By Jason Ropp

This short story is one of a series set in the fictional town of Damnatus.

Melanie spun her leather Business Elite 3500 Cadillac of a chair 180 degrees until it faced the eastern window and a blazing Damnatus sunrise. She soaked up the aroma of coffee, mingling scent with the sight of purples, oranges, and reds, topped with a dollop of blue. This was a bit of the life she hunted for so long in the ivory and glass towers of New York, Boston, D.C., Chicago, and Atlanta. What she first saw as exile, the business world’s idea of a sick joke played on an aspirational woman, she now called home. She closed her eyes and pulled the mug to her lips, feeling the warmth of the coffee and sunrise warming her mind and soul. She would have stayed in that trance much longer if it weren’t for a slight rapping on her half open door. “Melanie, I have those numbers you were looking for.”

She turned the chair back to the desk, still sipping coffee, nodding, lips sealed, holding in the liquid sunrise. She extended a hand, relieved the man of the dossier, then shooed him away, but more like a mother freeing her children to play than a CEO ridding herself of a nuisance. She was too optimistic about the day to notice that he rolled his right shoulder four separate times in the mere 45 seconds spent in the room, as he had done the entirety of his first day on the job, or for the week after he had spilled coffee all over her favorite blouse.

She dropped the oversized folder from six inches, letting it feel its own many-paged power as it slammed into the writing pad protecting the century old behemoth of a desk she had purchased at an estate sale two towns over. She much preferred the thud of a ream’s worth of 20 lb. paper over the click of a mouse. It was an extra step to print and arrange the information that Corporate sent her, but if this ship was under her watch she needed to feel the grain of the mast and the hemp rope that held taught the canvas, dancing in the financial wind, pulling the company forward. She wasn’t sure whether it was Damnatus or the thoughtfulness of age, but she found a nostalgia for the slow and carefully-crafted growing in her heart.

She unwound the elastic cord that bound the folder and opened the cover. “Telco Products: Damnatus Branch Manufacturing and Assembly 3rd Quarter Business Report.” She carefully placed the first page face down to the left of the rest of the file and began reading her secretary’s report, which was normally a few organizational notes along with any anomalies he may have noticed as he compiled the dossier. But this time there was only a single sentence:

“Mel, I’m a bit confused by a few items on the following pages. You might want to check them out straightaway.”

The rest of the page was filled with lines of numbers and letters that marked pages, sections, and subsections, some highlighted or underlined in red—the first being “3.A.b” Still maintaining her sense of calm, she carefully turned the pages one by one face down on top of the cover sheet that sat left of the folder, until she reached the appropriate location. Her finger followed the left margin, stopping on subsection b, titled “Gross Income.” She gasped, nearly knocking over her coffee as she reached again for the index.

The sun was now well above the horizon, shedding its blistering Midwest rays on the back of her neck. The dust particles from farms that so splendidly aided the sun’s dispersal of color at sunrise now morphed the hot sky into a muddied blue.

The next item of concern, titled “Loss/Profit,” was bright red. Melanie didn’t need to check the next subsection listed. She knew the company was bleeding like a stuck pig, and in this industry that could only mean one thing.

* * *

A few weeks later, the snack machine on the north end of the warehouse was a breeding ground for rumors, with embezzlement, accountants cooking books, and tax evasion being the most widely circulated. It’s not that Melanie had been secretive with the employees, it was simply that they couldn’t believe such a simple thing could so rapidly halt the vitality of such a booming industry. The competition had patented a new gear tooth that was stronger, more efficient, cheaper to make, and most importantly had a better marketing team behind it. In three months time, Telco’s competitor in the gear market had silently and successfully carried out a blitzkrieg marketing campaign that ate up 35% of Telco’s gear market share. Telco’s gear production was run almost entirely by the Damnatus plant.

The most likely scenario was that it would only get worse. The coup d’etat came just prior to what was projected to be the largest order in Damnatus Manufacturing and Assembly’s history. While DMA hadn’t yet begun production on the projected order, they had been aggressive in preemptive expansion, as nothing but a revolution in gear technology would have prevented their most successful quarter to date. But now, with a recently expanded system set up for a soon to be obsolete gear, instead of year end bonuses many of the factory’s 3,500 workers might not be getting a paycheck at all. It was this possibility that brought Steven into Melanie’s office.

“Steven, don’t put this back on me! How was I, here in the middle of damned nowhere Damnatus, supposed to see this coming!? I have the information that corporate gives me.”

Steven slouched, arms crossed, still in standard issue dark blue DMA coveralls. “I know. We all know you care. It’s just a bit of a ‘pocalyptic surprise, that’s all.”

