Death His Garland


I am a solitary person by nature. As such I spend much of my time in pursuit of activities which bring me to isolated and desolate regions. There is an inner calmness, an intensity of sublime peace which I fully discover only when alone with the forces of nature. I transcend, albeit momentarily, the restraining chains of humanity that anchor me and become one with serenity which only nature can provide. Call it a fetish, religion if you will, but this realization is a powerful aphrodisiac, which once truly realized draws one, with the same fascination as draws a moth into the flame of a candle, to return to its pursuit again and again. Once having tasted the ambrosia of the gods mere mortal pursuits are forever disappointing. I have not yet actually tasted this ambrosia, (such is a poison to mortals) but I have seen its jeweled chalice and experienced the tumultuous heady intoxication induced by the scent of its golden liquid. Hence I seek. Attempts have brought me many times to my near destruction. Such matters not. One’s time on earth is miniscule compared to the time he will be dead. Is it not better to live completely and perhaps die somewhat sooner than to live like a slug hiding in a dank cellar lest some accident befall only to eventually die regardless? My choice is the pursuit of life.

I was engaged on a pursuit in discovering isolation in an extremely remote area of the Tennessee River. God must have let fly the powers of nature to her own devices to have created banks and islands existing in unending competition with the raging powerful river. The cliffs and islands struggle hourly with the unceasing power of the river current. Neither can dominate. The land cannot overcome the river nor has the river the power to submerge the land. Yet neither will cease their endeavor. It is nature in her purest form discernable to mortal man. This is what I sought

The backwaters can be treacherous. They wind snakelike, the green smooth pathways slippery and stagnant and coated with invisible ice where exposed to the wind’s frigid breath, winding aimlessly in twisting overhanging dark corridors where the slightest inattention or absence of presence would result in a short gasp of the realization of one’s imminent death following the slow motion swanlike fall then being engulfed by the dark green turgid water. It is like being in a dream where you willingly approach the edge of a precipice knowing that you will fall but since it’s a dream you will wake up before impact, so you take another step to the edge, stomach churning, head swimming, then a few inches closer and earth beneath your feet suddenly collapses and you fall, you fall, you fall, the world speeds past, your heart races, and just before impact, just when you should awake, you realize its not a dream. This is the feeling one has every second when alone in the deep backwaters. The surface appears calm. Deep within are powerful currents and eddies which will pull you so far under that whatever remains of you when released would as well have remained hidden forever.

I departed the small inn early in the afternoon. The innkeeper, a man past middle age yet not having reached his impending time of infirmity and possessing a face nearly as craggy and weather beaten as the nearby cliffs, raised his substantial unkempt eyebrows slightly and clenched his tobacco stained clay pipe between his yellow teeth a little more determinedly as I left the front room. He said nothing, yet he said all. Reaching under the counter he removed a lantern and an oilcloth containing matches and set them next to me. I declined to take them. As I left the door I saw him place the lantern back under the counter. He did not look out the door; the last I saw him he was making the sign of the cross. I don’t recall him being a religious man.

Initially the waterways were well defined and clear. My small boat slid effortlessly and silently through the twisted maze. I had in my possession a hand drawn map provided by a local preacher. The backwater canals illustrated had not been used in many years. Many were overgrown and almost impassable due to fallen trees. The young preacher had discovered a small cache of these maps that had been investigated and drawn by his predecessor. It seems the previous pastor had assembled these maps as a hobby from information provided by his parishioners and then had explored them at his leisure. To have been provided by second hand information and drawn to scale by a novice, the map was remarkably well done. The waterways and islands were clearly defined and the distances accurate. Repeatedly the course completely disappeared amongst the twisting waterways and overhanging trees on the islands. It was always reestablished exactly where the map indicated. I wandered the draws, the sloughs, jumbled irregular islands, and absorbed completely the stupendous magnificence of nature. There were blue herons, fierce hawks, kingfishers, owls, beaver, deer and the king eagle. I was at peace.

I had experienced a remarkable afternoon. The landscape and waterways were stunningly beautiful. There are rare times in nature when perfection, or what we mere mortals consider to be such, is accorded in synchronized balance with its surroundings and the explosive promise of nature. Man regretfully does not possess the ability to realize this perfection except in seldom occurrences. A rainbow is an example. Nature provides us a visual representation which man easily discerns as pleasing. Although pleasant to view, a rainbow has no power or inherent strength. It is a simple fleeting illusion. I sought and discovered the internal strengths of nature. The power of the river is immeasurable. Its width, depth, and its inherent recessive determination to never cease its attack against anything in its path, demonstrates true power. The Tennessee River is like an old man sitting quietly on a front porch. Hours, days, months, and years pass uneventfully, he sits, he rocks, and he watches and is aware of all. Then, for some unknown reason, the old man suddenly transforms into an uncontrollable brute with immense power and capacity for destruction. He slams his rocker into shambles, he rips away the shelter of the porch, and he destroys everything in his path. Then, acting upon the same impulses with which he had moments before ravaged all within the range of his fury, he silently sits back and surveys the remnants. The porch is rebuilt, another rocking chair obtained, and he rocks quietly. No one knows when he will again explode but all know it will happen. The strength of the river banks, standing in determined mute yet unyielding opposition against the river’s fury since time began, receiving the full unadulterated brunt of all it can hurl daily, is also a true power of nature. I stood at the brink of one and experienced the force of the other. This I saw and treasured.

