The Quiet Bringer - Tales from the Milkwood Lounge

 The Quiet Bringer 

        Clyde Baker was annoyed for what seemed to be the umpteenth time since he’d taken the position of senior mountain guide at Sutherland Heights Resort. He was getting on in years and had figured taking the position would be a good way to supplement his income since retiring from Yellowstone as a park ranger. Ever since he had that hare-brained idea he’d been hiking up and down Francis Sutherland’s corporate-owned wildlands on the outskirts of his hotel. Francis had been yammering on about the “grand opening” of his place for weeks and it looked like he was finally going to do it. Of course, the son of a bitch wanted his hunting grounds to be in pristine order, which meant Clyde had to inspect every nook and cranny of the grounds for anything some spoiled punk might trip over during their stay.

        Clyde thought he was finally done with his inspection so he felt he might celebrate with a little Jack Daniels he had squared away at the utility shack on the far side of the grounds. The wind was howling and he already knew he’d be trudging through six inches of snow on the way back to the hotel. It was then that Rory, his blood-hound and only remaining live friend shat all over hid party by giving the customary double-bark he reserved for catching the scent of something that didn’t belong.

        Roof-bark!

        “Christ on a crutch, Rory.” Clyde said with a grimace as he turned from his mug to look at the hound. “We just went up and down this damn mountain for the past five hours and now you found something?”

        The dog looked up at Clyde with his droopy brown and black face and then gave another double-bark.

        Roof-bark!

        “All right, all right, I’m comin’.” Clyde said with resignation as he put his mug down and put back on the rest of his gear. He looked out the small window of the utility shack and considered just heading back. It was already getting near around 6pm and the sun had begun its surrender of the sky to the moon. Visibility would be difficult and who would contradict him when he gave his final safety report to the senior manager, Ernst Clemens?

        Roof-bark!

        “Ya wouldn’t rat me out, would ya?” Clyde asked Rory with a bit more serious tone than was probably intended.

        Roof-bark!

        Rory’s only answer was yet another double-bark and some pawing at the shack’s door. Clyde ignored him as fastened his goggles and slung his hunting rifle over his shoulder. Whatever Rory had found could screw off into the good night. He was going home where he could get properly drunk in peace. Clemens didn’t speak dog and even if he did Clyde would tell him to check it out himself.

        After a bit more dilly-dallying (and a few more double-barks from Rory), Clyde was finally ready to head back. As soon as he cracked open the door it swung in as a massive gust of wind blasted the shack’s front. Rory bounded out, apparently unfazed, and galloped a few paces out while Clyde struggled with the gale to properly close the shack’s door.

        Roof-bark!

        “Screw that and screw you, ya damn bastard!” Clyde half-yelled through the gale. “We ain’t goin’ out to find whatever squirrel ya likely sniffed out. We’re goin’ home and that’s that. I don’t want no more argument from ya, or you’re gettin’ the dry dog-food when we get home!”

        Rory immediately relented his urge to investigate and looked up gloomily at Clyde. The message had been received.

        Clyde locked the padlock on the shack’s door and began his trek. Just as he had anticipated, the snow was roughly near around six inches deep, and would only get higher with every passing minute. He had around a mile before he’d get to where he had left the snowmobile. It had been having issues with steep inclines lately, and he had been too tired (or frankly too lazy) to put the work order in. He’d take care of it next week. With any luck, he wouldn’t have to come out here again for some time. Until then, unfortunately, he’d have to leave it parked at the “rest stop” (which was essentially a glorified bench) along the mountain trail.

        Rory bounded along a few meters out but made sure not to leave his master. Clyde wasn’t sure if dogs were capable of love, but Rory was about as good as it got since Lorraine had passed four years ago. Rory had probably liked her more, but that was only because she would hide treats throughout the house for him every morning.