Melanie stood up, walked past Steven, closed the door and walked to the small fridge against the opposite wall where she pulled out two beers, along with matching frosted glasses, and set one of them in front of the pleased but surprised employee.

“Not to be ungrateful, but isn’t this against company policy?” he asked.

Melanie poured out the bottle of suds. “What corporate doesn’t know, won’t hurt them.”

Steven smiled and put the foamy head to his lips, breathing in the hops as the bitterness hit his tongue and calmed his nerves. Melanie filled her own glass gently, holding her nose above the pour, letting the aroma engross her senses, allowing her mind to get lost in such a simple thing as beer. Barley malt, hops, and water. But as she had learned during her short time in Damnatus, the best things are often quite simple.

“Steven, how long have I known you?” said Melanie.

He set the beer on the desk that sat between them. “Well I’d guess it’s been about six years now,” he said.

“And have I ever lied to you?”

“Well,” he chuckled, “not that I know of anyway.”

“So at this point you either trust me or don’t. And seeing I told you about this the day after I knew, long before this became public information…”

“I suppose so,” he said.

“So which one is it? Because I don’t have the luxury of six more years to convince you that you should believe me. In fact I’d be surprised if I had the luxury of six weeks.”

Upon hearing “six weeks,” he swallowed a bit of the amber fluid down the wrong tube, “S–six weeks? As in six weeks till what?”

“I don’t know Steven.” She began to tear up. “I just don’t know. Corporate isn’t saying a word, and I know it’s because they want you all to keep up productivity until they absolutely have to let us know what’s going on. For all I know they might close up shop first thing tomorrow. I –I just don’t know. I thought you should know in case the worst happens. Which seems likely. I want you and Mandy to be OK, so I want you to know that I have some friends who might be able to get you a good paying position somewhere, something like what you already do. They trust me. If I tell them to hire you, they will.”

Steven twisted his glass by the top rim, staring at the bubbles, “Melanie. You know I don’t have anything more than my high school diploma, and even that was because Mandy did most my homework. You looked the other way, but…”

“Which is why I called up a friend at Braeburn Tech. I sent him a description of what you’ve been doing, the things you’ve learned to do, even the things you made up that you had to teach to the so- called educated. Let’s just say he owes me.” She slid open the drawer in front her, pulling out a manila envelope which she handed across the desk. “This is your honorary BS in industrial computer programming from Braeburn Tech. Congrats.”

“Mel, this—I’m not a college grad. I’m not—educated.”

“Steve, a little tip for you. You are more educated than 95% of the morons who applied to work under you, who went $75,000 in debt to get that piece of paper that you’ve earned with years of hard work. I don’t want to hear another word about it. You are a college grad who happens to have enough connections to get you a job in seven different states.” She polished off her bear and slammed the glass on top of the both new and well-worn dossier. “Have I made myself clear?”

Steven stared at the paper. His eyes turned red, puffing around the edges. He started a response then stopped several times before giving up and simply nodding, holding the diploma tightly as if it would turn to dust when he let go.

In what would be considered one of the best disaster recovery business moves of the year, DMA researchers found an entirely new market for their gears that, while not as abundant as the former market, assured Telco’s profitability. But for the workers of Damnatus it still meant 1,500 cut positions for the largest employer in town, and a pay cut for those who remained, including Melanie, though it was rumored that her own salary decrease was volunteered in an attempt to keep at least a couple more employees on the line.

Over the three weeks leading up to the sweeping layoffs, several of the longest standing employees were called into her office, all of them emerging a half hour later with a manila envelope and wet cheeks. The line workers assumed these men were simply the first round of cost saving layoffs, as they were soon replaced by less competent and lower- wage men.

By Sarah Mast Garber

Dawn broke over Varanasi. At the River Ganges, devout men and widows bathed on the banks, pouring out handfuls of water in adulation to the sun. Bells rang and incense rose from the two thousand temples tucked into the winding lanes of the old city. In the street of sweets, the chaat wallahs started their fires to heat kettlefuls of cooking oil. Cows wandered out to begin their daily raids on the vegetable vendors. The main thoroughfares filled up with bicycle rickshaws and bicycle trailers, huge loads of propane tanks or televisions strapped together with twine and balanced precariously behind the cycle driver.

