The srix clambered up the ridge of ice and saw a dim flicker in the distance. It gave a cold snort and shook its silver coat. Raising its broad nose, the srix licked its pronounced chops and moved slowly in the direction of the light.

#

Qar sat by the flame’s edge, it flickered orange and green. The progeny sat across from her with worried, luminous eyes. Two small moons waxed on the nighttime horizon rising towards another very long phase. Darkness would soon pass, Qar could now see the dawning brightness on the bleak horizon that would encompass the entire moonside when it once again faced the gas-giant, Sorkius. But for now, the quiet gloaming held its perils. Their food was nearly depleted, the oceanic iceflow drew ever closer to their shoreline cavern, and there lurked terrors out on the plains before them as well as on the jagged ice behind them.

The flame winked off again, but after only a few moments the small geyser came to life as always before. The blue star, Tarm, burning hostile, was but a speck in the nighttime sky. Qar gave the system’s far-flung sun no thought, for it was the nearby planet which brought light and life to this little moon. Within hours of planetrise, the flower-lichen would spring forth anew giving them a bounty to eat. The sea ice would withdraw and they would scavenge the beach, combing for whatever they might find in the safety of daylight; for the srix would be hiding from the bright and swirling face of that magical planet. Qar rose and entered the cavern. After a moment, the younger followed.

Out some distance on the iceflow, the large-eyed srix drew a thick tongue across its finger-length teeth. The smaller target had held its gaze and it delighted in the fact the larger left the smaller in its wake without any apparent thought. Yes—a chance to strike would come. And the srix would stand ready to take advantage.

The little moon did not spin, only circled the gas giant. Full light came at regular, long intervals, as did the flower-lichen, the iceflows, and, too, the darkness. During times of light was when Qar felt carefree, never worried about the srix, or worse. But this time of twilight, especially dawning twilight, was the most dangerous; for the srix must strike soon if it were to gain a full meal before it had needs to hibernate for the long day.

The gas-giant, Sorkius nearly filled the sky at mid day and was worshipped for its size and also the protection it gave from the srix. The small village beside the icy ocean where Qar and her people dwelt was but one of many like primitive settlements on the tiny moon. The long nights and days passed; the population of Qar’s village ever-threatened and ever-shrinking.

#

The progeny was now as tall as its elder. In the light of day she’d strut about feeling safe and secure. She’d lost more than a few of her kind to the appetite of the srix, but so was life; for even in the daylight there were dangers and pitfalls, the packs of small and ferocious gobbins just one. That she’d gained maturity was a satisfaction. That her elder still combed the beach and sat by the gas-fueled flame after so many days was a wonder to her maturing mind.

The long day was finally waning and Qar was disheartened at the thought of the approaching night. She was growing old, had seen many, many days, and didn’t want to burden the progeny–would never accept needing her protection—never that!

Nighttime came and they steeled themselves for the long night of cold and danger. The srix prowled, but they stood against it, safety in numbers and vigilance against distractions, their protector. The small geyser winked off. Qar sighed in the blackness as she nibbled some flower lichen still remaining from day, as the iceflow moaned, creaking ever closer. In the distance came a piercing scream that hurtled toward the small encampment from the ice. Qar jumped up and hurried into the cavern just as another scream, louder, closer, preceded the snarling hiss of a srix. A few large and sharp rocks stood ready in the cave to cast if the srix drew any closer.

#

The Dawning had returned. That she had lived through the long, dreaded night seemed like a beautiful dream. The progeny strutted again, now that it was daylight. Would it always be this way? Day after long day. Night after fearful night?

Qar sat and watched the wonder of Sorkius, its whirling face a mystery, its size beyond imagining. She suddenly turned at the sound of a sharp cry. It was the progeny!–a pack of six or seven gobbins were trailing her close. Qar grabbed a few rocks and ran after, hurling one before she was even near. The progeny bolted toward the shoreline, the small gobbins at her heels. The nearest jumped but missed. Approaching, Qar flung another rock at that one and it cried out in pain and fled the other way.

The progeny jumped to a high dune, whirled around, and jumped back towards Qar, sailing cleanly over the gobbins. They turned to pursue, but when they noticed there were now two, they hesitated then backed slowly away.

The progeny smiled weakly as Qar dropped the remaining rocks she held and they embraced. It was only then they heard the familiar deep hiss!–a srix, driven by a raging hunger, no doubt, to be out in full daylight. But there it was on the high ice flow above them! A gurgling snarl escaped its wide, toothy mouth as it leapt—they grimaced in shock, tears falling, gripping one another tightly, awaiting the impact of the large, ravenous beast.

