The Surviving Son (Valkyrie Book 2) (17 page)

Something plagues Abel, he remains silent, head lowered, and
eyes adrift. One might say that he dwells in depression, but then
again, the boy’s ethos does not lend to despair. Although he can
mourn for the loss of loved ones, he does not allow such emotions
to overpower and subdue him. Heis the guardian ofhis father’sland,
a prince, a king, and he upholds that stature with pride and an
unwavering vigil. It wasn’t depression that had overcome him, but
still, something pulled at his taught emotional strings.

“I want to show you something.” The boy said just after
breakfast, but did not wait for our response. Instead he sauntered off
into the forest as Steph and I rushed to keep up.

We hiked down his mountain and eventually out onto old route
twenty-seven, but did not follow the highway for long. Just about a
quarter of a mile later, soon after crossing a deteriorated bridge that
sprawled over the Dead River, we reentered the forest on the eastern
side and continued on. For most of it we followed an overgrown
ATV trail, passing by Bugeye Pond, then across Gold Brook, and
eventually stepping out into an old gravel-pit, once used as a sand
reserve for the Department of Transportation.

Steph and I sweated profusely, and yet Abel was as dry as a
bone, still silent, and staring upwards towards a barren ridge of
cliffs. After a moment, Abel looked at the two of us, then without a
word he reentered the forest, heading straight for the base of those
ledges. With an exhausted sigh, Steph and I continued to follow,
ignoring the stings of blood-thirsty insects, or that of the thorny
underbrush.

Slowly we moved upwards, and the forest began to recede as
dense foliage gave way to moss covered stone, and then to sheer
jagged rocks. There was not path in sight, nothing to guide the boy
to his destination, but we held our questions in reserve, relying on
our trust in him. Even when we crossed the mutilated yet only day’s
old remains of a large moose blocking out course, we kept silent.
The beast had recently plummeted from the ledges above, either a
misjudged step on his part, or more likely he was startled and driven
to his own demise. Either way, we held our breath and squeezed by
the gruesome remains, rushing to keep up with the determined boy.

Eventually we broke through the canopy of the tallest trees,
giving light to a blazing sun, and the jagged cliffs also faded over
the crest of their edges. The surface had gone from steep and jagged,
to gradual and almost smooth. Hard granite that had been, little by
little, carved and shaped by exposure and constant rain. A seemingly
never-ending and arduous incline, yet debunked of the hazards we
had just overcome. My leg’s ached endlessly, but I refused to slow
down, I refused to show my strain. And just as they were about to
buckle on their own, Abel stopped and turned back towards us, but
his eyes were fixated on something else.

Looking about, we had made it to the summit of this massive
stone fortress, its northern face surrounded by a crescent of even
higher cliff’s, all of which watched over the forests below. And then,
as I caught my breath, I turned towards the south, and my eyes lay
upon the very thing that attracted Abel, the thing that Steph had
already noticed and gasped with wonderment. It was surreal,
breathtaking, and awe-inspiring.

We stood upon the northern edge of a long mountain range, and
another one stretch across the southern horizon, but what rested at
their bases was a beautiful feat of nature. Chain of Pond’s, and series
of waterways carved out by ancient glaciers, all interconnected by
narrow channels and marshy bogs. Each pond sparkled in the
basting sun and created a mirror image of the forests and mountains
that surround them. Needless to say, whatever purpose Abel had in
bringing us here, it was well worth the painful exertion.

“Papa called this God’s Porch.” Abel finally broke the silence.
“It’s gorgeous.” Steph acknowledged.
“He said that all of this land was mine, and that I should never

“Can you name all of the ponds?” She asked as I sat down
behind him, catching my breath, and observing Abel more so than
the scenery. The boy pointed out towards the first pond that lay just
below us.

“Lower, Bag, and Long.” his hand shifting towards each
waterway as he listed them off. “Further up is Natanis and Round
Pond, but you can’t see them from here.”