Vijay Kumar wished a good day to his mother and his children and even his wife, and stepped out of their little gated court into a narrow street flanked by high brick walls. The morning sun had yet to reach the recesses of the old city, and the path was dim as he made his way to the business district. When he arrived at the silk shop where he worked, Mr. Kapoor was not there and the door was still locked. Mr. Kapoor hated Vijay to be late, yet he didn’t trust him with a key, either. Most days Vijay arrived early and waited on the stoop for Mr. Kapoor to arrive. Today he strolled over to a nearby tea stall, where he could enjoy a cup of chai and still keep his eye on the door. Upon hearing the ever-closer chug of an approaching motorcycle, Vijay paid the chai wallah, hurriedly dropped his clay cup on the ground, and returned to the shop door just as Mr. Kapoor pulled up. “Ah, Mr. Kapoor, good morning sir,” he said.

“Vijay, here you are…yes, good morning. Well, here is the key,” said Mr. Kapoor as he presented it to Vijay. “Now hurry up and unlock the place, boy. I have a business to keep up. As you know, the running of a successful business has more to do with diligence than with luck.” Vijay nodded his agreement. Mr. Kapoor usually gave him at least three maxims for a successful business every day, and after four years Vijay knew most of them by heart. Still, he didn’t want to lose his job, so he always looked thoughtful when Mr. Kapoor started talking.

They climbed the narrow whitewashed staircase up to the shop. Mr. Kapoor rented out the top story of the building, and Mr. Sanjay ran a small travel agency down below. His sign proclaimed in large, red, hand-painted letters: SANJAY TRAVEL AGENCY: TOURS, SILK SHOPS, HOTELS, NEPAL! Above it was a smaller sign in blue: Kapoor Silk Emporium: Shawls, Pillows, Tablecloths, Benarasi Saris, Pashmina. This same wording appeared on Mr. Kapoor’s business cards, which Vijay sometimes handed out to tourists arriving along the main street.

The shop consisted mainly of one room, most of which was covered by a thick mattress. Along one wall ran an aisle of sorts; it provided a place for shoes and also a walkway to the cramped stock room in the back. From floor to ceiling, the shop walls were loaded with shelves of silk, gleaming burgundy, saffron, spring green, and deepest purple.

Once inside, Vijay swept the concrete aisle and made sure the shelves were fully stocked, even though he had done these things ten hours before when they closed for the night. Mr. Kapoor lit an incense stick for the dusty statue of Ganesh presiding in the corner, replaced yesterday’s withered jasmine garland with a fresh one, and performed a short puja ceremony. Then he went into the back stock room and began poring over inventory lists and contact information for restocking.

“Vijay!” he called.

“Yes, Mr. Kapoor?”

“I’m expecting that shipment of cashmere this morning. It comes on the A11 Express.”

“Very well, sir,” said Vijay. “I’ll get ready to leave soon. Is it important enough to rent an autorickshaw, or shall I just use the bicycle?”

“No, Vijay,” said Mr. Kapoor. “I’ve been waiting for this shipment for nearly a month now. As a business owner, I take personal responsibility for my stock. I’ll take the motorbike to get them myself. What I meant was, you have responsibility for the shop when I’m gone. This is a serious matter, my boy. No gadding off to the chai stand, understand? Your first priority is the shop.”
When Mr. Kapoor left, Vijay made himself comfortable against the wall, his head pillowed on a bulging stack of shawls. He had swept the shop, folded and reshelved any silk left out from yesterday, and double-checked the books. Now he had time to sit and think. He enjoyed this time alone, although more customers meant continuing business and job security for him. Ah well, it would take very bad business indeed for Mr. Kapoor to actually fire him.

Vijay had not passed the 10th class examinations, even after taking the test twice. Since his family hadn’t had money for university anyway, the end of his education hadn’t been a significant disappointment to him. But now that he had children and a steady job, much better than his rickshaw-driving father, he wanted them to succeed in their education. Anu and Sangita were only four and five, but already he was sending them to a private, English-medium school. Though it was more expensive than the local Hindi school, Vijay considered the cost a worthwhile investment. Mr. Kapoor’s children were both in the university, studying to be computer engineers. And his nephew had even made it to the United States. Yes, Vijay did listen when Mr. Kapoor said that education was the key to success in today’s world. The Kumar name would travel farther in the world than his father had ever dreamed possible. Perhaps Anu would also live in America, like Mr. Kapoor’s nephew. What an honor that would be! Then Vijay and his mother and his wife could live in a nice house with a walled courtyard all around, with running water and a rooftop terrace, just like Mr. Kapoor.

Vijay’s reverie was interrupted by the arrival of customers. He unfolded his legs and jumped up to greet them. “Ah, welcome, welcome,” he said in English. Like most of their customers, these were tourists. Upon closer inspection, though, they differed from the usual backpacking crowd. For one thing, the group of three women and two men didn’t stink and they wore clean clothes. The women even wore conservative salwar-kameez, of the same sort his wife was wearing when he left her this morning. To his further consternation, they greeted him in Hindi and asked after his well-being.

