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Arthur came to flat on his back, icy wetness seeping through his clothes and chilling him to the bone.
At first, he reckoned that he’d been thrown from his horse somewhere in Bayou Nwa; the ground was certainly marshy enough and, when he heaved himself up from the ground into a sitting position, his hands slid in the muddy silt like they would in the deepest parts of the swamp. Except, when he got to looking around, he didn’t see hide nor hair of whatever horse he might’ve been riding...
All around him and stretching as far as the eye could see weren’t nothing but fog and trees. He could spy a few shrub-like patches of mangroves here and there, the ground covered in low-level pools of stagnant green water ringed by tangles of brush. A greater water source, a river or something similar, was likely nearby. Arthur happened to be sitting on a rare elevated patch of dirt, and from that spot he could hear as the intermingling sounds of croaking frogs and chirping crickets created a throaty, repetitious chorus to fill the night air.
The man took stock of himself. His clothes, though mud-stained, looked the same as ever. His hair felt a bit longer than he was used to, and his face prickled when he smoothed his fingers over it— could use a shave. He had his gun, lasso, and satchel. Didn’t seem to be injured, though his arms and hands were littered with old nicks and scars.
Sitting on the ground between his feet was a hat. His hat.
Arthur stared at the hat like it was a rattlesnake poised to strike. The black material seemed a bit worn, but that wasn’t what itched at him about it. It was simply the hat being there that was the problem, the puzzle his foggy head needed to put together—craved it as desperately as dry ground thirsted for water, in fact—and the realization made him shaky all over. Now that was an odd feeling, being jumpy about a damn hat, but one he found he couldn’t shake.
Transfixed, Arthur picked the hat up and turned it in his hands, looking it over from various angles. He knew he was forgetting something, but could not for the life of him think of what it could be. It was like following a trail of rabbit tracks through the woods only to lose them in the brush, right as it seemed he’d been getting close. He knew the rabbit was there, even knew which direction it might’ve been going, but it was just… gone, hidden by an impassable wall he couldn’t seem to get around.
Then, it struck him. Hadn’t he given John this hat?
To Arthur, the humid swamp air suddenly felt frigid. His heart beat viciously inside his chest, tearing across his ribs like it was trying to escape.
What in the hell was he doing in... Lemoyne, when he remembered (as if through a curtain of mist, the memories coming to him in short bursts of thought) being someplace wholly different?
He could remember... names, and faces, and growing steadily sicker and more afraid. He remembered the simple times and the hard ones. Punching that rat Micah for one, that had been simple in how good it felt. Lying crumpled on the hard stone of that dark mountainside, bruised and bloody with Dutch standing over him, was less so.
What he distinctly remembered, though, was turning to look over the hilly forests northwest of Annesburg, the feeling in his fingers and toes slowly seeping out of him, the fog of death building in his throat and a numbness unlike anything he’d ever felt settling in his bones, heavy like a blanket of snow falling over him to leave his body in the dark and cold. Watching as the sun slowly rose over the trees and petals of light cast the world in gold, memories passing in a slow ramble behind his eyelids.
Arthur groaned quietly, dragging a hand roughly down the side of his face. Faces came before him as he closed his eyes. Faces he’d seen so many times in the dead of night, in the light of a campfire, in the barren stark light of the Heartlands, from every angle and with every possible expression; the consequences of close-living with specific people all your life. The memories crowded together, sure. But the feelings of belonging, of comfort still remained.
But all of it seemed so distant to him, like he’d gone on living and it was all a hundred years in the past. Some things, though, stood out to him as especially pivotal in all this, and if he were a traditionally educated man, Arthur might even consider them as representative of a kind of monomyth— a hero’s journey between the known and the unknown, with his death being the symbolic threshold. Not being an educated man, but an exceptionally philosophical one, Arthur still recognized the transgression he was committing against nature by simply being alive.
Standing up turned out not to be as much of a hardship as it had become in recent months, his breath coming easily and unburdened by the near-constant pain and exhaustion that’d been weighing him down. There was sour sweat beading on his face, not from a fever, just the swampy air. It was like he’d been miraculously cured… though Arthur felt that was too wishful of a notion to consider for long.
The air flowing freely into his grateful lungs was earthy and strong, like the prairie after a good hard rain, and towering over him were enormous trees absolutely dripping with moss. The whole land appeared untouched by axes and the footpaths of man alike. Arthur had to stand a moment just to take it all in, breathing in the unfamiliar sights and sounds working together to create a mighty powerful atmosphere of unease and strangeness.
After this moment of silent contemplation, the man replaced his hat on his head and checked over the only gun he seemed to have left. Satisfied that it was in good condition and loaded, he holstered the pistol a bit reluctantly. Being a former dead man made him rather leery of his surroundings—reasonably so, Arthur thought. He weren’t taking the chance of being caught with only a skinning knife to fend off wild animals or unfriendly strangers.
Arthur cast one last grim stare around, blue eyes laced with suspicion as they scanned the marshy area for signs of life. Only the trunks of trees stared back at him through the mist, the night voices of animals reverberating around them in shapeless, howling echoes. When nothing ferocious leapt out from the dark to harass him, he was almost disappointed.
“Best be getting on,” Arthur said to the silent trees, and felt deeply how very alone he was.
