The Five Dollar Mail (Book 1: The Green & Book 2: Lynch's Boys)

191: Circle of the Sun

Cover painting by Angela Taratuta. Chapter artwork of Jesse by Diego Candia. All graphics by me.

Book 1: The Green, Book 2: Lynch's Boys, Book 3: The Road Home, and the Riders & Kickers Anthology are available on Amazon under the name Regina Shelley. So if you hate waiting for chapter posts and/or want a more polished read, the finished product is available now.

When Jesse had first dragged himself out of the river, it was as if the water itself was pulling him back with an icy fist, its fingers clawing at him, emptying reluctantly out of his sleeves and pockets. He'd stumbled onto the bank, gasping with exhilaration and terror and cold. The fall had been intoxicating, and he felt drunk and lightheaded, and realized that part of him wanted to do it again.

Freed of the pervasive coolness of the cave, he savored the late afternoon sun as it warmed his chilly skin, and he shook like a dog, spraying cold water out of his hair and clothes. He didn't dare take off his coat as it drained, knowing he'd need to conserve what heat was still inside it. He was soaked, but for the time being, the flannel union suit beneath his clothes still retained his body heat. Still, the sun was going down and he knew the dark would bring with it a killing cold.

His eyes scanned the cliff face he'd just descended. How am I gonna get back up there? Fumbling in his pockets for the flint chip and striking steel he kept in his coat, he uttered a silent, desperate prayer. He'd stopped carrying a tinder tube when he had quit smoking because it made lighting a quirly too easy, but he always kept a steel with him for emergencies. Please let them still be in my pocket... His fingers closed around the steel and the sharp stone chip and he snatched them free, immediately looking around for dry pine sticks and brittle needles to use as tinder. Gonna have to do this now if I'm gonna do it at all. I got nothing on me. Not gonna be easy. Everything's either gone or wet. No charcloth. He glanced around, his mind racing. There. Right there... Straight white lines of birches dotted the banks of the river and he looked down, his eyes searching. A series of thick, hooflike protuberances, like halves of a misshapen bells clung to the bases of the larger trees.. He kicked the lowest one free with a hard scrape of his boot.

Using the sharp edge of the flint chip, he deftly scraped the velvety fluff from the underside of the desiccated fungus, sweeping it into a little pile. He got down on his hands and knees, and struck a shower of sparks. The pile of mushroom dust sparkled with light. With shaking hands, he touched the wad of kindling to the sparks and coaxed it to life a with shivering breath. Quickly feeding larger sticks and crisping, dried leaves into the tiny flame, he carefully encouraged the dancing orange sprite to grow and spread. He quickly crisscrossed larger limbs across his growing fire, then found some chunks of debris big enough to maintain it for a while. When it stabilized, he set about rolling rocks from the river's edge into the glowing coals.

Satisfied that his fire would burn on its own for a bit, he stood up and took stock of his options, pausing to savor the heat of the flames. The wide pool he'd fallen into spread out like a horse's tail, roaring over rocks and low falls. No way I'm crossin' here. The current will sweep me down like a paper boat. I was lucky to get to shore when I did. He made a face. I just wish I'd come out on the other side. Damn. He pulled his coat around himself, knowing that once the chill really set in, it could kill him. It wouldn't take long for the shivers to set in. He was lean and lanky, and not built for cold weather. Thank God I got a fire going. So I ain't gonna freeze to death right away.

He looked around, listening. No sign of Galloway. It was a miracle that he himself hadn't hit any rocks on the way down, and it was unlikely that the both of them had gotten so lucky. Galloway's probably dead somewhere. Still, not gonna risk it by digging in where I built that fire.

He headed around the base of the sunset-splashed rocks near the foot of the mountain, climbing to higher ground. Alright. Need to find an outcrop or something. He grabbed the base of a gnarled pinyon tree and swung himself up to where the black rocks of the landscape formed a jagged depression in the side of the mountain. That'll work. He quickly started grabbing broken pine boughs and rough, dried grasses, criss-crossing and stacking them against the rock depression and forming a small, narrow tunnel with them. The scent of creosote and pine filled his nose and his hands grew sticky with spring sap as he piled more debris on top. The sky was fading to purple and indigo, streaks of blood-red fire low on the horizon. He worked up a little heat through sheer exertion, but he was far from warm. He started to shiver.

I'm not going to leave you, Lily. I'm going to make it back. I didn't intend to die in that cave, and I'm not going to die now. Gritting his teeth, he dumped armloads of dirt, broken pine boughs, and uprooted shrubs onto his debris pile, ignoring the cold creeping across his skin and the clammy discomfort of his wet clothes and hair. I'm gonna survive what's going to be a shitty, miserable night and then tomorrow I'm going to cross that river and find the hole we found when we got here. And then we're gonna get the hell out of here.

The sky was deep gray-purple, the orange fire in the distance faded to a colorless, sickly glow as the sun fell down below the ridgeline. He headed back to his fire, which by now was filled with softly glowing embers. Shrugging out of his wet coat, he spread it out on the ground and rolled the now steaming river rocks onto it, using it to drag them back to his shelter and dump them inside.

His teeth were chattering. He added his soggy coat to the brushpile, then peeled out of his trousers and shirt and union suit and slid naked into the tight, prickly tunnel he'd made, settling his bare back against the smooth basalt against which he'd built his shelter. Ohh... He sighed with pleasure and relief. It's still warm from the sun. He pressed his head against it, feeling the life-saving heat soaking into his skin and sore muscles. He suspected that the air was a lot warmer than it seemed, but in his current state of exhaustion and hunger, and the fact that he'd just taken a ducking in an ice cold river, he knew it was cold enough to be dangerous to him. He shivered again and settled himself as close as was comfortable amidst the warm rocks, his jaw relaxing as his teeth stopped chattering. Thank you, thank you, thank you. It occurred to him that he probably should have found something to use as a weapon of some sort, but then he just as quickly realized that he wouldn't need a weapon if he died of cold before anyone found him. He grabbed armloads of leaves and pulled them in over his head, plugging the opening he'd just crawled through.

To hell with it, I ain't gettin' up. If I ever get up again, it'll be in the morning. And if I don't...well...at least I'm buried. He had one goal and one goal only: and that was to generate enough body heat to keep himself alive in his crude shelter until the sun came up. His eyelids felt like they were sewn shut. He snuggled deeply amidst the heavy layers of tangled debris and dirt, barely aware of the creosote and sage prickling into his bare skin as he drifted off, the mountain cradling him as if he were a newborn.

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