“Oh, I am alright,” he answered. “Please, come in and sit down. I am not the owner of this store, but if you settle yourselves I will go and bring him to you. He will show you our stock. We have shawls, saris, tablecloths, everything you could imagine.” From their confused looks, Vijay gathered that they didn’t know much Hindi beyond the standard greeting. Still, they took off their sandals and sat down on the raised mat. Five occupants was pushing the limit of the mattress’s capacity, and the customers gingerly rearranged their knees and elbows to accommodate everyone. Vijay smiled broadly and asked them if they would care for something to drink. “Chai? Coke? Would you like some?”

One of the women seemed to understand and translated for the rest of the group. They began nodding their heads side to side and saying, “Coke! Coke, please. Yes, Coke.” Vijay put his hands together in respect and shuffled out of the shop. At the top of the stairs he added an English phrase he had heard on television: “Feel free to look around.” Then he loped on down the stairs and into the bustle of mid-day Varanasi in February. Mr. Kapoor should be arriving back any moment now, which was a relief because he spoke English. Vijay didn’t know how long he could keep these customers entertained while they waited. Hopefully the drinks would keep them busy and happy enough to keep from leaving before Mr. Kapoor came back. He hurried to the shop on the corner which had electricity and sold cold drinks. Hastily nodding hello to the owner, Vijay ordered five bottles of coke and five plastic straws. Fingers laced around the bottle necks, he made his way back to the silk shop. From the steps he heard urgent whispering and then a sudden silence.

At the top of the stairs he froze in shock, nearly dropping the coke. The shop was awash in fabric, dripping off the shelves and slopping into great pools on the raised mat. Every conceivable variety of silk, whether scarves or tablecloths or pillow cases or even a few enormous patched bedspreads, was pulled from the shelves and strewn about. Sitting waist deep in the shimmering mass, the five foreigners looked distinctly shamefaced. Not knowing what else to do, Vijay slowly began popping the metal caps from the coke bottles, inserting a vivid green or red straw, and passing them across the silken sea to the marooned customers. One of the men spread a turquoise blue bedspread over the mat, as if to hide the disaster underneath.

They all sat in silence for a few moments, while Vijay tried to think of the way to proceed. What would a business owner do? Then he heard the heavy tread of Mr. Kapoor making his way up the steps. He entered the shop like a prince returning to his kingdom, ready to reign uncontested. Immediately he noticed the shoes on the floor and began to charm his customers.

“Namaste, friends,” he said in English. “Very welcome to my shop. What would you like to see? Do you like scarves? Famous Varanasi silk scarves…” Mr. Kapoor’s words ended abruptly in a strangled choke when he saw the blanket spread out over the mat. His goodwill evaporated, and he turned to Vijay.

“What has happened here?” he rattled off in rapid Hindi. “The silk is already out. Did you start showing by yourself? You know you are always to wait for me.” Vijay stammered helplessly, trying to explain what he himself didn’t understand. With a desperate smile, Mr. Kapoor once again addressed the foreigners.

“I see you admire my bedspreads. Let me show you some more. I have dozens of blankets, and if you don’t like them, I can special order just as you prefer.” As Mr. Kapoor talked, Vijay picked his way through the Americans and pulled down the box of bedspreads. Handing them to his boss, Vijay then squeezed himself into a corner and watched as Mr. Kapoor pulled out blanket after blanket, spreading them out over the mat with an expert flick of his wrists. Since the customer wasn’t inclined to choose a bedspread, Mr. Kapoor called for silk scarves for the girls. Against their mild protests, he again spread out scarf after scarf, until the layers of silk on the mat reached to their elbows in places.

Finally, Mr. Kapoor said, “Now I have showed you all, we will go back. If you see something you like, just say so and I’ll keep it out.” That said, he began flipping the pieces back to himself, pausing just long enough to acknowledge the women’s positive or negative head shakes. The chosen scarves he piled on the right, and the rejected ones he threw against Vijay. Vijay nimbly folded the silk into neat squares, the fringed edges left out, ready for Mr. Kapoor’s next showing.

The stack of scarves gave way to the stack of bedspreads. Vijay watched with growing nervousness as Mr. Kapoor neared the original blanket. So far the foreigners had chosen one scarf, and were waffling on the bedspread. This would be a poor day if they only sold two pieces to five destructive customers.

