The Tent: A Novella

THE TENT

Kealan Patrick Burke

Copyright © 2013 by Kealan Patrick Burke

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Elderlemon Design

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THE TENT

Kealan Patrick Burke

Pepper is nervous, and that in turn makes McCabe uneasy. The
collie is not given to barking at every sound or she’d long ago have driven him insane. Up here in the mountains, they have long shared real estate with rabbits, cows, deer and sheep, and birds aplenty. Pepper learned this as a pup, learned to recognize the ambient sounds of the mountain’s many residents, and now rarely does she raise her head from her tattered old wicker basket in the corner of the cabin.

Tonight, however, her head and her hackles are raised. Her brown eyes are wide and wet and fixed on the door of his small bungalow as if trouble casts its shadow on the other side.

Sitting before the fire, the air tinged with smoke, the damp logs still crackling and spitting three hours after he set them alight, McCabe watches the dog watching the door, and cocks his own head in an effort to detect whatever might have upset his old friend. Unsurprisingly, he hears nothing but the wind. Twenty years ago, maybe even ten, he’d have stood a slim chance of competing with the dog’s hearing, but not anymore. They are both in the winters of their lives, but Pepper still has the edge on him when it comes to the senses.

Reluctantly he stands, his knees crackling louder than the logs, and puts one rough hand on his lower back, absently massaging away the dull fiery pain that settles in like a cuckoo whenever the weather turns cold.
Pepper gives him a brief glance, her worried eyes reflecting the small flames in the hearth, clearly unwilling to break her concentration from whatever has her dander up, and goes back to watching the door.

“What is it, Pep?” he asks in a soothing voice. “What’s got you upset?”

The dog whines but does not look at him.

Visitors are rare during the day, and rarer still at night. When anyone does have occasion to seek his cabin out, it is seldom with good news.

As he shrugs on his peacoat and sighs, Pepper gingerly steps from her basket and plods over to join him. She trembles slightly and McCabe doesn’t like that at all. She may be old, but he has always thought of her as fearless. He reaches down and he is alarmed when the dog lowers her head as if afraid she is about to be struck, something he has never done in all their years together.

He frowns. “This is one of those times I wish you could talk,” he says, something he has wished often in the four years since his wife Susan passed away.

Coat fastened, he fetches his old hand-carved, bleached pine walking stick from the corner by the door and turns his attention back to the dog.

H
er head is still bowed in deference to the unknown threat. As he watches her tremble, he briefly considers abandoning the idea of venturing out into the cold and giving Trooper Lyons a call instead. Then he just as quickly dismisses the notion. Lyons is a good and fair man, but he’s also a drunk and as it’s after ten on a Wednesday night, the chances of finding him sober are slim. He’d undoubtedly balk at the idea of the twenty mile drive to the mountain, especially to investigate what will no doubt prove to be little more than the result of a nervous dog’s hypersensitivity. Instead he’ll slur a few reassurances and promise to stop by in the morning. But because McCabe has unwavering faith in his dog’s ability to sense something amiss out there, he doesn’t fancy the idea of waiting that long. The wondering will keep him awake all night if he doesn’t go see what it is.

“How likely am I to run into a demon or a ghost out there, girl?” he asks the dog.

Pepper says nothing, just looks through him to the door as if, merely by mentioning it, he has become a ghost himself.

And though the old man feels silly at the note of fear
pealing through him, he can’t deny that the dog has him more worried than he’s accustomed to being. The last time he saw Pepper this alarmed, McCabe had stood up from the supper table and followed her outside into the fine spring evening, where he found his wife lying prostrate in the yard, her heart as dead and cold as the rocks upon which she lay, her laundry basket turned on its side, the freshly laundered clothes strewn about her head and shoulders.

He doesn’t like to think about that now, no more than he likes the waves of terror that radiate from the dog and creep into the marrow of his old bones.