        It was tiring slogging through the snow, and anyone else would’ve been lost as soon as they had gotten out of eye-shot of the utility shack, but Clyde knew where he was going. His feint foot-steps in the snow from when he had hiked were still somewhat visible. Regardless, he knew these grounds better than Sutherland or anyone else did. He knew every tree and every boulder whether there was snow covering them or not. The only thing that worried him were the god-damn rattlesnakes, but he didn’t have to worry about them during the winter and Rory was pretty good about noticing them well before they got within visibility.

        After a great deal of stomping through the wilds (and much quiet contemplation), Clyde spotted the bright red snowmobile he had parked. A crinkly smile formed under his short white beard as he saw it remained untouched. A good chunk of snow was covering parts of it now, but he would have that off in a jiffy and then be back at the hotel in a matter of minutes.

        Roof-bark!

        “That’s it, Rory! I don’t pull my punches! You’re gettin’ the damn dry food when we get back!” Clyde yelled.

        Rory ignored him and took off to his left with a throaty howl. His curiosity had overcome his love for wet-food and table scraps.

        Clyde swore under his breath and gave chase. Rory could likely find his own way back to the hotel, but this weather was bad and despite how annoying the pooch had become, he wasn’t going to leave him out in the cold.

        “Let’s wrap this up then...” Clyde muttered to himself as he trudged after Rory.

        It didn’t take long before Clyde caught up to Rory who was busy snuffling the snow next to a couple of thin pine trees.

        “I swear to holy hell, if ya came all this way to mark yer territory on a god-damn tree I’ll beat ya till ya won’t be able to sit down for week!” Clyde raged as frustration overtook him.

        But once again, Rory ignored him, and upon closer inspection Clyde noticed that he wasn’t so much as examining the trees as he was the tracks next to them. Clyde had been a man of the wilds since he’d been old enough to aim down the scope of a hunting rifle. He’d tracked elk, moose, mountain goats, and even a few bears in his time. He knew all the previously mentioned animals roamed Mr. Sutherland’s grounds too. He also knew that these tracks didn’t belong to any of them.

        “What the hell is this...” Clyde whispered as he stared at the tracks.

        The trees Rory had come across had scratches in the bark. A less experienced woodsman would’ve figured them for a deer-rub, but he knew better. Antlers didn’t dig as deep as these marks did, and he didn’t figure it for a bear either. Whatever had left these tracks had tore into these trees deep enough to do lasting harm.

        At this point, Clyde unslung his hunting rifle. He checked it was loaded and then took another look at the tracks. Rory looked up at him for guidance. He had sniffed out the intruder. It would be up to the master now to find whatever the source was of this strange smell.

        Clyde knelt down next to the tracks and could see that the identifying impressions had pretty much been covered with snow, but whatever this thing was, it was heading downhill. Clyde looked back the other way and his gaze back-tracked the trail several yards out. It had come from the incline. There was nothing out there for miles. Town, along with the hotel, was in the general opposite direction.

        “All right, boy.” Clyde said to the mutt as he turned his gaze back to where the tracks led. “You brought us out here, let’s take ‘er easy. It’s probably some weird deformed bear or somethin’.” Without further ado, Clyde began to follow the tracks with his rifle at the ready.

        Rory was hardly the most intelligent hound, and he rarely understood most of what his master had to say. If Rory could talk, he would have probably responded by telling master that it most certainly was not a bear. He had smelled this before when he and master had wandered the mountains, but the smell had never been this strong. If Rory had a relatively large vocabulary, he would’ve simply called the scent “mountain” but that was before now. Mountains didn’t leave tracks, or at least Rory didn’t think they were supposed to. Alas, Rory simply followed behind quietly as the other times master had hunted. Master always knew best.

        The trail continued down the incline. At the rate they were going, Clyde figured they’d pass the spot where he had left the snowmobile. Thus far, the tracks had been a straight shot for the hotel. After about fifty more yards though, the tracks began to curve to the left a little. Clyde shouldered his way past some bushes and low-hanging trees and came across a clearing. A grotesque sight lay before him.