“So, you will want a bedspread. It makes a good gift for your mother or sister back home in America.” Mr. Kapoor coaxed the reluctant foreigner. “See, this is beautifully woven. Brocade. You cannot get this anywhere but Varanasi. Here, I will set this one aside. Later, I think you will choose it.” So saying, Mr. Kapoor pulled aside the turquoise blue blanket, uncovering the wreckage underneath. Vijay watched his eyes dilate and his cheek muscle begin to tick. He realized with dread that his boss was angrier than Vijay had ever seen him. Vijay felt sick as he realized this day could very well end his hopes for his children. Although it may have been good business to flatter the customer, Mr. Kapoor’s code said nothing about treating his employee well. Once again, Mr. Kapoor addressed Vijay in Hindi.

“You incompetent nitwit!” he gritted out. “How many times have I told you that silk is our livelihood and that it must be cherished? How is it that I see half my stock crushed and thrown about as if a herd of buffalo had come through? How could you do this? Did you think you could play with silk the way a child plays with his toy?”

Vijay stared at the ground. He didn’t know whether to defend himself or to save his dignity in front of the customers by not speaking at all. Mr. Kapoor didn’t wait for an answer. Instead, he grimly faced the riotous tangle of silk and began unwinding it, piece by piece. He stopped speaking, and the silk-laden walls and floor closed in around them until the only sound was the rustle of fabric and the occasional word from one of the women, asking him to put aside a certain pillow case or table runner. When he came upon a particularly crumpled specimen, Mr. Kapoor shuddered in actual physical pain. Vijay did his best to smooth the creases out, but the folded end result was still sadly misshapen. As Mr. Kapoor unearthed the history of the foreigners’ silk frenzy, the customers in question also remained studiously quiet, other than a few whispers and frowns amongst themselves.

“Well,” said Mr. Kapoor. “Now you have seen everything and it is time to choose. What do you like? These pillowcases, I think. Very good, very fine work. And some beautiful scarves. You can wear them in your hair, around your neck, your waist, however you like.” The foreigners sat dumbly, clutching their empty coke bottles. For a suffocating moment Vijay was afraid they would walk out without purchasing anything. Would he then be responsible to buy any damaged silk? That was even worse than losing his job outright.

The Hindi-speaking woman spoke. “I think we would like some scarves. And a pillowcase or two. Right?” The other two women nodded assent. Then one of the men cleared his throat and said, “Yes, I would like to buy a blanket. A big blanket, like for a double bed.” Vijay relaxed as Mr. Kapoor graciously talked them through their purchases. In the end, the group bought five scarves, three table runners, six pillowcases, and an expensive blanket and pillowcase set. Vijay carefully folded and bagged their purchases, and both he and Mr. Kapoor bowed politely as they left.

Mr. Kapoor sat cross-legged on the mat, content at making such a valuable sale. Vijay gathered up the empty bottles and brought them back to the corner shop, bringing back some chai for Mr. Kapoor. When he returned, Vijay was surprised to see that his boss was still sitting in the same place. He hadn’t even put away the money.

“Ah, Vijay,” he said. “You know, I always say to please the customer, especially if you are dealing with foreigners. Americans like to choose, so give them the choice, I say. And you see, it has paid off. Today I made a record sale; never have I sold so much in one showing. Vijay, I have a successful silk business, with enough money to send my sons to university. And my nephew is in America. Just think.”

“Yes, sir,” said Vijay.

“Well,” continued Mr. Kapoor. “This has been quite an afternoon.” He roused himself and pointed to the entrance. “Over there you can see a large package of cashmere shawls to be inventoried and shelved. They won’t put themselves away, boy.”

“No, sir,” said Vijay and left Mr. Kapoor to his chai. Picking up the box of shawls, he carried them to the back stock room, where he worked alone, wrapped in the silence of silk.

By Jared Stutzman

Once upon a time in a world very much like ours, a little boy named Albert was fascinated with umbrellas. He didn’t own an umbrella, and neither did his parents—they felt umbrellas were unnecessary encumbrances made obsolete by technologically advanced raincoats.
Albert was fascinated by the old-fashioned curves in the handles of umbrellas, by the sudden, forceful, explosive way they unfolded and opened at the press of a button. He was fascinated by all of the different ways that an umbrella could be twirled, tossed, flung, opened and closed, hidden in a briefcase, and used as a crowbar, parachute, or walking stick. He owned action figures who held umbrellas in various poses and he owned some toy umbrellas, but no real ones.

