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Order this writing in the collection book Revealing All Your Dirty Little Secrets available for only $1995 |
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This appears in a pre-2010 issue
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The Man Who Played With Lightning
Don Stockard
Gregor stood up and stretched. He remained fully extended for several moments with his eyes closed, enjoying the tension flowing through his body. He exhaled and relaxed, opened his eyes, and stared at the valley that stretched out to the north. Narrow at first, the valley opened gradually until in the distance it was broad, encompassing fields and a village. He glanced to either side at the rocky peaks capped with snow that guarded the pass. He stretched again and then began to descend.
Gregor strode easily as the trail switchbacked down the headwall of the pass. He was a slight man with a beard and long hair — both dark and shot with gray. His clothes were well-worn and plain tan in color. His boots were equally well-used and in need of repair. He carried a canvas backpack on a wooden frame. Wide-set dark brown eyes dominated his placid face.
He glanced occasionally at the village in the distance. Perhaps twenty buildings were scattered about a square with a larger building on one side. Gregor assumed the larger building was the church. Soon the valley and the village vanished behind a wall of trees as Gregor entered the forest. The trail, which had been faint at the pass, was equally ill-defined in the forest. Switchbacks were no longer necessary as the angle of the slope moderated. The trail paralleled a rambunctious stream.
Rounding a turn, Gregor came upon an elderly man sitting on a rock beside the trail. The man was leaning back, his hands clasped around his knee. His chin was elevated and his eyes closed. Gregor halted, staring at the man.
“Hello.” The man neither moved nor opened his eyes.
“Hello. I’m sorry if I disturbed you.”
“Not all.” The man chuckled and leaned forward, opening his eyes. “It’s not often that I get company. Few come this way. I’m Arnold and you?”
Gregor introduced himself. “Are you from the village?”
Arnold shook his head. “No. I live here, in the forest.”
Gregor nodded. Occasionally he ran across a hermit.
“And you?”
“Just passing through. It’s about time for harvest. I thought I might get a couple of days of work in the village.”
Arnold nodded. “Wouldn’t be surprised.” He stood up. “I was just getting ready for some lunch. Care to join me?”
Gregor smiled. “Sure. I’ve got a bit I can throw in.”
“Fine. Follow me.” Arnold shouldered a small, leather rucksack. He led at a surprisingly fast pace up the trail for a quarter of a mile before he abruptly turned to the right and plunged into the forest, following a barely discernable path. The path ended in a clearing where a small stone hut stood.
Gregor ducked through the low door, following Arnold into the hut. His eyes were accustomed to the daylight, and he found the interior of the hut dark.
“Let’s get a little light in here.” Arnold pushed open the shutters and sunlight streamed in, illuminating the interior. The furnishings were simple — a stone sleeping platform and a small table with two three-legged stools. There was a fireplace across from the door and small windows on both side walls.
Arnold threw his rucksack on the table and swung the large iron pot over the coals. He took some mushrooms out of his pack and threw them into the pot. Gregor added some dried meat.
“Let that bubble a bit, and we’ll have something to eat!” Arnold laughed as he stoked the fire.
The two sat on the stools while they waited for the pot to boil.
“Do you think I could reach the village today?” Gregor asked.
Arnold shook his head. “No. It’s a full day’s trek from here. You’re welcome to stay the night if you wish and start out early tomorrow.”
“That’s very generous of you. I wouldn’t be interfering with anything, would I?”
Arnold laughed. “No, not at all. I was just going to do a little hunting in the mountains. Might get a sheep. You’re welcome to come along.”
“Sure. Why not?”
“Great!” Arnold stirred the pot.
The resultant stew was hearty and tasty. Soon after eating, the two were on their way toward the pass. Arnold carried his rucksack and an ancient musket. Gregor carried his pack. He let Arnold lead and was surprised at the speed and agility of the older man. Gregor reckoned Arnold to be in his late sixties or early seventies, and yet Gregor, who was in his early forties, would have been hard put to force a faster pace.
They paused at the pass. “Where are we headed now?”
“Up there.” Arnold nodded toward the peak to their right.
Gregor glanced at the mountain. When he had crossed the pass initially, he had been more interested in the valley and had given the peaks only a passing glance. The slope was steep but not sheer. Near the summit was a snowfield. Thick clouds drifted past the summit.
