The Isolationist
Among the stalks and fronds there is the face of a man. His visage haggard and gaunt, he rises and parts the bushes. He has on him a dirty army green parka and leather leggings zipped over his pants and under his hiking boots. A large, stuffed rucksack is on his back and a bolt-action rifle is slung over one of his shoulders. He walks the terrain, thick and untouched by the brands of civilization. He is far away from it, as far as he can take himself. No home; no trappings of the multitude to surround him. He is alone in the wild except for a burly, long-haired dog and his thoughts. Thoughts detached and reminiscent, swaying from destitute to tranquil.
It is autumn now and the nights are growing colder. He searches for a suitable alcove to set up camp, combing the land with his sunken eyes. A cave perhaps or the base of a protective tree; he doesn't know. The land is a mystery to him. Even now he is still lost. He settles for a bald and flat clearing, surrounded by bushes high enough to conceal his forthcoming fire. Already his mind is on food, the challenge ahead. He takes the rifle and the dog and goes hunting. He catches a deer sipping a valley river and kneels down to aim his weapon and put it down, but before he can fire the dog's ears perk up and it begins to snarl. With his near-unintelligible, monosyllabic growl of a voice he calms the black canine. Once again he takes aim at the venison meat in his eye but watches it dash away as a low humming draws near. The alien sound of a diesel engine and truck tires.
Disbelief overpowers his alarm, but he manages to hold the aggressive animal down and goes prone to spy and remain unseen. An off-road jeep cuts through the forest and stops at a distance from him. Two men and a woman step out. They might be a search party, he thinks. But surely they would have given up by now. The dog gets more anxious as the woman walks toward their ridge. She is blond and hauntingly familiar, like a specter from a lost world. He tries to remember her; where she came from. It was a lifetime ago. In a white ballroom with tall, ribbed columns and glittering chandeliers he stands by the wall with champagne in his hand. His face is clean-shaven and his hair is slicked back. Constantly on the outside, he watches the decorated socialites make their gossiping rounds. They manufacture small talk and adulate him with their hollow decorum, at the ready to backbite in the same breath. The liars and thieves. The hypocrites.
Across the marble he glimpses her looking at him. There is a truth to her, an honesty that he sees no where else. He cannot keep himself from it. He remembers running his fingers through her hair as he grasps the matted locks of a taut and anxious animal. Then in a moment he loses the grip and they are gone. The dog races down the cliff and to the caravan. He covers his mouth before shouting out, but his heart and his face are throbbing in panic. Without thinking he raises the rifle and scopes the woman. The others arm weapons of their own but she motions for them to hold as the beast charges at them. His sweaty hand wrings the grip. One shot and she's gone. One shot and he's gone. Perhaps this is the end. Death so common and close; whether it comes from these people, a predator, or the land itself, it is only a matter of time. Always only a matter of time. But he can't. Not her. His jaw locks as he lowers the rifle and watches her subdue his comrade harmlessly; a merciful token to him. She pauses to look longingly into the jungle and he thinks of going towards her, arms raised in final surrender. But he doesn't. They drive away and he breaks to the ground. He rolls over onto his back and stares at the stark canopy.
It is autumn now and the nights are growing colder. He searches for a suitable alcove to set up camp, combing the land with his sunken eyes. A cave perhaps or the base of a protective tree; he doesn't know. The land is a mystery to him. Even now he is still lost. He settles for a bald and flat clearing, surrounded by bushes high enough to conceal his forthcoming fire. Already his mind is on food, the challenge ahead. He takes the rifle and the dog and goes hunting. He catches a deer sipping a valley river and kneels down to aim his weapon and put it down, but before he can fire the dog's ears perk up and it begins to snarl. With his near-unintelligible, monosyllabic growl of a voice he calms the black canine. Once again he takes aim at the venison meat in his eye but watches it dash away as a low humming draws near. The alien sound of a diesel engine and truck tires.
Disbelief overpowers his alarm, but he manages to hold the aggressive animal down and goes prone to spy and remain unseen. An off-road jeep cuts through the forest and stops at a distance from him. Two men and a woman step out. They might be a search party, he thinks. But surely they would have given up by now. The dog gets more anxious as the woman walks toward their ridge. She is blond and hauntingly familiar, like a specter from a lost world. He tries to remember her; where she came from. It was a lifetime ago. In a white ballroom with tall, ribbed columns and glittering chandeliers he stands by the wall with champagne in his hand. His face is clean-shaven and his hair is slicked back. Constantly on the outside, he watches the decorated socialites make their gossiping rounds. They manufacture small talk and adulate him with their hollow decorum, at the ready to backbite in the same breath. The liars and thieves. The hypocrites.
Across the marble he glimpses her looking at him. There is a truth to her, an honesty that he sees no where else. He cannot keep himself from it. He remembers running his fingers through her hair as he grasps the matted locks of a taut and anxious animal. Then in a moment he loses the grip and they are gone. The dog races down the cliff and to the caravan. He covers his mouth before shouting out, but his heart and his face are throbbing in panic. Without thinking he raises the rifle and scopes the woman. The others arm weapons of their own but she motions for them to hold as the beast charges at them. His sweaty hand wrings the grip. One shot and she's gone. One shot and he's gone. Perhaps this is the end. Death so common and close; whether it comes from these people, a predator, or the land itself, it is only a matter of time. Always only a matter of time. But he can't. Not her. His jaw locks as he lowers the rifle and watches her subdue his comrade harmlessly; a merciful token to him. She pauses to look longingly into the jungle and he thinks of going towards her, arms raised in final surrender. But he doesn't. They drive away and he breaks to the ground. He rolls over onto his back and stares at the stark canopy.
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