“I remember everything…” He turned and smiled at Steph, the
first of the day. “Well almost.”
“What does Natanis mean?” Steph asked.
“It is a name.” The boy stated. “Papa said he was a watcher. A
native, like me, who kept eyes on all those who passed through this
land.”
“A watcher?” Steph asked. I gave Abel a chance to answer, but
he did not, apparently his father never told him the whole story. I
myself have always been fascinated by the American Revolution,
and knew a bit about this tale.
“He was a Native American spy,” I answered her. “The story
goes that he was commissioned by the British to keep track of
Colonial Forces moving northward into Quebec.” Abel shifted his
body to face me, once again resting his chin upon his hands and
anxious for a story. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much to tell. “When
Benedict Arnold marched his army northward he heard tale of this
Natanis. Now, this is where the story becomes diluted. Some say
Arnold sought out this man as a villain, seeking to stop him from
alerting British forces. Others say that Arnold hired Natanis for a
couple days work, in the end befriending him. At which point
Natanis sympathized with the colonists and ultimately switched
sides.”
“Why would he help either side?” Steph asked.
“At this point in American history, the Europeans were
widespread along the east coast. It was common for the Natives to
align with either side. However, it’s hard to say what is true, little
was written about Arnold’s march, even less of those he interacted
with. Although the latter of the stories might as well be ironically
accurate, seeing that later Arnold defected to the British.”
“Well that was a boring story.” Abel spat, as Steph busted out
laughing.
“Indeed.” I answered. “How about you tell us a story.” I
suggested. “What about the cliff’s behind us? Do theyhaveastory?”
“The Devil’s Porch.” He stated, looking up at the cracked and
jagged stones that rose a good hundred feet or more above.
“The Devil’s?” Steph questioned. “It would seem the view
would be better from up there. We might even be able to see the
other ponds. Shouldn’t God’s Porch be higher than the Devil’s?”
“Papa never took me there. He said it was too dangerous. That
those cracks and crags were the Devil’s teeth, and they would chew
us up good.”
“Iforoneam happy your father preferred the modest of the two.
I do not think I could have climbed up that.” I said.
Abel did not respond, he stared up at those formidable ledges
for a moment before something else caught his eye from behind us.
Turning I instantly caught sight of a long snake slithering its way
across the hot stone. One of the largest snakes I had ever seen, or
even expected to see in New England. A good four feet long, if not
more, flat black, and dark beady eyes like that of a demon.
Unfamiliar with snakes I quickly backed away, unsure if this could
be venomous, and Steph followed suit with a high pitched squeal.
The boy on the other hand showed no fear as he rose from his
perch and like that of a mink, he swiftly swooped over and snatched
up the fierce looking serpent. With a quick jerk of his hand, he
snapped its neck and swung the carcass over his shoulder before
joining us back upon the sun scorched stone. Steph scooted over,
closer to me, and away from the boy and his proud kill. None the
less she was not a fan of snakes, alive or dead, and Abel instantly
noticed her repulsion.
“Dinner.” He said with a smile.
“Abel,” I addressed, looking to distract Steph from the reptile
as well as getting answers. “As beautiful as it is, why did you bring
us here?” The boy pondered my question for a moment before
speaking.
“You want me to go back with you.” He finally spoke. “This is
why I cannot.” He said looking out over the land. “I must guard this
land, like Natanis. Leaving it would betray my father’s wishes, just
as your Arnold betrayed his people.”
“Guard it from whom?” I asked.
“From those who would destroyit.” He answered. “Papa is now
a part of this land, and I won’t let them take it.”
“Your father’s fear of this land being destroyed by man goes
back long before you were born. It was a time when man used large
machines to strip the land of resources. Now, there are fewer men
and no machines to take on such a task.” I paused a moment, staring
into his eyes. “There is nothing man can do to this land that the land
will not recover from. Nature is a resilient beast, your father saw this
first hand.”
“And besides,” Steph added, “When you return, with Nova too,
you will see that nothing has changed.” Abel sat silently, still gazing
out over the valley, peering into the bosom of the only mother he
has known.
“A great man once said,” I continued, “
Do not go where the
path may lead, go instead where there is no path, and leave a trail.
”
The boy looked up at me, confused, awaiting more. “It was
Emerson’s way of saying that everyone must create their own
destiny, but one that will shine and be undeniable. Your blood will
save mankind, but your story, your legacy, will be the trail that
inspires generations to come.”
The boy didn’t speak at first, he stared back into my eyes for a
moment, before gazing out over the horizon. I could see his mind
working, pondering my words, still weighing out the pros and the
cons. Steph and I sat silently as well, seeing that we have made a
strong case, and did not want to push him too far. And as we waited
for his response, the day became even hotter, and our clothes became
swamped with sweat. I was about to suggest we leave, but then Abel
turned back, with a question in his eyes.
“Was Emerson and Arnold brothers?” Steph and I busted out
together in laughter. Of all the questions he could have asked, it was
the most trivial that guided his curiosity.
“No Abel,” I muttered in an attempt to smother the humor.
“Let’s go swimming, it’s time we cooled off.”
Without further discussion, without any other questions from
Abel, we hiked back down into the valley and towards Lower Pond.
Although the lack of time was always on my mind, to rush the boy
into a decision would prove futile. He had to make the choice on his
own, he had to be ready to leave. But, as we dove into the pond, and
the cool mountain water washed away the stench from our skin, his
acceptance of us was the sign I needed. He would make his decision
soon, and before long we would be marching westward, cutting our
own trail and giving way to the revolution of man.

