The End of the Iceman May 6, 2007
Posted by Mr. Bell in Uncategorized.trackback
The End of the Iceman
He woke up shivering. The sun was covered by thick grey clouds. A storm was coming. He sat up stiffly and stretched, he was still tired but he had to move on. He looked around for his gear and saw it a little way off. He got stiffly to his feet; he would have to see the village healer when he got out of the mountain. He gathered up his gear and went in search of his sheep.
The sheep were a little way off, huddled in a thick knot. At the sight of their master they started beating in reproach, as if scolding him for bringing them up here. He sighed inwardly; the sheep weren’t going to move easily, 40 some years of raising them had taught him that. He stood there glowering; the cold was seeping deep into his bones.
The wind started up, it ruffled hi deer fur hat and made his grass cloak push warningly against his body as if urging him to get moving. He stood his ground, but worried deep inside. The weather here in the mountain was unpredictable and the wind carried the scent of falling snow.
He stomped his feet to get the circulation moving, this was going to be hard. He had to reach the sheltering rocks before the storm hit and it was at least half-a-days walk, if he was lucky. He sighed again (this time out loud) and got the sheep moving. He decided that when he had a chance, he’d make himself new boots. The ones he was wearing weren’t warm enough.
The sheep were moving faster than he had hoped, the wind was at his back, and they had gone at least half the distance to the shelter. Infact the sheep were moving so fast he had trouble keeping up.
For all his luck, he didn’t fool himself. He was sick and old; he wasn’t as fast as he used to be either. He wasn’t a world class shepherd (anymore), but for his lack of youth he at least had experience. He knew every rock on the mountain and every mood it had. He also knew how to survive in a blizzard and the freezing cold.
The sheep knew the way as well as he did so his mind was free to wander, which is why he didn’t notice the wild ram join the ewes. It was a strong ram, more than strong enough to take on the ram in the man’s flock. Wild rams were a shepherd’s worst nightmare, they were strong sheep. They were usually stronger than the tame rams found in flocks, which made them even more dangerous. They could kill a ram or the shepherd and take the flock.
The man was thinking about sitting in front of a warm campfire, when he nearly tripped over his flock’s ram. The ram had slowed down because of a broken leg. He cursed and started to run.
He reached the sheep slightly out of breath. It only took a quick glance to show him the wild ram which was almost twice the size of the ewes. He cursed himself for not finishing his bow. He grabbed his copper axe and attacked the wild ram. He missed and the ram swung around and butted him in the ribs. He felt his ribs break under the force. He fell to the ground clutching his sides and through a haze of pain, watched as the ram herded away the ewes.
He shut his eyes as the pain spread from his sides to his to his chest. He gritted his teeth; his only hope now was to make it to the rocks. He slowly stood up. It wasn’t far to the rocks now and the sky was growing steadily darker.
He started walking up the hill, the wind seemed to be trying to help it was blowing against his back and guided his steps. As he walked he hung his axe hung at his side and fumbled in his pouches for food. He found strips of meat and chunks of bread from his last meal. He ate it quickly and did a search of his other pouches they were all empty except for a few grains of wheat and a few sloe berries. He gave up his search and focused on putting one foot in front of the other.
He kept moving up the slope with determined steps, even though his ribs were very sore. He knew that if he stopped he would never make it. He trudged on, growing more and more tired. He started slowing down and he began to lose hope. The sky grew even darker and the wind blew hard and insistent, as if trying to get moving. He started to drag his feet, his hope was almost gone, and then he saw it. The rocks were just a few yards ahead. He started to speed up, his hope restored. Then disaster struck.
The snow came down like a heavy blanket, blown around in the wind. He nearly stopped right there, hope was suddenly empty. The wind parted the snow for a second and he saw the rocks. He ran for them. He caught his foot on a rock and fell heavily to the ground. Fiery pain shot through his chest and he rolled onto his back, one arm lying across his chest.
With a heart stopping realization he knew he would die there, that he wouldn’t make it to safety. He already felt his body chilling. There was a blessing though, he could lose himself in his memories and forget the horrible sensation of freezing to death. With stiff fingers he groped for his polished white marble bead. The feel of it was comforting. He gripped it tightly, once, and fell asleep.
As he slept, he remembered. He remembered a lifetime of herding sheep. Of his unfinished bow strapped to his back. He thought of nights spent by the campfire, creating beautiful tools and weapons. He thought of his beautiful copper axe and the beautiful arrows he had made. And he dreamed of restless nights in the fields dreaming of the mountains. He remembered aging, of becoming a man, growing old. Then he remembered the healing marks placed on his skin as his joints weakened, of the horrible sickness that burned his insides like fire. And then suddenly he was glad, glad it was all over. He was peaceful. It was right for him to die here on the mountain where he was at home. Then something else came to mind. His lovely daughter would wait in vain for her father to come home, he would never again see beautiful spring days or warm summer nights, he would never again help with lambing or harvest. He would never pass on his knowledge of the mountain.
His eyes flew open and he struggled to rise but the pain in his chest knocked him down. Tears formed in his eyes and one froze on his cheek. He felt a sudden calm wash over him as he realized they would be fine without him. His heartbeat slowed and he gazed up at the sky. One last thought drifted through his mind.
He was no longer lying on the mountain side. He was standing in a lovely wheat field holding his daughter’s hand. They are gazing up at the autumn sky. His daughter gasps and cries, “Daddy, can you see the pretty dancing people?” He tells her yes, and that they are pretty indeed.
He is now back on the mountain starring with unseeing eyes as the same dancing figures that danced among the clouds so long ago, dance around him in the snow. He has died. The snow comes down heavier as if the mountain is crying frozen tears. He is soon covered in a snowy grave. The snow slowly stops and the sun tentatively peeps through the clouds. Only the wind doesn’t stop. It sings a bone-chilling song of love and death as it mourns for the dead man.
It sings, “My friend, child of the mountain, herder of sheep, farewell, farewell, may your spirit always dwell in peace, you will never be forgotten, for now you lie with the mountain, you are home, farewell, farewell, my friend. The man of ice.”
By: Krista
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