Albert saw umbrellas when he watched TV or went to the movies with his friends. Most of the cool, suave leading men in the movies carried umbrellas. Secret agents seemed to be particularly skilled with their tiny umbrellas, concealing them beneath their suits at parties only to whip them open at the key moment, to everyone’s shock and surprise. Cowboys carried their massive, heavy umbrellas in holsters attached to their belts so that they could pull them out for sudden rainstorms, or to prod a reluctant cow, or to fend off an attack from a bear. Gangsters walked around with multiple umbrellas dangling from their bodies. Albert loved to watch umbrellas in action in the movies—the constant opening and closing, the twirling from the crook in the handle—it was so exhilarating!

Albert, like all boys his age, loved video games. Most of his games involved using umbrellas to save the world from an invasion by aliens or zombies or terrorists. He had played these games since he was a small child. What he liked best about these games was that they allowed him, Albert, to actually become the umbrellaist! The screen showed his hands grasping an umbrella. By pressing a button on his controller, he could see “his” hands on the screen flick the lock on the umbrella to open it. Another button made the hands twirl the umbrella by the crook. Still other controls allowed him to use it as a parachute, a walking stick, a crowbar, or a club. He could twirl it in the air or fling it away. As he progressed deeper into the game, the points he earned allowed him to trade up for bigger, better, more powerful umbrellas—sometimes he could carry and use multiple umbrellas at the same time.

One day, Albert found a real umbrella! He was walking to school when he saw it lying by the side of the road, looking abandoned. He grabbed it, and as he picked it up, he saw another lying nearby. He looked around. Then he picked up the second umbrella, tucked both of them under his coat as he had seen secret agents do on TV, and raced to school. It was the first time in his life he’d ever held a real umbrella, but he knew exactly what to do, as if he’d been training for this moment for years. He went straight to the school cafeteria, which was crowded with students. Without thinking, he reached under his coat and pulled both umbrellas out into full view and snapped them open with a whoosh, just as he had done so often on his video games, just like the heroes in the movies.

Screams filled the cafeteria. Kids stampeded for the exits. Albert leaped up onto a table—he was acting instinctively, trained by hours of repetition. He barely heard the screams—his video games and the movies led him to expect them. With a graceful motion, he leaped into the air and parachuted softly to the ground with both umbrellas. With surprising speed, he folded both of them up again and strolled across the cafeteria, using them as walking sticks. He stuck one umbrella under a table leg and pried the table into the air. Somewhere on the edge of the room, a teacher begged him to stop, but she sounded just like the pleading voices in his video games. Albert twirled both umbrellas by their crooks, tossed them into the air, caught them again and opened them in one smooth motion. He was having the time of his life! Even though he’d never held an umbrella before, he felt like he’d been preparing for this his whole life.

That night, the news carried photos of the events at Albert’s school. There was outrage throughout the community. Some people were furious that a boy Albert’s age had access to umbrellas in the first place and were calling for more stringent umbrella control. But most people were simply mystified. “Why?” they asked. “Where on earth would a young boy have gotten the idea that it was OK to use umbrellas like that? What could possibly have put that notion in his head?” They shook their heads. They didn’t understand it. Then, because they needed a distraction, they got in their cars and drove to the theater to watch the latest umbrella action film while their kids played umbrella video games at home.

By Andrew Sharp

A light snow landed on the lazy noonday traffic in an eastern Pennsylvania town. The exhaust fumes from the few cars idling at the stoplights sometimes rose straight up and sometimes careened off down the valley as a fitful wind out of northwest did sprints through the streets.

The wet snow stuck to fences and fire hydrants. It tried to move into the roads but was only successful in coating them with a film of dingy brown slush, churned up by the passing traffic. A well-used pickup churned through the slush and turned off the main road through town, splashing up the road that led up the mountain.

As it passed out of town there was less traffic, and white specks quickly dotted the tire tracks. The truck passed fewer houses here, and the yards gave way to cow pastures. Now the tires kicked up powdery white snow.

Higher still, up on the mountain, the cow pastures petered out and surrendered to an unbroken forest, where the farmers had not thought it worth clearing the rugged, stony landscape. At the clear, undisturbed entrance to an old logging road, the truck swung off the highway and came to a stop. The man inside switched off the engine, and there was instant silence, except for the tiny impact of the heavily falling snow as it hit the windshield, then melted away.

The man got out, strapped a small pack to his back, pulled a warm orange cap over his head, and slung a smoothly worn .270 Winchester over his shoulder. The bluing on the barrel was rubbed away in spots from the thousands of times it had brushed against branches and wool hunting jackets, and the bolt worked smoothly and almost silently as he chambered a shell.

