The Darkest Days of December-ii.

His excursion for the gathering of warmth had been successful, and he added every twig and branch to his growing surplus of firewood. He checked his canned supplies and the root cellar. Whatever was out there had not yet made an attempt at his September harvest. Reevaluating the horror of what he had now allowed himself to remember observing, they were extremely feral in manners. They had not been satisfied with merely draining but had also slashed, ripped, dismembered and often disemboweled his livestock. He had seen other things too. Perhaps it was best to stay near the farmhouse to protect his food. He remained less concerned about the necessities of survival until spring, more concerned now about protecting them and completely perplexed by the eerie, encompassing shroud above him during the daytime and continuing silence of the living all around him with exception of the restless, wailing wind. After all, hadn't these always been the darkest hours of the year? Yet, the moon should have been nearing its fullness and its traverse had not illuminated any portion behind them nor was any starlight seen for there were no breaks in the clouds.

He took a humble meal and several cups of melted snow heated on the wood burning stove. Though he was losing weight, he was lean and hard from toiling in his summer fields. His beard and long hair helped to keep him warm. There was time enough now to seek solace in his library. He examined the arrow that he discovered well within his acreage. Unlike the protagonist in "To Build a Fire," he would neither run out of matches nor did he have a dog as his only companion, and he would not venture outside alone again. Perhaps the wisest of all have been the poets whose conciseness and precision with words reduce volumes of contemplative thought into a definite, memorable solution. He searched his memory for an inspiring means of understanding then searched through the shelves once again. Neither by fire nor ice, he reasoned. He searched further and spent the remainder of the day meditating eon the modernist meaning behind the often misunderstood context of "The Four Quartets."

The absence of colour of the snowy landscape and the sameness of the leafless trees reminded him that he had not enjoyed the beauty of a sunrise or sunset for weeks. Keeping his vigil in the farmhouse from the superior vantage of the height of the upper rooms, he could still sense that something was out there roaming in the woods. The dusk would arrive soon. As on previous nights, he lowered the wicks on his antique kerosene lamps and watched and waited, for he had never been afraid of the darkness. That which thrived and hunted all around him in the stealth of darkness would be foolish to underestimate his resolve. Young and able and set and content with his newly enhanced philosophy of stoicism, he was destined to survive. Whether during the day or night, the autumnal dark hours passed without enumeration for time seemed somehow unimportant. The gray light diminished slowly then completely and absolute darkness reigned once again.




©2018 by L.P. Van Ness. All rights reserved.


"The Darkest Days of December" parts i and ii  [genre:cosmic fiction] was published on this blogspot in December of 2018 and will be revised for print and include the remaining parts and dénouement at a latter date.