There was a third force of nature present. I recognized these impending signs and subconsciously chose to ignore them. I was enjoying too much the powerful beauty of nature to beware of the oncoming danger of the same. There were subtle signs. The birds, so numerous among the backwaters earlier, were nowhere to be seen. The air pressure was markedly different since my earlier departure. My inner ears were sensitive to the change. The temperature was dropping. The wind, previously an inconstant companion, had now ceased to be a mere presence and now was increasing in intensity causing the waves to crash into the unyielding banks with such ferocity that now its roar was an untamed symphonic accompaniment to the howls created as the wild air currents twisted and revolted through trees and island channels. All the banshees from hell, as if set free for only one night of all eternity to fly unfettered amongst and to terrorize the earth with complete impunity from the restrictions of heaven, could not have made more unholy sounds created by the foul rancid breath spewed from their polluted throats as what I experienced that moment.

My realization of the impending third force had come too late. The tempest increased with ferocity such that any attempt I made to establish safety was hopeless. I was battered by the gale force winds and rendered completely helpless. The heavy cold rain blew with such force that I could neither see nor hear and my contact with the world was limited to what I could feel with my two numb hands as I continued to paddle. Except for the pressure of my knees and hands on the floor of my hard unyielding boat my contact with earth was as a leaf in a maelstrom. My map now was useless. I had no light, no shelter. Because the now screaming winds eddied and twisted around the islands I could not determine a constant direction. Trees fell and crashed randomly in the dark. Hopelessness and despair began as faint illusions. Very soon they became dominant.

A sense of dread crept into my thoughts. It was the same type of dread one experiences while waiting in line to pay last respects to a once close now deceased friend. You already know he is dead. You have accepted this. As you step closer and closer to the open coffin, the eventual receptacle of all humanity, the actuality of the event and its permanence are experienced completely. The heavy overpowering odor from the wreaths of flowers, with the faint ever-present scent of formaldehyde is not an accustomed sensation. As you inch closer and closer to the coffin you mentally strengthen your resolve and determination not to be shaken by that which you already have mentally seen a thousand times and insist you will not stare in awe, disbelief, or simple morbid curiosity. Then you stand there and you are staring. Staring at who once was and as you one day will be. Time stops for you as it has for the object of your attention. Someone behind you nudges your arm and coughs and then you know you are still alive and must move. So you do. This dread, the dread of the inevitability of the cessation of life and the full realization you also will die as you are looking at the remnants of life’s handiwork, this is the dread I felt creep into my soul.

Hopelessness gives to despair, despair to fear, fear to terror, and terror to resignation. I was resigned to my imminent death. I rose slowly to my knees, extended my arms heavenward, and bowed my head. The wind roared. The rain blasted. I was tossed on the water in all direction. It was totally dark. I was calm. Suddenly a blinding bolt of lightning slammed into a tree nearby. My wet hair stood on end, my clothes felt as if they were ripped from my body, and my shoes were transformed into unrecognizable clumps of smoking leather. Upon opening my eyes, a log cabin stood less than a dozen yards away. It sat securely on a bank in a slough protected from the storm. Initially I thought this was an illusion and the last of an extremely unkind and cruel act of nature prior to my demise. Then a distant flash of lightning revealed that it was indeed not an apparition. There was a door and two windows. All were secured against the elements. The roof, made of overlapping flat shingles, was intact. The chimney was complete. It was no illusion.
I jumped form my boat onto the bank and ran to the shelter. I fell several times because my now wet bare feet slipped on icy stones. It took much too long to reach the door. From the instant I saw the cabin I had an uncomfortable feeling I was being watched. As I touched the door latch I knew I was not alone. I grasped the latch and twisted it.

The storm raged. Lightning ripped open the deep purple sky. Thunder rolled through the heavens. The icy wind and rain tore at my exposed face. The desire to survive overcame my fear of the supernatural. I opened the door and stepped inside. Another flash of lightning revealed the interior of the cottage. It was small and almost bare. A table, two chairs, one end was the fireplace, on the other a bed. There were several small beds and a cradle. On the table was a lantern and matches. I closed the door. Momentarily I stood still in the silence. I had discovered sanctuary.