He was an accountant down in the town. But as he left a straight line of tracks on the logging trail, he walked away from the office and swung into the quiet, deliberate rhythm of the woods, a rhythm so slow that loud and ignorant outsiders frequently mistake it for silence. He had been much more comfortable here years ago, before he had gone to college and moved to town. His visits were much less frequent now, and it took some time to ease his mind out of the high speed traffic of thoughts and problem analysis that it was used to.
he logging road wound up over ridges and sometimes back down, but mostly up, for half a mile or so until the truck and the logging road were gone, as if they no longer existed. It was only the trees, lonely or inviting, depending on one’s frame of mind. The hunter stopped to catch his breath, rest his legs, and look at a set of tracks that meandered across the road and up the mountain. He grinned to himself. The heavy snow had barely dusted the fresh hoof prints, which were medium sized—a round fat doe or a decent sized buck. He concluded he might get some venison for his freezer after all, despite taking the chance of waiting until the last Saturday of deer season.

The woods seemed quiet and motionless as before, as if no living thing had moved through the trees and brush for days or weeks. This persistent appearance offers false comfort to those who fear its unknown depths, and maddening impatience for those who are looking for the motion of a game animal. But the hunter knew from many past hasty and false moves that it was a lie, that the trees hid all kinds of life and that it could appear at any moment, especially when he was not ready, puncturing the silence with a sudden flurry of activity, then fading away again. He knew that the deer was not far ahead of him, though many trees and a thicket stood between them.
The hunter eased into the thicket, following the tracks into an opening big enough for a deer, but not made for a man. Powdery snow slid off the rhododendron branches as he pushed them aside, carefully feeling for twigs with his boots. Raspberry stalks reached out and grasped at him as he moved along. He scanned the brush, but there was no movement and the only sound was a rapid, high pitched call as a pileated woodpecker whooshed high overhead, shouting to itself.
As he sneaked along the trail, his attention fastened on a flash of gray. His hand tightened instantly on the stock of his gun and his arm tensed, ready to throw up the barrel and squeeze the trigger. Seeing a bushy gray tail whisk down a thin green pine, he relaxed and laughed inside.

He watched as the little animal hopped through the snow away from him. Then it suddenly sat straight up, whirled and stared in his direction. He was confused. He hadn’t moved a muscle, yet the tiny creature had somehow sensed danger. Instead of jerking its tail and scolding like a squirrel usually would, it almost did a somersault turning around and raced with short rapid strides out of sight. Watching it run made some instinct in him almost want to take a shot and bring it down. But he watched it vanish without moving his gun.
He stepped on into a more open area filled with gray beech trunks. An icy breeze picked up behind him, then shifted directions and blew back downhill. Dry beech leaves rattled and branches tapped together coldly. He focused on the deer tracks in front of him. He knew he had to keep going; the dull gray snowy light was beginning to wane slightly as the afternoon peaked and drifted toward evening.
Working the trail carefully, he moved cautiously and slowly scanned the thick trees ahead, searching for any jump of movement, the flicker of an ear or tail, the outline of a deer’s back or a black nose among the branches.

The afternoon became elderly as the hunter threaded around cedar trees, picked his way over creeks, and scrabbled down a gully and up the other side. Up here on the mountain top, the stony, uneven ground was filled in and covered over with a gently rolling, fluffy white surface that told him little about what was underneath. More than once he lurched forward as his foot found a hole where it expected solid ground.

He saw no sign of the deer except its footprints. As he plowed through a wide thicket of thin beech saplings, he more than once snapped twigs and swished loudly against branches, expecting each time to find running tracks not far ahead. But the biting wind covered his sound, and the tracks stayed close together.
As he leaned on a big poplar and puffed his breath in clouds into the cold air, he didn’t see the deer walk into view up the ridge, but suddenly it was there, out in the open, flicking its ears back and forth and staring in the opposite direction. A longish shot. He quickly knelt down and steadied his aim on his knee, trying not to shake from the icy cold that was now seeping through his hands and feet. When the peep sight settled comfortably on the deer, he paused.
It swiveled its ears toward him and stared in his direction, then flipped its tail and began to paw the snow and nibble at the ground. The hunter felt the satisfaction of knowing he was unobserved, a motionless piece of the landscape. He rested his finger on the trigger and considered. It had no antlers, and wasn’t that big. He didn’t value antlers that highly, but he didn’t think this was the decent sized deer he was tracking. He would be happy enough with it, but there would be that feeling that he had been impatient, settling for the first deer he came across when a bigger one might be nearby. The deer glanced back his way, and suddenly became alert. Both ears strained toward him and the animal froze. The hunter narrowed his eyes in irritation. He had not moved a muscle, the wind was blowing in his face, and he had no idea why the deer suddenly was on high alert.