By late afternoon we left the cool waters of Lower Pond and
hiked back towards Abel’s cabin. My recommendation of taking the
road was thrown aside to Abel’s short-cut, which he insisted that we
follow. How short it was compared to the road, I can’t be sure,
however it was sure to be an interesting trip. We tracked a moose
trail which zig-zagged throughout the forest, over steep hills and
through rocky brooks. But, it was a swamp that truly slowed our
journey, and eventually bringing it to a halt.

“Nice short
-cut.” Steph muttered sarcastically.
“I don’t remember this.” Abel muttered in frustration.
“Do you mean that weare lost?” Iasked, but was answered with

a simple sough of annoyance.
“If we cross this we will find the trail again.” He said as he
stepped into the bog and sloshed his way through it.
Aside from the smell of decaying vegetation, it was a place of
wonderment and beauty. Pitch black water surrounded by moss
covered rocks, logs and trees. Wisps of beard lichen dangled from
the branches just below the dense emerald canopy which appeared
to glow beneath a blazing sun. As breathtaking as it was, the area
possessed an eerie qualm about it, and an abundance of bitter
silence. I could see the agitation in Steph’s eyes as we followed the
boy through the muck, but just like many times before, we laid our
trust in him.
We had covered almost half of the area, our legs caked in a paste
of peat and mud, when the bog eventually came alive. Not with the
sounds of birds, or the chittering of woodland rodents, but with
gasps and faint moans. However, there was nothing around us, we
were alone, and yet the unearthly bellows rose even louder, and soon
Abel became agitated as well. Fiercely he pried a dried branch from
the marsh and poked randomly about, through mounds of moss and
walls of vines until the scenic landscape uprooted and lurched
towards us.
The Irish poet Seamus Heaney would have marveled at the sight
as well as cowered before it. His poem, The Tollund Man, was a
dark and inspiring tale of an ancient man, mummified within the
depths of a peat-bog only to be pulled from its dark depths thousands
of years later. There have been many tales such as this, Bog Bodies
or Bog People, and throughout most of Europe these preserved
remains have been discovered and theorized about. But none of
them could live up to the grisly exhibit before us, no, all around us.
Throughout the swamp figures rose and pried themselves from
the stitches of nature. Encased in moss and entwined with vines, the
bodies of the damned were scantly recognizable. Yet, our intrusion
to their marshy necropolis did not go unnoticed as they left their
endless stance of slothfulness for the painful yearning of gluttony.
There were a dozen or more, but I did not take the time to count, as
Abel lashed out and thrusted his branch through the first skull, I
pulled my gun and blasted another.
Steph too joined in on our impromptu execution, slashing
haphazardly through the air with her knife a few times before
striking through the face of a stocky Necrotic that approached from
behind. The right side of its lichen cloaked guise slowly peeled away
from the wound before falling to the sludge below with a heavy plop.
The two faced demon, one of morass and the other of ebonized skull,
lurched forward and grasped her shoulders with clenched vinewrapped fingers. But, she did not falter, with the swiftness of a bird,
she yanked its head down and plunged her blade through the base of
its skull.
Another demon heaved up from the shallow depths, caked in a
ashen slime of algae and rot, grasping at my jeans with such force
that its fingertips peeled away from the bone. I wish I could say that
I held my ground, blasted away its diseased brain, and continued
with the next assailant. But that would be a lie, and there were