—
©2009 DJ Barber

DJ Barber lives in Oregon with his wife and two dogs. He writes by a window and watches the wildlife, sometimes sipping a beer as he waits on the muse.

The large meadow stretched up the hillside like a patchwork quilt covering some great downy bed. Down below, the high desert was broken with rocky clefts and dropped away for miles into a dim purpled haze. ‘Twas only scrubby sage and brambles that eeked out a meager existence there. The meadow itself was alive with a myriad of flora. The larger beasts of the desert found respite here as well, from the desolate landscape below—so, too, their predators. Here was a haven, but a haven where there was no little risk; for its richness drew many to its bounty.

A small wood sat at the head of the meadow overlooking the bright scene, as well as the contrast; the barrenness of the high desert. Mixed conifers and a few aspens huddled over perhaps five acres. Beyond the small wood jagged peaks thrust upwards over ten-thousand feet, barring any path that way.

A narrow stream gurgled down from the higher mountains, pooled into a small pond by where the cabin was built and then trickled down through the meadow and beyond where it met its death in the dryness of the high desert. A commanding view of all that laid before one meant no stealthy figure might this way come without being spied—at least by a watchful eye.

Some years before a man of dubious repute built for himself a small cabin under the boughs of the wood’s edge. Word was he had come from Missoura, perhaps Kansas. But without doubt a place rampant with thieves and murderers and no respect for the law—God’s or man’s. He had come to hole up; hide from the restitution due from his wickedness.

Some years afterward, Luther Babcock had come here, that being the autumn of ‘67, having left the family farm in Illinois after a long recuperation from wounds suffered in the War of the Rebellion. He had tarried on the plains of Nebraska for some months, but turning an eye west, he ventured to where a man might find room enough to amble about without bumping into a neighbor every other day. So, by-and-by, he found himself on a high and dry desert between the vast mountain ranges of the west. Luther came to this tranquil place quite by accident and had made it home.

There was but one small problem—trifling really, but Luther Babcock did acknowledge now the problem it was. There was a ghost—a ghost in the wood. The first time Luther spied it was toward the gloaming on a clear December evening. A small gleam captured his eye just beside an aspen that still held a few golden leaves.

A trick of light, no doubt, he was certain. But in due course, he saw the phantom scores of times. It seemed not of fell or evil intent, but much aware of Luther’s presence. It wailed mournful cries in the wee hours, sometimes many nights in a row, like some wretchedly injured coyote or wolf. Luther became frightened at first; then angered at the disruption of a night’s sleep. Luther had even a thought to leave this idyllic place.  But finally, he accepted the racket as part of what one must abide in this wild, untamed land.

It wasn’t until later, late spring, perhaps early summer, that Luther Babcock learned the truth of what was happening in the small wood by his cabin home. The outlaw that had come all those years before to this place and built this cabin had been followed. A small wretch of a woman had followed all the way from where he had lain a path of murder and mayhem. Upon finding her quarry the woman became dismayed over the fact that she had followed after him with such abandon that she knew not how to confront his evilness.

And so she hid for some days in the small wood behind where he had built his cabin to plot how to bring some justice to the man. Then, in a moment of true madness—madness wrought at the loss of her husband and two young children by this monstrous fellow’s hand, she sat and sang in chanting choruses a call to the Devil himself—and offered a deal, signed in blood, to avenge herself on this callous bastard who even now lived a harmonious life–just the sort of life he had stolen from her.

That she should have read the small print was now her bane. For in those blurred words, smeared somewhat by her own blood was a clause she would forever rue. The  slow and violent death of her tormentor; murderer of her husband and children, occurred on the Summer Solstice just as darkness fell. Alas, in the clause was a stipulation that if any man abide in the cabin by the small wood at the head of that lovely meadow as darkness fell on the longest day of the year, then he, too, would die in the same manner which task had been given to the Old Ned himself. That a righteous and law-abiding man would die in that horrible manner brought such grief to her imprisoned soul that no banshee from Hell ever wailed a more mournful cry than she.

And now yet another man abided in the cabin. The sixth poor soul since her blood-signed oath had been sealed.

A small rap at the door surprised Luther. He grabbed his pistol and reached for the door. In the gloaming he saw a misty red glow, a radiant beauty was suddenly before him, impossibly lovely. But was that tears in her eyes? And just behind her? What manner of beast was that?

She fled back into the wood, whimpering once more at the horror of what she heard, becoming, again, just a small gleam  beside an aspen, lush with leaves.

—
©2009 DJ Barber

DJ Barber lives in Oregon with his wife and two dogs. He writes by a window and watches the wildlife, sometimes sipping a beer as he waits on the muse.