Twilight fell before Harmon set his ax down for the evening. He permitted himself a small smile, found it reassuring he still held the gift within him. His work pleased him. He had toiled in long stretches, and while his aim had been poor at first, his timing worse, he had adapted quite well to his limited vision. At times, his left hand had gone into spasm, but there had been little blood, and even less pain. For the most part, the work had dulled his worries, but there had been terrifying moments when his mind began to slip, his fears threatening to consume him. Rosalee had come again, he was certain she had, and he found himself sobbing with his head in his hands. The work had held him together.
Inside, he relieved himself in the bucket, feeling a slight discomfort as he did. The urine stank. He zipped up, washed up, then fixed a ham and cheese sandwich on stale rye. His stock of food had nearly run out, and Mr. Budweiser had long since abandoned him, feeding the urgency to get his snowmobile running. Out front, his ancient Kaiser Jeep had given up the ghost, the engine seized, and his old ATV, his camel from April to October, wasn’t worth shit in the snow. The trek to the main highway was a good stretch, and even if he made it on foot and hitched a ride into town, he’d have to get that retard Perry Johnson, or one of his butt-stupid sons, to drive him back. All they’d do is talk his goddamn ears off, whining about all that free wood they gave him and how they wanted some of it back, or worse, paid for. He’d pay them all right, with a swift kick up their butt-stupid bungholes.
After his meal he picked up the piss bucket, then switched on the outside light and headed out. He rounded the side of the house and emptied the pail in a cavity hollowed for the purpose. There was a sharp hiss, a strident sound that made him shudder. His urine held a slight discoloration, a deep shade of yellowed green. It was thick like soup.
There was no stopping it now.
Harmon returned the bucket to its place, and from the barn retrieved a toolbox and several spark plugs he feared were long dead. He replaced the single plug in the snowmobile and tried five others before the machine coughed. Three more pulls revived the beast and it roared to life. It sputtered, and he babied it with some gentle throttle until the engine steadied. Thick blue smoke choked him. He closed the cowling and steered the machine, trailer in tow, around a wide swath of his farm. It threatened to stall again but more gas kept it running. He let it idle a minute or two, then killed the engine.
The stillness swallowed him. His time was coming, he knew, and as before, he wondered how many winters would pass before anyone found him. Before anyone missed him.
Harmon sat very still, and cried.
~
The evening passed uneventfully, yet the silence stirred Harmon’s apprehension. The radio played softly, songs he once knew but had now forgotten, and he began to drift off as he waited for the Dark to waken.
It was just past eleven when he decided to turn in. He stood in the bathroom preparing for bed, trembling as he snipped the tape that held the dressing on his hand. He unraveled the bloodied gauze, stopping at the last strands that covered his wounds. After an anxious pause, he removed the remaining bandages.
The stub of oak had turned deep green as he’d feared. It had spread about the wound like moss around the north side of a tree. It crept outward along his palm in a small circular pattern, devouring his skin. A tiny shoot had sprung up in the center. He tried scraping the patch with a finger. Blood seeped from his new flesh.
Quickly, he cleansed the wound and redressed it. He switched off the light and slipped into bed. He sighed heavily. Tomorrow, he would head into town. But maybe, if he was really lucky … there would be no tomorrow.