Page 3 of Abandoned on His Mountain

The air is heavy with a new chill behind it that cuts right through me as I lug the supplies inside up a cut stone path which keeps me blessedly out of the mud. The shack is musty, but I’m relieved to find the ceiling and walls intact, with no wind or water coming in. Thank God for small favors, right?

I turn the friction crank on the lantern about two hundred times until I’m panting and my arm feels ready to fall off. Then click on the light, and survey my surroundings. A wood stove, a pile of firewood. Waterproof matches. A lumpy-looking bed with a few old quilts and a tragically flat pillow.

I’m not a snob about most things, but pillows? I ask for a new one for my birthday and Christmas every year because where I have to lay my head for 1/3 of my life seems like something that warrants a bit of luxury.

I inhale the silence inside the small structure as the heels pinch around my toes and I imagine how ridiculous I must look all made up in my silk dress, high heels and the red down coat big enough to fit a grizzly bear. There are plenty of mountains in North Carolina and I’ve been to many on retreats and cleansing weekends, but this is not one of them. This mountain feels lost in time. This cabin made from hand-hewn logs must be a hundred years old.

With the light from the lantern, I note there are a couple bare bulbs hanging from wires on the ceiling, but when I tug at the little metal chain on each, nothing happens.

One good thing about my background—I’m up to speed on what to do if Doomsday comes around. I know how to get a fire to draw; I know at least a bit about how to take care of myself. But all those years, I’d been told I was preparing for the Rapture. Not getting ready to be dumped like an old loveseat out in the middle of nowhere.

Still, though. Still.

Maybe I’m stupid and naïve, or maybe I’m just relieved to be alone, but there’s actually some comfort in being by myself here, outside ofSauron’sever watchful eye. Snort. I’d never call Grandpa that to his face, but it’s a tiny rebellion and come on, J.R.R. Tolkien knows how to write an evil overlord.

I read the whole series in my library time in high school. I could never bring a book like that home with all its fantasy and mystical creatures. Anything smacking of the occult is verboten. I’ve never even been Trick or Treating.

I think Grandpa believes this really is what’s best. It’s twisted and lacks insight into who I am, but he did raise me when he could have left me to flounder in the system ‘til I was eighteen.

With measured steps on the uneven floor I toddle close enough to the supplies to do a quick inventory of the MRE’s and the jugs of water. The food is enough for a couple months, if I ration myself, but the water? Not so much. I’ll need to find a creek or set up a rainwater collection system.

How I went from worrying about mid-terms at my private school and doing a modeling audition to wondering how to gather water for the next three months lest I die, it’s a little bonkers, but I’m a pragmatist and until the wolves tear the flesh from my bones, I’ll soldier on.

Thank goodness there’s enough dried wood inside to start up the potbelly stove and drive some of the chill from the air. There’s twenty-five long matches on the shelf. Not enough for the whole winter but I’ll need to find enough wood to keep the fire burning anyway. I strike one and wait; thank God, it fires to life in the dim light.

I hold the sizzling match in one hand while I stuff the belly of the stove with some twisted paper and tinder from a box on the floor. When it crackles to life, I lay two smaller split logs on top, waiting for them to catch before adding two more larger ones, then step back.

The air warms quickly as the fire crackles and the scent of the burning wood cheers me up. I decide to celebrate the fire-starting victory with a pack of red beans and rice I saw in the MRE’s. Tugging open the silver wrapper, I squeeze the contents into a cast iron pan next to the pump sink that looks amazingly clean, then lower the heavy metal down onto the top of the stove with a clunk and wait.

The food chases away the last of my shivers, but I can’t bear the idea of changing my clothes, so I huddle under every musty old blanket in the shack as well as the two red ones Grandpa brought with me.

Bundled up with food in my belly and silence in the air, the weight of it all feels like boulders on my chest.

I take a break from the gridiron bravery I’ve mustered so far and let the tears fall until a headache worms itself behind my eyes and into my forehead. My head falls back to the lumpy log wall as wind whistles through cracks and flaps the plastic back and forth on the front window. My eyelids droop, too heavy to hold open.

I’m floating in an uneasy sleep, hoping to wake to a sunshiny North Carolina day with Grandpa at the door holding a bag of Shipley’s Donuts and a whole bushel full of I’m sorry.

My fantasy and tenuous sleep don’t last, however as a howl rips through my slumber.

Wolves. Oh, Sweet Jesus, be merciful,wolves.The sound is unmistakable.

As if that’s not bad enough, there’s the click, click, click of claws on the rickety wooden porch and I suck in a breath and hold.

Then, it’s the sound of sniffing under the door frame. Deep, wheezing inhalations, a low, terrible growl, and then, oh God, then the sound of scratching on the door.

It’s the smell of my rice and beans, it has to be.

Or else, it’s the smell ofme.Tasty little human me. With my meat and my blood and my body and my fear sweat.

Yips in the distance, and more howls.

My heart races. I clutch my blankets around me, wishing they were woven from chainmail and look up at the cobwebs in the dark ceiling. The howls grow closer, louder, calling across the valley and up to the peaks.

There is no way I’ll make it through winter here alone. There’s no way in hell.

chaptertwo

Davis

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