And so began yet another long, arduous trek through the woods.
At first, he reckoned that he’d been thrown from his horse somewhere in Bayou Nwa; the ground was certainly marshy enough and, when he heaved himself up from the ground into a sitting position, his hands slid in the muddy silt like they would in the deepest parts of the swamp. Except, when he got to looking around, he didn’t see hide nor hair of whatever horse he might’ve been riding...
All around him and stretching as far as the eye could see weren’t nothing but fog and trees. He could spy a few shrub-like patches of mangroves here and there, the ground covered in low-level pools of stagnant green water ringed by tangles of brush. A greater water source, a river or something similar, was likely nearby. Arthur happened to be sitting on a rare elevated patch of dirt, and from that spot he could hear as the intermingling sounds of croaking frogs and chirping crickets created a throaty, repetitious chorus to fill the night air.
The man took stock of himself. His clothes, though mud-stained, looked the same as ever. His hair felt a bit longer than he was used to, and his face prickled when he smoothed his fingers over it— could use a shave. He had his gun, lasso, and satchel. Didn’t seem to be injured, though his arms and hands were littered with old nicks and scars.
Sitting on the ground between his feet was a hat. His hat.
Arthur stared at the hat like it was a rattlesnake poised to strike. The black material seemed a bit worn, but that wasn’t what itched at him about it. It was simply the hat being there that was the problem, the puzzle his foggy head needed to put together—craved it as desperately as dry ground thirsted for water, in fact—and the realization made him shaky all over. Now that was an odd feeling, being jumpy about a damn hat, but one he found he couldn’t shake.
Transfixed, Arthur picked the hat up and turned it in his hands, looking it over from various angles. He knew he was forgetting something, but could not for the life of him think of what it could be. It was like following a trail of rabbit tracks through the woods only to lose them in the brush, right as it seemed he’d been getting close. He knew the rabbit was there, even knew which direction it might’ve been going, but it was just… gone, hidden by an impassable wall he couldn’t seem to get around.
Then, it struck him. Hadn’t he given John this hat?
To Arthur, the humid swamp air suddenly felt frigid. His heart beat viciously inside his chest, tearing across his ribs like it was trying to escape.
What in the hell was he doing in... Lemoyne, when he remembered (as if through a curtain of mist, the memories coming to him in short bursts of thought) being someplace wholly different?
He could remember... names, and faces, and growing steadily sicker and more afraid. He remembered the simple times and the hard ones. Punching that rat Micah for one, that had been simple in how good it felt. Lying crumpled on the hard stone of that dark mountainside, bruised and bloody with Dutch standing over him, was less so.
What he distinctly remembered, though, was turning to look over the hilly forests northwest of Annesburg, the feeling in his fingers and toes slowly seeping out of him, the fog of death building in his throat and a numbness unlike anything he’d ever felt settling in his bones, heavy like a blanket of snow falling over him to leave his body in the dark and cold. Watching as the sun slowly rose over the trees and petals of light cast the world in gold, memories passing in a slow ramble behind his eyelids.
Arthur groaned quietly, dragging a hand roughly down the side of his face. Faces came before him as he closed his eyes. Faces he’d seen so many times in the dead of night, in the light of a campfire, in the barren stark light of the Heartlands, from every angle and with every possible expression; the consequences of close-living with specific people all your life. The memories crowded together, sure. But the feelings of belonging, of comfort still remained.
But all of it seemed so distant to him, like he’d gone on living and it was all a hundred years in the past. Some things, though, stood out to him as especially pivotal in all this, and if he were a traditionally educated man, Arthur might even consider them as representative of a kind of monomyth— a hero’s journey between the known and the unknown, with his death being the symbolic threshold. Not being an educated man, but an exceptionally philosophical one, Arthur still recognized the transgression he was committing against nature by simply being alive.
Standing up turned out not to be as much of a hardship as it had become in recent months, his breath coming easily and unburdened by the near-constant pain and exhaustion that’d been weighing him down. There was sour sweat beading on his face, not from a fever, just the swampy air. It was like he’d been miraculously cured… though Arthur felt that was too wishful of a notion to consider for long.
The air flowing freely into his grateful lungs was earthy and strong, like the prairie after a good hard rain, and towering over him were enormous trees absolutely dripping with moss. The whole land appeared untouched by axes and the footpaths of man alike. Arthur had to stand a moment just to take it all in, breathing in the unfamiliar sights and sounds working together to create a mighty powerful atmosphere of unease and strangeness.
After this moment of silent contemplation, the man replaced his hat on his head and checked over the only gun he seemed to have left. Satisfied that it was in good condition and loaded, he holstered the pistol a bit reluctantly. Being a former dead man made him rather leery of his surroundings—reasonably so, Arthur thought. He weren’t taking the chance of being caught with only a skinning knife to fend off wild animals or unfriendly strangers.
Arthur cast one last grim stare around, blue eyes laced with suspicion as they scanned the marshy area for signs of life. Only the trunks of trees stared back at him through the mist, the night voices of animals reverberating around them in shapeless, howling echoes. When nothing ferocious leapt out from the dark to harass him, he was almost disappointed.
“Best be getting on,” Arthur said to the silent trees, and felt deeply how very alone he was.
And so began yet another long, arduous trek through the woods.