Ian Mackenzie Jeffers The Grey by Ian Mackenzie Jeffers Page A
Authors: Ian Mackenzie Jeffers
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sorry, nobody wants to say anything more after that. It gets quiet again, everybody carving, making shucking and squeaking sounds in the cold. I start cutting a point on another stick.
“You see though?” Henrick says. “That’s why you’re alive. Your son.”
I don’t say anything at first. I nod, looking at the point I’m carving.
“I’m alive because I’m lucky,” I say.
I should have died in the plane, I think. Maybe I did, it’s just taking some extra hours to conclude the business. We all fall quiet again. Henrick looks at the fire.
“I do not want to fucking die,” he says. We stay quiet, look at the fire too. He looks at me, finally.
“What do we do? If those wolves stay on us?” Henrick asks me. I’m quiet a moment.
“We try to kill them,” I say. “If we have to. If we can. If they aren’t letting us walk out.”
“How are we supposed to do that?” Ojeira says.
“One at a time. Tip the numbers,” I say. I keep carving the point. “That’s what they’re doing to us.”
I don’t believe we have a hope, in hell, of winning a thing like that. But I want them to believe it. But maybe they won’t come at us again, and maybe if they do we’ll get lucky, fend them off, at least. And now I’m thinking about my son, and my wife, which I’ve tried not to do, but here they are, around the fire with me. I try to think of what we need to do, and not think of them at all. But here they are.
Before our son came, my wife had a dream that wolves took me, dragged me off in the snow somewhere, she dreamed they went mad hungry, and when she got to me I weighed nothing anymore, I was light and half-gone, and in the dream all she thought was ‘ But you haven’t known our son .’ Because this was the time when she thought of me the way people do before their children come. She had it again, the dream, after he was born, and that time she thought ‘ But our son won’t know you ,’ because now, she had the worry of our son not having his father, like I did too. She sobbed and sobbed, in her sleep, as she dreamed, for our son, that time. She wanted him to know me then, in her dream she did. Or maybe she was sobbing for only wanting him to know me in her dream.
I used to pray to things, I’ve had my discussions, stumbling drunk, or facing a knife in an alley, looking at guns, the bad end, or harder times in cold houses, on night walks I didn’t bargain on, in the shadow of the world, on hunts that went wrong, when, for a moment of stupid gone worse, a mountain has almost killed me, or the forest, because I was foolish. But I’ve found myself praying time over time to the memory of that dream, to the love of our son and me she had in her dream, without her knowing, I suppose, that was God to her, once, sleeping in that cave of her night. It was to me, anyway. And now my son is across a curve of earth from here, and I don’t know what time it is, it’s dinner, or he’s going to bed, without his father, and better off for it, I have to think. And I’m the only one here who thinks, if I get back alive, chances are better than not his life will be worse. I think disappearing out here, might be as good a thing as I could give him. That’s what I’ve tried to think, away from him, that I’m doing what’s best. But it’s a hard thing to think, every day. It’s not nothing , to choose that. Not for me it isn’t.
I look up at these babies, making their spears, and I suppose in my haze I have been trying to get them home alive, even if I don't need to. Doesn’t matter, though, like I said, but I'll do it for some fucking reason. Because I’ll do it.
We have been sitting a while making these silly little spears and having our fireside all-going-to-die-soon time, and I wonder if it’s enough that we could get up and move again. Stopping the night when it’s nothing but night has lost its
“You see though?” Henrick says. “That’s why you’re alive. Your son.”
I don’t say anything at first. I nod, looking at the point I’m carving.
“I’m alive because I’m lucky,” I say.
I should have died in the plane, I think. Maybe I did, it’s just taking some extra hours to conclude the business. We all fall quiet again. Henrick looks at the fire.
“I do not want to fucking die,” he says. We stay quiet, look at the fire too. He looks at me, finally.
“What do we do? If those wolves stay on us?” Henrick asks me. I’m quiet a moment.
“We try to kill them,” I say. “If we have to. If we can. If they aren’t letting us walk out.”
“How are we supposed to do that?” Ojeira says.
“One at a time. Tip the numbers,” I say. I keep carving the point. “That’s what they’re doing to us.”
I don’t believe we have a hope, in hell, of winning a thing like that. But I want them to believe it. But maybe they won’t come at us again, and maybe if they do we’ll get lucky, fend them off, at least. And now I’m thinking about my son, and my wife, which I’ve tried not to do, but here they are, around the fire with me. I try to think of what we need to do, and not think of them at all. But here they are.
Before our son came, my wife had a dream that wolves took me, dragged me off in the snow somewhere, she dreamed they went mad hungry, and when she got to me I weighed nothing anymore, I was light and half-gone, and in the dream all she thought was ‘ But you haven’t known our son .’ Because this was the time when she thought of me the way people do before their children come. She had it again, the dream, after he was born, and that time she thought ‘ But our son won’t know you ,’ because now, she had the worry of our son not having his father, like I did too. She sobbed and sobbed, in her sleep, as she dreamed, for our son, that time. She wanted him to know me then, in her dream she did. Or maybe she was sobbing for only wanting him to know me in her dream.
I used to pray to things, I’ve had my discussions, stumbling drunk, or facing a knife in an alley, looking at guns, the bad end, or harder times in cold houses, on night walks I didn’t bargain on, in the shadow of the world, on hunts that went wrong, when, for a moment of stupid gone worse, a mountain has almost killed me, or the forest, because I was foolish. But I’ve found myself praying time over time to the memory of that dream, to the love of our son and me she had in her dream, without her knowing, I suppose, that was God to her, once, sleeping in that cave of her night. It was to me, anyway. And now my son is across a curve of earth from here, and I don’t know what time it is, it’s dinner, or he’s going to bed, without his father, and better off for it, I have to think. And I’m the only one here who thinks, if I get back alive, chances are better than not his life will be worse. I think disappearing out here, might be as good a thing as I could give him. That’s what I’ve tried to think, away from him, that I’m doing what’s best. But it’s a hard thing to think, every day. It’s not nothing , to choose that. Not for me it isn’t.
I look up at these babies, making their spears, and I suppose in my haze I have been trying to get them home alive, even if I don't need to. Doesn’t matter, though, like I said, but I'll do it for some fucking reason. Because I’ll do it.
We have been sitting a while making these silly little spears and having our fireside all-going-to-die-soon time, and I wonder if it’s enough that we could get up and move again. Stopping the night when it’s nothing but night has lost its
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