        Next to a stripped bush, lay what appeared to be the remains of a rabbit along with a generous supply of the rabbit’s reddish-blackish blood blanketing the snow. Clyde couldn’t tell for sure as its skeleton had been removed with damn near surgical precision. Nearly all the meat was gone (likely consumed), but the it looked like the pelt had been practically scraped clean. Whatever had gorged little Peter Cottontail had licked the damn plate clean!

        Rory too regarded the remains with studious eyes. Nothing of his ilk could do this. Bears were far too messy, and wolves or coyotes lacked the patience or finesse for such work. As with the tracks and scarred tree though, Rory could smell the mountain like a pungent musk that nearly overloaded the senses.

        A twig snapped with a loud crack! off in the direction of where the tracks continued and Rory gave a surprised howl. Clyde swung the rifle in the direction of the noise and switched off the safety. An elk came charging in his direction at full speed! Clyde took aim as he had seen the damage a spooked elk could do if it wanted to. Their hooves were as hard as daggers, and their antlers could pierce a car-door!

        Within a span of three seconds after seeing the beast, Clyde fired his shot. An incredibly loud bang! erupted from his rifle and the bullet hammered into the creature’s chest. It crashed into the snow before Clyde and its blood mixed with the dissected rabbit to his right. Clyde had killed the thing in one shot.

        Clyde was shocked by the scene that had just unfolded before him. The elk’s eyes were glassy, dark, and lifeless, but yet they stared up at him wide-eyed with a yearning of the deepest kind. If this was the animal’s last expression frozen in death, it told quite the story. Clyde saw a lot of things in those eyes for sure. First and foremost, he saw fear instead of anger.

        Rory sniffed the creature’s hindquarters and found that scent again. The scent of the mountain was strong. It was as Rory had reached the limit of his courage that the most peculiar of event occurred, something of which that both he and his master experienced together.

        The sound of the howling winds calmed, or at least that’s what Clyde thought at first. The gale blew steadily across the clearing but it grew quieter and quieter with every second. Clyde looked up from the elk’s carcass and saw distant trees shifting in an unnatural way, but yet they made no sound. It wasn’t until Clyde looked down to see Rory howling at the top of his lungs with no noise coming from his lungs that his veins practically froze over.

        Rory took off with a bolt. His thoughts on his master, wet food, and scents were gone now. Silence had overcome his ears but his nose still worked. The mountain was coming and he dared not stay to face it.

        Clyde shouted out to Rory as he ran, but no words escaped his lips. Quiet had enveloped him at this point. The ex-park ranger ran like a lost boy scout in away from the shifting trees. He exited the clearing after a few strides, but the strap of his rifle got snagged on a branch. He released it immediately and gave what would have been a frightened yelp as it fell from his grasp.

        Clyde’s mind raced as he plotted his path and direction to the rest stop. He followed his original tracks a decent way and then cut through a small forested area. It was at the forested area that the silence actually became nearly invasive. A dull yet loud humming engulfed his ear drums as though he had placed his head directly next to a power generator. His panting breaths, the cracking of frozen foliage, and kicked rocks all went completely unheard amongst the thrum.

        Clyde cried with relief as he came across the snowmobile. The entire time he had run, he had not looked back for fear of losing his footing. Despite the lack of sound and visual confirmation though, he could sense something behind him though. Clyde didn’t wait to brush the snow off. He swung his cramped leg over the side of it and turned the keys he had left behind into the ignition. He couldn’t hear the engine but the snowmobile began to vibrate and its headlights erupted to life.

        It was at this point that Clyde finally heard something. A voice sang through the deafening thrum. It was sickly sweet and completely cut through the quiet.

Do not cry nor shed a tear

For the time has come and you should not fear

Close your eyes and you will see

This land and its lives belong to me

Your debts and scars are all now due

For now I have come just for you

Thus only you will hear me sing

Tis eternal quiet that I bring

        Clyde looked up the source of the song and screamed a strangled cry that only he could hear.