Brain-Pan

Here is a quick little story I wrote for my college class. Enjoy!

The Watcher

By Manuel Lagos, Jr.

Beneath the moonless Tennessee night on the winding vertebrae of The Devil’s Backbone, a figure mounted his horse. Transporting letters along the dangerous Natchez Trace; it was not an envied job, but a job nonetheless. He was sore from the constant riding along the roughly hewn trail. Worse, he could not afford lodging at one of the shady establishments along the trace. Overworked, underpaid- the working man is a timeless figure.

Like the silhouette of a shadow puppet, the postman rode along the dark passage. He could not see the road before him, nor did he care to see it. Completing his route was the only thing that mattered. Getting his salary was the only thing that mattered. All else was immaterial.

The rider could feel the trail getting rockier, but the horse rode on. The bag of mail across his shoulder jostled even more against his already raw skin. And then it snapped. The letters and parcels streamed out of his broken satchel. The rider halted his horse and caught much of his mail. Yet, he saw some letters blow in the wind, like white leaves rustling in the night. He immediately knew that he must venture into the black of the night and recover the lost mail otherwise he would find himself without employment.

Horse tied to the nearest tree, the rider set out to find the letters strewn through the clearing that led off the Trace. It soon became apparent to the rider that he was wandering closer towards two buildings. He recognized the cabins as Grinder’s Inn; he was taught to avoid the place from other postmen. What he didn’t recognize was the strange figure outside one of the cabins. Was it another person? But the closer the rider stepped, the more he was sure of it. There was a person entering one of the cabins.

It’s their business, not mine, thought the rider as he located the nearest letter. Stooping to collect the piece of mail, a noise rang in the rider’s ears. A gunshot. The rider immediately straightened himself and looked about for the source of the sound. Another shot. It was coming from the cabin that the figure had entered. He had seen the muzzle fire shine light between the cracks of the cabin wall. The rider could only think of one thing- run. But all he could manage to do was clumsily squat in the shadows of the nearby foliage.

Breath bated, the rider became a watcher as he waited for the killer to leave the cabin. It seemed that an hour passed before the killer left. The murderer departed with a bag that he did not have before. When the killer had disappeared in the shadows, the watcher had every intention of leaving. That was the moment that he noticed something lying at the cabin doorstep. It was bright white against the dark horizon. It was a letter. No. It can’t be. The rider tried to convince himself otherwise but it was in vain. If that letter belonged to someone of any import, he would lose his job.

With a gulp of his dry throat, the watcher slowly stood up. His body suddenly remembered that it ached and his muscles burned again. Each step seemed as loud as his heartbeat . What if the killer is still around? For the first time that night, the rider’s environment meant everything to him.

He tried not to look towards the cabin as he drew close to the letter. But his eyes wandered and noticed the cabin door was open. The first thing the watcher saw was the blood, the dark crimson blood that shone in the night. The killer had tracked the blood onto the letter when he left. The rider reached for the letter. His hands shook as he picked up the letter; he smeared the blood across the paper and his fingers. Looking up, a bone-white shape reached for him. The victim fell onto the watcher’s feet. Blood and bone, skin and slobber, the man’s face was mangled. He was muttering one word, “Water…”

There was no telling who he was. That was when the rider remembered hearing word of a governor making his way to Washington D.C. along the Trace. There was mention that he might have quite a bit of money with him. The watcher realized that he had just watched a murder and robbery. And a dying man’s body was lying against his boots.

I need to leave. The watcher had collected all the lost mail that he saw, even though many letters were now blotted with red marks. Even so, the watcher walked away. Apathetic, he simply turned his back on the dying man. It was easier to do than he expected.

The watcher suppressed the memory; when asked about that night, he had found the man dead. The man he later found out was Meriwether Lewis, the governor of the Louisiana Territory and hero of the Lewis and Clark Expedition. But what did it matter? The watcher kept his job and he moved on with his life as though the incident never happened.

With a back turned to those in need, the watcher lives on today. That watcher lives in every American. The watcher is pre-occupied and cannot stop to help people along the path. To the watcher, each human is just another face, another blurred memory that has no emotional connection or spiritual worth. The watcher walks through the moonless night, back to a passionless job and an unremarkable life. Worst of all, there is blood on the watcher’s hands.

Please let me know what you thought. (If you've made it this far.) 

God bless, and don't forget to use your brain-pan!

-Manny