witnesses that could attest to that fact. Instead, I panicked,
screaming like a school-girl and toppling over into the blackened
sludge.
My gun slipped from my grip as I sloshed through the sunbrewed peat in attempt to distance myself from the emerging
carcass. Desperately I search for it, my hands obscured by the pitch
liquid as I dug through the muck below it. I could feel the fiend
crawling up my legs, inches closer to more tender and exposed flesh,
but I continued to seek out my weapon as I struggled to kick the
Necrotic away.
Then, as if guided from beyond, my arms sunk deep underneath
a log and gripped tightly upon the hand-cannon. In a swift an
instinctual motion of self-preservation I twisted back around and
pulled the trigger. Steph already stood above me, yanking the rotten
mass away, and the round exploded through its head as it passed too
close to her own. She stumbled back in shock as I flopped about
within the thick silt to reach her, and upon pulling her into my arms
I searched for a wound, trembling that I had killed this poor young
woman. But she was fine, startled and dumbfounded, but all intact
and without a single scratch.
The assault continued for a few more minutes, as each of us
dashed towards the next sluggish fiend and laid it to rest. Before
long we had fought our way through the verdant horde and stood in
place, exhausted, sweaty, and still trembling with fear. With
reprieve, I grabbed hold of Steph again, pulling her into a tight
embrace and kissing her forehead to comfort her shocked nerves.
She did not return the embrace, and instead lay limp from
exhaustion, allowing me to affectionately support her weight.
“HOLY SHIT!” Abel’s adolescent voice rung out from behind
us.
My eyes grew wide as I looked over my shoulder and carelessly
released my hold upon Steph as she dropped to her knees in renewed
revulsion. Stomping towards us was a behemoth of flora and death,
the colossal Necrotic stood a towering seven feet, if not more. Back
in the days of the living he would have been feared, a burly
lumberjack perchance, with the girth of a fierce grisly. Abel
immediately raise his hands and shouted at the lumbering beast.
“NO! GO BACK!”
But it ignored his commands, pushing the boy to the ground like
a weak sapling and charging through the muddy slosh with the rage
of a wounded bull. I did not hesitate to open-fire, but also did not
take the time to aim as three or four rounds plowed through its chest,
none of which slowed its approach. Its mouth pried open, tearing
through a moss stitched gag and revealing two sets of ravenous
teeth, as it rushed forth and knocked away dead trees that blocked
its path. With little time to react, I calmed my heavy breaths, took
aim, and pulled the trigger. Its skull exploded with a mass of bone,
brain and swamp before the titans knees buckled and his hulking
mass plunged into marshy decay.
Like the impact of a meteor, the three of us were doused with a
mixture of stagnant water and viscous compost. Once again we were
covered in filth, and a long walk still waited ahead of us. But now
we would need to rely on the sun for direction, the surprise skirmish
muddled the area and obscured our path. Yet this seemed to concern
Abel none as he broke the stunned silence with his high-pitched
chortling.
“That’s a big fucker.” He gleefully cursed.
“ABEL!”
Steph scolded as I chuckled to myself with amusement, but was
soon met with her glare of distaste. Avoiding criticism I laid my
head low and pushed on through the swamp, relying on what light
penetrated the canopy to guide me as the other two followed close
behind. We didn’t say anything else about the encounter, Abel had
said it all, and we hurried along to reach the cabin before dark while
anticipating a much needed bath within the cold waters of Nash
Brook.