The storm continued to rage outside like a bewildered maniacal behemoth. It howled, it roared, the heavens were split asunder by the jagged lightning as if Thor himself wished for this storm to represent all his powers and the potential destruction of which he was capable. Feeling carefully in the dark, I found the table and after several attempts due to my near frozen fingers was able to light the lantern. Its glow slowly illuminated the inner chamber whose roof and walls now provided me shelter. I was quickly able to discern a family had once lived here. There were remnants of the presence of children. Odd items randomly left, such as a spinning top, a hand made doll, a ball of some type. Several cooking utensils rested neatly by the fireside. They were clean and ready for use. A diminutive spinning wheel stood in the corner. Exhausted, I collapsed into the chair nearest to the table. For several minutes I did nothing other than try to remove from my thoughts the disaster I had so closely experienced. I removed the map from my pocket, carefully unfolded it, and attempted to locate the stone cottage. The cabin was not indicated on the map. For some unknown reason, I felt I was not alone.

On the floor beside the table were several sheets of parchment. I gathered them up thinking they would assist in lighting a fire. For some unknown reason I examined one. The paper was yellow and dusty. I blew the dust off and began to read. In a clear and simply written script was told to me this story:

“My name is Jeremy Sutwell. I am the son of the man with the same name as were his fathers before him. This once was, this is my home. We were simple farmers. I followed in the steps of my father as did he and moved to this cabin with my wife Rachael. We were blessed with five children. God, hard work, and frugality provided all I could ever ask. Out life was plain and uncomplicated.
In the summer of my twelfth year here there came a pestilence. One of my cows died. Then another died. It was if some unspeakable foulness from hell arrived on an ill wind and remained. In the time of three weeks all my animals were dead. My youngest child became ill. We prayed. We administered all we could do. Rebecca died. Wrapped in a small blanket with blue and yellow flowers, her mother had painstakingly embroidered by firelight; we buried her in a small dark grave. Next Robert, my oldest, became ill. He also died. The next two weeks became one unending day of a will to endure. Today, the fourteenth day since I buried Robert, and I am the only one alive. My wife, my children, all are dead and buried in a small meadow behind this once happy home. To live in such misery is for me not to live. Whoever you are, how you came to be here matters not. As I, Jeremy Sutwell, lie on my bed and will myself to death I curse this world and all who remain alive. May the powers of hell that took my family from me beset their foul fury upon you so the pain and the fury of helplessness I felt as they died be blasted with the power of unfettered lightning into your soul. Damn you. Damn this world. Damn you. May death be your garland to wear as a sign of my suffering for all to see. May you never leave my Hell."

I stood and held the lamp higher to fully illuminate the room. The paper slipped from my hands. Beneath the covers on the bed I could now see a human form. I slowly stepped closer. Carefully, slowly, I extended my hand and grasped the edge of the blanket. I gently pulled the blanket toward me. The grinning skull of Jeremy Sutwell greeted me. Rotten strands of hair were plastered to his wide smooth forehead. His eye sockets were deep and empty but stared at me. His jaws slackly hung open in a sardonic jeer. I pulled the blanket. His collapsed skeleton grotesquely filled his decaying nightshirt. His collarbones and ribs jutted at odd angles. I dropped the blanket as his hands were revealed. The bony yellow fingers appeared much too long for the proportion of his skeleton.

I turned away. The storm raged outside. I heard a faint scratching. At first it was barely discernable. Then it became louder. I realized the noise was from behind. I held the lamp high and turned toward Jeremy Sutwell. The yellow bony fingers on his right hand appeared to be twitching. This was the scratching noise. The other hand began to twist and jerk. Slightly, then more definite, his head began to turn on the decayed bed. I stood in silent horror as a large black rat with a long fleshy naked tail crawled from under his nightshirt. It sat on the edge of the bed, rose up on his nasty haunches and grinned. His blood red eyes flashed suddenly and he leapt at my face. I staggered back, tripped over the chair and dropped the lantern. The cabin became as dark as the hidden inner sanctum of an unexplored cave. Again I heard scratching and rustling noises from the bed. Something approached me in the dark. I felt the heavy stink of something long dead breathe into my face then what felt like a hand rested lightly on my left shoulder. I fled from the dark cabin into the fury of the storm. How I survived is unknown. They found me the following morning. It took several days of rest at the inn before I could compose myself. I have said nothing of my experience for the forty-six years that have passed until now, this moment as I lay dying. The cabin is there. Jeremy Sutwell patiently waits for his next guest.

Another great one.

I really want to...but I'm not reading all that. Cliff notes?

They are worth the read. As good as a book youd buy in a store. When you got a min set down and read his stories.

Another fantastic one Roadkill. Sweet T you have no idea what you're missing.

Some dumb guy in a canoe gets lost in a storm then gets chased out of a cabin by a dead guy and a rat.

as always I truly enjoy your stories and writing. Thank you roadkill.......

Yet another great read.