Gregor frowned. “Couldn’t those clouds hold some rain?”
“I suppose, but I wouldn’t worry about it.” Arnold stood up and began climbing.
Gregor hesitated and then followed, leaving his pack at the pass. The two ascended steadily. Arnold was clearly accustomed to climbing and familiar with the route. His pace did not slacken; instead, it increased. Gregor alternated between glancing at the valley below and the clouds above. Patches of dark shadow floated across the valley, mirroring the paths of the clouds. The two were halfway to the summit when Gregor heard the first growl of thunder.
“Are you sure this is a wise idea?” Afternoon thunderstorms in the mountains were not uncommon, and he had always avoided them.
“Good time to hunt!” Arnold laughed and increased his pace.
Although prudence told Gregor to begin his descent immediately, there was something recklessly intriguing about Arnold, drawing him on. The higher they went, the denser, darker, and more menacing the cloud cover became. Thunder was more frequent and much louder. Still Arnold pushed on. Gregor could hear the older man’s breath, deep and regular.
By the time they reached the snowfield leading to the summit, they were immersed in clouds. Despite the exertion of climbing, Gregor felt a chill. The snow was firm and Arnold kicked step as he marched up the slope. A clap of thunder exploded near by.
“This is crazy! We’ll get killed!”
“Come on!” Arnold never broke stride. “We don’t want to miss the fire!”
Gregor halted and glanced down the slope.
“Hurry up! We’ll be on top in a few minutes and then we’ll start down.”
Arnold was, Gregor decided, completely mad. Still there was something overwhelmingly strong about his personality, something that brooked no disagreement. Gregor followed the neat row of steps in the snow.
When Gregor staggered onto the broad summit, Arnold was fifty feet ahead and a dim shadow in the mist. Just as Gregor caught up with Arnold, a flash of lightning followed by a deafening clap of thunder split the clouds. The bolt was so close Gregor could hear the hiss of its passage and smell the nitrogen oxide. He collapsed in terror beside Arnold.
“It’s the fire!” Arnold raised both arms and laughed. “It’s the fire!”
A second clap of thunder drowned out his laughter.
Gregor remained kneeling in the snow as bolt after bolt ripped through the air nearby. He could feel his hair standing on end and see Arnold’s hair and beard glow with Saint Elmo’s fire.
“There!” Arnold pointed his musket to the right. A bolt of lighting flashed to the right.
“Now there!” He turned to the left and another bolt lit up that side of the summit.
“More! More!”
Gregor cried in terror as jagged bolt after bolt covered the summit in a bizarre white light. Intermingling with the claps of thunder, he could hear the maniacal laughter of Arnold. Gregor had no idea how long the display went on. Nor did he know if he were alive or dead.
“Now come to me!” Arnold’s voice matched the thunder itself. There was a horrendous crash, and Gregor clamped his eyes shut in sheer terror. When he opened them, the storm had abated. Although he was still surrounded by mist, the only thunder was distant and compared to what he had experienced, anemic.
There was no sign of Arnold. Gregor staggered to his feet, shouting the old man’s name. There was no response. Soon the mist dissipated, and the sun returned. Even in the full light of day, Gregor could find no trace of Arnold. He made a complete circuit of the summit, scanning the snowfield for tracks. Other than the set they had made on ascending, there were none.
Finally he was forced to descend as night was approaching. At the pass he retrieved his pack and continued his descent. He was unable to find the faint path to Arnold’s cabin in the gathering dusk. He camped beside a stream for the night. The next morning he searched again for the path to the cabin. Having no luck, he continued to the village.
Harvest was in full swing, and Gregor quickly found work. During a break, he asked the farmers about the elderly man named Arnold who lived in the mountains. None knew of any such man.
“Arnold, you say?” One grizzled old farmer frowned in thought.
Gregor nodded.
The farmer chewed on his pipe for a moment. “My father told me once of an old man by the name of Arnold. A bachelor that lived just down the road from him when he was a boy. Said he was killed during the harvest one year by a bolt of lightning.”
Gregor started in surprise. “A bolt of lightning?”
The farmer nodded. “Yep. That’s what my pappy said. Never heard of anything like it since.”
Gregor turned toward the mountain and stared at it in silence.
