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literature
Peace In Running Valley
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Literature Text
I sleep in a hollow under the roots of a tree. It doesn’t like closed spaces.
Of course, it quickly learned that it could hide in the tree and wait for me to come out. I remember the look on its face when it stared down the barrel of my rifle. It was a look of begrudging acceptance. It didn’t run. It knew I wouldn’t shoot. No matter how vicious this creature was, it knew the sound of a gun far too well to attack one.
It’s difficult learning to sleep with fear. I wonder how it sleeps.
Yesterday morning, three men, two pistols and a rifle, came to take out the creature. I shot one in the shoulder. If they hadn’t the sense to leave, then I would have shot to kill. Someone once called it a crime, but I’ve long since abandoned that notion. There are many men, and only one creature. Every time I’ve shot to kill, I’ve taken away thirty years of life. One year spent being cradled by a mother. One year learning to walk. One year learning what it means to be loved. I’ve carved a dot under the roots of the tree for each year of a man’s life I’ve taken away. I have 240 dots now. The creature has taken more than me.
I occasionally see it when I cook my food. The key is not to let it stare you down. The creature does not prefer company. It prefers food. I am neither, so I don’t know what it thinks of me.
There was a boy once. I taught him how to shoot a gun. I taught him how to aim to kill. I taught him how to see what’s going on around him. I taught him that point too well, so he left. It’s been two years.
I will continue this game for a long time. I will sleep, and I will hunt, and I will be hunted. As long as neither the creature nor I dies, the game will continue. I may slip up or die of old age, so it will likely outlive me. Perhaps mankind will learn to avoid this forest, and stop screaming about “the abomination.” When I die, there might be peace in Running Valley.
Of course, it quickly learned that it could hide in the tree and wait for me to come out. I remember the look on its face when it stared down the barrel of my rifle. It was a look of begrudging acceptance. It didn’t run. It knew I wouldn’t shoot. No matter how vicious this creature was, it knew the sound of a gun far too well to attack one.
It’s difficult learning to sleep with fear. I wonder how it sleeps.
Yesterday morning, three men, two pistols and a rifle, came to take out the creature. I shot one in the shoulder. If they hadn’t the sense to leave, then I would have shot to kill. Someone once called it a crime, but I’ve long since abandoned that notion. There are many men, and only one creature. Every time I’ve shot to kill, I’ve taken away thirty years of life. One year spent being cradled by a mother. One year learning to walk. One year learning what it means to be loved. I’ve carved a dot under the roots of the tree for each year of a man’s life I’ve taken away. I have 240 dots now. The creature has taken more than me.
I occasionally see it when I cook my food. The key is not to let it stare you down. The creature does not prefer company. It prefers food. I am neither, so I don’t know what it thinks of me.
There was a boy once. I taught him how to shoot a gun. I taught him how to aim to kill. I taught him how to see what’s going on around him. I taught him that point too well, so he left. It’s been two years.
I will continue this game for a long time. I will sleep, and I will hunt, and I will be hunted. As long as neither the creature nor I dies, the game will continue. I may slip up or die of old age, so it will likely outlive me. Perhaps mankind will learn to avoid this forest, and stop screaming about “the abomination.” When I die, there might be peace in Running Valley.
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I sense two underlying themes in this passage: codependency, and tilting at windmills.
I note that the creature's appearance is never described in detail, leaving it to the reader's imagination. The bond (I don't know how else to describe it) between the narrator and the creature starts in that standoff when neither one dares to attack the other. Ever since then, the narrator has tried to protect the creature, despite the creature being more than able to handle its own. In fact, there's nothing that actually suggests that the creature needs or wants the assistance of the narrator.
In the mention of the three men coming to kill the creature, you list the weapons they used. It sounds like an unnecessary detail at first, but then I remember how the narrator has a rifle of his own and likely could match or overpower them all. But it's not like shooting to kill has left the narrator unscathed -- he marks each year of life and thinks of all the moments that were brought to an end by his rifle.
In teaching the boy how to shoot a gun, it sounds to me like the narrator is trying to carry on his legacy. He clearly thinks about the boy on a regular basis despite him being gone for two years.
The last paragraph mentions "the abomination." At first, it sounds like a reference to the creature, but I'm thinking it's the narrator himself, bent on shooting anyone who threatens this balance. For a time I was thinking that the creature was all a figment of the narrator's imagination, but the three men coming to kill the creature gives me pause on that. Or perhaps the creature is a rumor that spread.
I note that the creature's appearance is never described in detail, leaving it to the reader's imagination. The bond (I don't know how else to describe it) between the narrator and the creature starts in that standoff when neither one dares to attack the other. Ever since then, the narrator has tried to protect the creature, despite the creature being more than able to handle its own. In fact, there's nothing that actually suggests that the creature needs or wants the assistance of the narrator.
In the mention of the three men coming to kill the creature, you list the weapons they used. It sounds like an unnecessary detail at first, but then I remember how the narrator has a rifle of his own and likely could match or overpower them all. But it's not like shooting to kill has left the narrator unscathed -- he marks each year of life and thinks of all the moments that were brought to an end by his rifle.
In teaching the boy how to shoot a gun, it sounds to me like the narrator is trying to carry on his legacy. He clearly thinks about the boy on a regular basis despite him being gone for two years.
The last paragraph mentions "the abomination." At first, it sounds like a reference to the creature, but I'm thinking it's the narrator himself, bent on shooting anyone who threatens this balance. For a time I was thinking that the creature was all a figment of the narrator's imagination, but the three men coming to kill the creature gives me pause on that. Or perhaps the creature is a rumor that spread.