The animal bounded forward. As it did, the hunter instantly made up his mind, prompted by a strong instinct not to let prey escape. The rifle’s muzzle followed the brown form confidently as it bounced, with the familiarity of years of practice. The sight settled naturally and when it felt right, the hunter squeezed the trigger. The silence was blown away by a resonating boom that he barely heard, and the stock punched backward into his shoulder, a kick that he barely felt.

A ringing silence filled the cold air as the gunshot rolled away across the valley. The white tail continued to bounce away through the trees without faltering, then disappeared over the crest of the ridge. The hunter cursed quietly, but he was not that upset, only scolding himself for taking the shot at all.

He knew, however, that he might not have failed, or that even if he had, the deer might be wounded. So with an effort he pushed himself up out of his crouch and walked over to where the deer had stood. The snow was mixed with dark brown leaves where the deer had churned forward into a run. There were no red spots of blood or clumps of brown hair, and they should have been easy to spot in the blank whiteness. He sighed, then smiled, took off his hat, and ran his hand through his hair. Another one in a long list of deer that had gone on to eat another acorn after his errant shots.

To make sure he had truly missed, he strolled along the trail for a good hundred yards or so, never finding a trace of blood. Satisfied, he considered what to do. The light in the solid gray sky was beginning to dim and although he was not afraid of the dark, he knew that it was useless to start tracking again with so little time.
This was a good spot for deer though, with several trails of hoof prints cutting across the ridge in the new-fallen snow. It was worth sitting on a stump for the few minutes until dark to see what might happen by, if there were any deer that hadn’t been scared into the next valley by the shot.

He brushed the snow off the rough bark of a fallen oak and eased himself down. The woods was now deathly silent, except for the rising and falling sigh of the wind in the bare black branches. The dark trunks of the trees stood out sharply against the snow. Little caps of snow topped the brush and the scattered stumps.

Then behind his back, a blue jay began screaming. He couldn’t see it, but he could see nothing in that direction and assumed it was screaming at him.

He faced forward again, but a branch snapped behind him and he jerked around and saw a fox, running full out and low to the ground. It passed within a few feet of him with flattened ears and its tail bushed out. He looked right into its eyes as it flashed by but it took no interest in him whatsoever. Behind it was nothing, only the deepening murkiness among the beech trees.

An owl hooted over the hill and the outlines of the branches began to grow fuzzy and melt into the flat gray twilight. The hunter checked his sights, and finding that he had trouble seeing them, stood up to leave. He was bothered by the fox. He had heard no dogs barking or men shouting, but it had been clearly terrified. The woods seemed less friendly in the gloom and he had a sensation of being watched.
He shook his head at his imagination. He had more than a mile to go to his truck and he didn’t like the thought of making his way through all the ground he had covered with that cold prickly feeling on the back of his neck. He cleared his throat. The noise sounded loud in the dim trees. He clicked on his flashlight and the dusk immediately grew deeper outside the puddle of harsh light. As he marched along, flashing the light over the boot prints he had made on the way in, he tried to think about a warm truck, steaming coffee and his wife waiting with supper. She would smile and ask him if he had seen anything. He had a story to tell, at least.

His attention was jerked back to the blackening surroundings as his flashlight played over an unusual pattern in his tracks. He bent over to look closely at the small circle of brightly reflecting snow with sharp interest. In the center of his footprint was a deep impression that he had seen somewhere before. The cold prickle ran down his back and he almost choked as he realized that he had seen it before in his own yard, but it was much tinier there. It was the footprint of a cat.

His breath was quick now as he stared around into the shadows and he mentally cursed the heartbeat that thumped loudly in his ears. He knew he could see more if he turned off his light, but it seemed like his only security, a small dyke holding out the lapping waves of darkness. He didn’t want to leave it on, either—he couldn’t shake the image of two glowing eyes that forced its way into his imagination. Two glowing eyes that did not appear.

He looked down at the tracks again, to make sure they were actually there. They did not cross his tracks, but stayed with them, always in the thickest cover on one side or the other. Always following.
It was all wrong. The big mountain cats were long gone, all killed by the first settlers in the valley. But these tracks, twice as big as any bobcat, said it was a lie. Some might doubt, but he had seen too many tracks and he knew. He knew. He clutched the cold stock of his gun with sweating hands. There would be only a split second to react if…

Mountain lions rarely attack people, he knew. “Rarely” did nothing to shorten the long black mile to his truck, or the horrible sense that there in the dark, on the lonely mountain, a dark form was coiling to come hurtling out of the deep shadow.

He began to run.