Something is wrong out there, and he tells himself that if he has any sense at all, he’ll stay locked up inside with the old girl and wait until sunup to go investigate. But then he reminds himself that people sometimes get themselves in trouble on the mountain; youngsters mostly, sometimes the occasional hiker who tries to scale the peak without doing their homework first. The mountainside is full of bottomless holes and crevasses partially concealed by shrubbery, mires disguised as weed-choked clearings, and loose shale that can go from under you in a heartbeat and send you tumbling. He’s watched many a man being airlifted off the slope, fielded questions about youths gone missing, some of whom showed up looking worse for wear, some of whom were never seen again. And every time he’d felt a twinge of guilt for not intervening, for not shooing them off the slope or at least giving them some advice on how best to proceed if they were determined to carry on. He knows it is ridiculous, of course. He can hardly be held responsible for what others choose to do of their own free will, but the fact of the matter is that nobody out here knows the mountain better than he does—he has after all, lived here for the greater part of his long life—and so he feels a sort of guardianship toward both the mountain and the people who traverse its hostile terrain. He is one of the few people who still call the mountain home, the lure of the big city too great to resist and the increasing lack of agricultural viability too great to survive. He knows the mountain is a dangerous place, but he has never really feared it, despite acknowledging that there are things about it that he can’t explain and that don’t always make sense.

But thanks to Pepper, he fears it now.

“C’mon then,” he tells the dog, and tries not to let her anxiety freeze him in place. With one last longing look back at the fire, he sighs, snatches a flashlight from its hook by the door, and opens the door to the night.

It is quiet out there. No birdsong, no bark of mating animals, no shriek of cornered prey. The slop
e rises greenly up to his left until swathed by a dark bandolier of beech and oak. Boulders speckle the plain around his small cabin, looking like knuckled bones in the cloudy moonlight.

Behind him, Pepper whines on the threshold, the small silver bell on her collar jingling as she reluctantly does her duty and follows her master out the door.

Troubled, he closes the door behind her, offers her a soothing word she does not, despite the acuity of her senses, seem to hear, and heads off toward the only thing on the mountain that has immediately registered as out of place: the small amber glow of a campsite somewhere up there in the trees. He assumes that if there’s something amiss, he’ll find it there. What he does not yet know is the nature of the trouble, and offers up a silent prayer to his deceased wife that he will not regret answering its call.

The storm had come upon them without warning, a hungry, violent thing that roared in from the north, as if they’d camped on a railroad track assumed abandoned only to have a freight train barrel through in an explosion of sudden light and noise.

And now their tent was destroyed and they were lost
in the dark woods, having fled in the kind of panic unique to unseasoned campers, shelter taking precedence over direction.

“Mike?
Do you know where we’re going?”

“Sure, babe.”

This is the first of many lies he has told her on this trip, and he fears it won’t be the last. They’re lost, and it’s his fault—of course it is, isn’t everything?—but Mike is determined not to acknowledge the fact if only to deprive his wife of just one more reason to think less of him.

“You’re sure?
” Emma yells at him over the wind and rain that sends spectral horses galloping through his flashlight beam.

The verdure weaves and dances around them in submarine symphony. T
hey are miles from anywhere. There are only trees here, tall and stolid and dark, the forest floor soft and spongy, greedily sucking down the rain and their ill-prepared feet after months of drought. Above their heads, the canopies of the beech, poplar, and oak are thick enough to appear conjoined, relegating the lightning to startlingly bright pulses between the crowded boles.

Mike
stops, eager to go on, eager to be out of this interminable forest, but glad for the chance to catch his breath, which a quarter mile or so ago became labored and now feels like he’s pulling flaming cotton into his lungs instead of air. The hiking boots he bought just for this occasion are sawing open the backs of his heels, making each step torture. He turns to face his wife and son, knowing they need reassurance, knowing he could use it just as much, and struggles against the encumbrance of the backpack full of items that were of little enough use before the storm and are absolutely useless now, and his yellow slicker, which flaps madly as if eager to free of him. He empathizes, eager as he is right now to be free of himself and the situation into which he has thrust them. This was a mistake, and probably the last one he’ll ever make as a married man. That it was supposed to revitalize their crumbling union is only the larger part of the tragedy this trip has become. That he knew his luck would pull the rug out from under him is another. Because the last time he can remember his poor luck changing to any substantial degree, he was three weeks shy of his thirty-first birthday, still living with his parents, unemployed and flirting with alcoholism as a way to subvert his loneliness, when he answered the door to a perky blonde, her pretty face glowing with rehearsed Republican charm as she espoused the benefits of reelecting George Bush Sr. It had taken uncharacteristic levels of courage and impulsivity for him to ask out a girl he knew was so far out of his league they likely didn’t share the same quality of oxygen, but it had to have been pure luck, or some other strange upset in the mechanics of the universe, that had made her response an affirmative one. Luckier still that he hadn’t blown it on their subsequent dates, that she hadn’t seen—or that she chose to ignore—the insecurity that hounded him like a starving dog he’d been foolish enough to feed and now couldn’t shake.