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This writing was accepted for publication in the 108 page perfect-bound ISSN# / ISBN# issue/book “The Cool Cold” Down in the Dirt, v202 (12/22) Order the paperback book:

Order this writing that appears in the one-of-a-kind anthology The Paths Less Traveled the Down in the Dirt September-December 2022 issues collection book		get the 422 page September-December 2022 Down in the Dirt 6" x 9" ISBN# perfect-bound paperback book:

Without hope.

John Farquhar Young

    In the gathering darkness of an early winter evening Bill Meadows, author of several marginally successful novels, divorced, and now in his mid 40s lies on the mountain side, cursing his stupidity. He should have taken a safer route down the mountain rather than the shortcut through the shallow gully, should have paid more attention to the still wet pebbles, should have started his weekly climb earlier in the afternoon, should not have had that extra pint in the pub at lunch time.
    Should - damned word! he fumes, grimacing as he tries to free his right foot jammed under a large and immovable boulder.
    He eases the trapped foot sideways and stretches his toes. There seems to be a satisfactory degree of movement.
    Good! Will soon be free.
    However, after several minutes of vigorous and unproductive tugging he lies back against the bed of pebbles convinced that he needs to consider the technical aspects of the problem in a more reflective manner.
    The top of his boot leather, he quickly decides, has been bent backwards as a result of his first attempt to free his foot and is now snagged against a sharp downward facing inner lip of the boulder. The hole is too narrow to allow him to reach the leather with his fingers or to undo the laces.
    A thin but strong stick! That was what was needed. Something like a pencil might be enough to remedy the problem. He quickly searches his jacket just in case - just in case! - there is a stray pencil lurking in a pocket. He finds no pencil but quickly locates his mobile phone. He takes a deep breath. As a last resort I can always summon help.
    After a few more bouts of frantic struggling, he reluctantly decides to phone a neighbour’s number.
    A moment later he stares in disbelief at the screen of his phone. “No signal!” he groans into the gathering darkness.
    Time passes. He is confident that he will be missed, that his neighbours will notice that there are no signs of life in his cottage, no light shining from the windows, no smoke from the chimney. “I’m a bit worried about Bill,” he expects someone will say. “Knocked at his door,” another might add. “No answer.” “Something’s amiss.” “I think I saw him heading up the mountain a few hours ago.” “Might have had an accident.”
    He would be missed. He would be found.
    He turns his mind to the week ahead. His publisher is fretting about his lack of progress on his latest novel.
    Complete the current chapter within the next few days, a reasonable target, he decides and occupies himself trying to sketch out some paragraphs.
    The cold deepens and in spite of his warm mountain clothing creeps around his bones. He raises himself onto his elbows and looks for the distant lights which would indicate the approach of a rescue party.
    Another hour passes. Small doubts begin to drip into his mind. People knew that he valued the opportunity to work without interruption. That was why he rented a cottage in the village, to focus on his writing without the distracting temptations of the city. That’s what he told people. That was what he often told himself although occasionally in quiet moments he accepted that there may have been other reasons: the gash in his sense of purpose and self-worth following the collapse of his marriage, the pain of the frequent reminders of happier times encountered as he walked familiar streets; the dangerous fragility of his finances demanding a simpler more economical lifestyle.
    I may NOT be found! The possibility lances into his consciousness and immediately fuels a bout of furious but still futile tugging against the rock’s tenacious grasp of his foot.
    Keep calm! Keep your mind occupied! Help will come.
    For several minutes he gazes at the sky trying to identify constellations. The stars - so sharp, so bright, so distant and yet they feel so close! He shifts his gaze. Beneath him in the valley the faint gentle lights of his village are visible. Closer, friendlier, and yet they feel so far away. He longs to re-enter his cottage, to light the fire, to pour himself a large whisky, to be warm and secure.
    A pebble is digging into his back. He eases his body to the left trying to reduce the discomfort. Scythe-like and balefully white, the new moon’s lower horn seems to touch the dark silhouette of a distant mountain top.
    Will I see the next full moon? “I am really sorry about Bill,” he imagines a villager saying. “Bad way to go... freak accident.” “We should have checked up on him.”
    Should...that word again!
    But as his confidence in the likelihood of rescue evaporates, as the chill within him increases, the world as a place of outer freedoms, of choices and options, seems to fade, and to be replaced by an awareness of a presence within him which combines a steely resolve - a moment-by-moment assertion of life, completely unconnected to any hope of rescue - and a deeper presence, an abiding part of himself with which some form of wordless dialogue is possible.
    The urge to sleep assails him. Struggle! Resist this!
    Vaguely as though in a dream Bill hears - imagines he hears? - a dog barking. He summons what remains of his energy and shouts, not a clear word, just a hoarse yell.
    The dog responds with an enthusiastic stream of barks and yelps, and then in a minute it is bounding around beside him.
    “There he is...” he hears someone shout. Beneath him an approaching row of light bobs and sways in the darkness.
    He is dimly conscious of passing scenes - the leather of his boot being prized away from his ankle, being carried down the mountain, being placed in an ambulance, his cold clothes being stripped off, being encompassed by warm blankets.
    He wakes suddenly from a deep sleep and is immediately aware of sunlight and bright surroundings. A tall man in a white coat with a stethoscope around his neck stands beside him. “You’re going to be OK Bill,” he says, smiling. “Just a touch of hypothermia.”
    Two days later: A generous glass of fine scotch malt whisky in hand and now fully recovered Bill stands by the front door of his cottage reflecting again on his experience on the mountain. A light mist obscures all but his immediate surroundings. His memory of what he now thinks of as his ‘trapped boot experience’, has shaken his customary way of thinking about his future.
    He shifts his gaze to the contents of his whisky glass. Too much hoping in my life! Too much wishful thinking. He hoped to produce a best seller which would attract offers of film rights. The plot and the characters though good were, he now admits, not exceptional - the layering and sophistication of conflicts lacking in sufficient complexity.
    Long established thoughts about ‘hope’ maintain a tenacious hold on his mind. What’s wrong with hope? Hoping is natural, isn’t it. Optimism is essential, isn’t it?
    But he knows that what kept him going on the mountain was something more basic, more visceral, more enduring than hope. Hoping, he decides, relies too much on chance; and, when setbacks are experienced and hope is extinguished, surrender and self-abandonment become too readily acceptable.
    Six months later - his final evening in the village before he moves back to the city: His novel, now completed, has been enthusiastically received by his publisher and his literary agent.
    The book, as he thinks of its development, simply grew. Embryo like it ‘grew’, almost like a fetus, idea by idea, revision after revision, it grew, until it emerged in its finished form. He did not fret about any temporary lack of progress or become elevated when the words flowed easily. Guided by whatever it was that asserted itself on the mountain, it simply grew. He worked, he applied himself, he put in the hours, he helped things along, but hope had no part to play in the process.
    Now for the last time he gazes up at the mountain. A small piece of rock chipped from the troublesome boulder is in the back of his car. It will be prominently positioned in the small garden of his new city home and there provide a daily reminder of his time in the cold of the mountain when something endured after hope was lost.

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