neighboring log laying next in line. The whole pile was now upended, the immediate area showered with splinters and powdered rotting wood pulp. A fist size hole peppered with lightly smoking soil had opened in the grass directly beyond the impact. Reg gathered himself and his thoughts and spoke again.
“What… The fuck?” he spoke incredulously as he took in the carnage, which included himself. His eyes spied the little porcupine skull on the railing. It sat surveying the scene.
“Well, you think that’ll do it?” He chided.
“I think that’s enough to put a hole in three bears… if I don’t blow myself up at the same time.”
He shook himself off and returned to the interior of the cabin. Reg looked closely at the gun again and worked the cylinder around to extract the spend casing with the push rod. When he found it, the brass slid free with a cloud of blue smoke and clanked against the counter. It had a warm acrid smell that filled his nostrils and tickled his sinuses.
Reg took the gun in his shooting hand and worked the hammer. He operated the gun and fired, unloaded, a few times. Each time making sure to feel the mechanics as the hammer clicked back, the cylinder turned. Each press of the trigger he felt the crisp snap of machined metals snap into place. He did it with one hand in place, then with two. Sometimes from his hip, a few times with his arms outstretched.
*click click click*… *CLINK*
*click click click*… *CLINK*
*click click click*… *CLINK*
He did this for some time, growing more and more familiar with each iteration. Each time, he imagined the massive shock and awe that would result from his actions. He had only purchased one box of bullets for the handgun. After taking his lumps from that first shot it only left nineteen more. Standing like a country fool in the yard blasting away at bottles and old pans hour after hour was out of the question. This would do.
Eventually, after Reg was comfortable the all the movements the gun could make, he set back on the problem of the holster. As if only to humor its existence, he took the time to remove his belt and wear the gun. His initial guesses were correct, the holster was quite short, the massive weight of the firearm pulled the gun precariously away from his body. It wobbled around on his hip as he moved and was quite uncomfortable. Reg pulled off his belt and yanked the thing free.
For a few moments, Reg wandered back and forth in the cabin, comparing the loop of the holster to different garments, different orientations. Would it fit here? There? What about upside down? Could he punch a hole in the bottom and attach a string? No. The holster was a loss. The thing was so poor, the gun so unwieldy that there appeared to be no way it could work. Reg sat again at his table with the gun. He tossed the holster across the table in annoyance. Reg’s throw was a bit more exuberant than he realized and it bounced from the end of the table and settled near an open backpack near his cot.
Reg huffed. He rose again to get the holster and wandered over to grab it. As he bent down, his eyes drifted into the open bag. In the back zipper flap were a few odds supplied he had placed because he could not think of any better place. One of those items was a package of backup boot laces. The idea struck him.
He reached into the package. A multi-pack of extra-long, extra-thick classic boot laces for the outdoorsman. Four sets per package. He grabbed one of the laces out of the paper backing. After he had unwound and stretched it a bit to loosen the kinks, he doubled it over once and let it hang in his hand in front of him, it reached comfortably from his above his head to his waist. He tied it into a loop with a good knot and put it around his neck. All of his under layers of clothing had high necks. So as he pulled down on the loop with his hands the few layers created a good padded foundation for the lace. The other end he made a simple slip loop that he wrapped around the thinner part of the western pistol grip. The quality laces stuck snugly when pulled tight. He let he gun hang.
It was still heavy, he made another camping knot to reduce the length and it hung at about waist level. In his clothing mid layer was a zip up fleece jacket hat he had planned to make his regular wear. Inside the breast of the fleece were deep cuffed flaps that lead down to the bottom seam of the jacket. They weren’t pockets, just doubled over material, but they could work as so. Reg zipped his fleece half way up and dropped the pistol down into the pocket. It wasn’t perfect, but it worked. Reg stood at the table, and quickly reached down into the pocket following the feel of the lanyard. He found the handle of the Casull easily.
“Hmm,” he snuffed out.
Reg walked to the counter, grabbed the bottle of whiskey he had left there and popped the cork onto the counter, then exited out onto the porch. He stood and enjoyed the Alaskan day, now beginning to drift late. He should be eating something soon, he skipped lunch, perhaps he should figure out how to ration his provisions. The bright blue sky had gone to dark deep blue and a few light wisps of clouds had moved in. Daylight was not staying around for long. By the clock, there was still time left. Technically it was still early, but the twilight was already on its way. He thought about the fact that every day here would inch progressively shorter and shorter. He would need to cope with the fact that he would be working and existing in mostly twilight in the coming weeks. This far north it would continue until the sun refused to show at all. A slow process deeper and deeper into the dark.
Yes. He should use the time to organize provisions… and boil he water he collected. The cabin was warm and he could use the light of day while he had it. Reg scanned the clearing, then the porch. He took a sip of the bottle, letting the liquid sit in his mouth and burn for a while, forcing himself to feel the numbing sensation. He reviewed his short day, running back to the cabin, looking over his shoulder. He swallowed. Reg put the bottle on the railing and reached into his jacket in one motion. He gripped his hand on the revolver, thumb already on the hammer. As he lifted he felt the metallic clicks of the hammer through his thumb as he cocked it. His draw was methodical, slow and smoothing out with every new repetition. The big pistol he extended out from his arm, centering the sights on the skull at the end of the porch railing. The little porcupine head looked back, its wide eyed, empty and incredulous expression.
“Yeah…” he paused.
“This should do.”
*CLINK*