Act 2: The Placid Forest

Bill fights through the winter storm to reach his horse. He stuffs his saddlebag full of the provisions and mounts his ride. The wind bites bitterly, and Bill wraps his scarf ever more tightly in response. It’s a rough environment, but at least it’s a tail wind towards home.

Howling wind through the trees sends colossal packets of snow crashing down. Bill’s careful to avoid traveling underneath and certainly survives because of it. The snow is nearly up to his horse’s knee, but they travel on, eventually returning to his home. Bill leads his horse to the stable and lays them down on dry hay. He covers them in a thick wool blanket and heads inside to do the same for himself. He barely manages a fire before he hides under his own blanket for the night.

Come morning, the sky is clear and the fire’s died out. Bill reaches for his hat and starts getting ready.

“How you doin’ girl?” He checks on his horse, buried under layers of snow and blanket, and happily sleeping. He knows she’s fine, but the snow will only get worse as he heads into the valley, he can’t in good faith bring her. Bill dusts off the snow, sets up three days of food, and pats her on the cheek.

“I’ll be home in three days. Don’t worry.

Bill grabs his gear inside. Three days emergency rations, cookware, hunting gear, camping gear, snow gear, and his cowboy spice blend. He dons his snowshoes and loads the rest onto his sled. He hoists a leathery rope over his shoulder and starts pulling. The sun bakes the freshly poured snow into a crunchy top layer, Bill’s snow shoes graciously chew through the ice and he makes good time with little effort.

“Well I’ll be.” Bill hasn’t seen the beauty of Amarok Valley in a week. The pine trees drip with endless powder, creeks frozen in anticipation of spring, and rivers roaring in spite of winter. On top of everything, is that beautifully undisturbed layer of snow, save for a few tracks.

Bill’s avid hunter instinct screams at him to stop and track, but he knows it’s small game, nothing that would scare off a valley. A storm like that only comes once in a while, so he's got plenty of time to make it there and back. 

Bill makes it nearly 10 miles in one day, trudging and hiking through the valley. The sun starts to set and the cold really sets in, but he’s already built a fire on which he’s grilling last week’s catch. Bill’s camp is an impregnable fortress. His tent, fire, sled, all surrounded by bells on string. He heard it from an old hunter one time, a little work, but nothing’s worth more than peace of mind.

“Aw damn it.” Bill searches through his cooking supplies, he can’t find any spice. The meat’s nearly done, but he never forgets his cowboy blend.

“Gotta be in he-” Bill pauses when he reaches the bottom of his bag. It’s a photo of his son. He remembers putting it in there, but not exactly why.

*DING* *DING*

Bill snaps to attention and reaches for his rifle, he’s steadied his aim in a matter of a second towards the unknown noise. Bill gently pulls back the chamber and racks a round as he stares into the abyssal forest. The fire crackles for miles all around in the cold of winter and Bill focuses his aim on a growing shadow.

He hears the crunch of snow.

*CRUNCH* *CRUNCH*

He thinks, it couldn’t be a wolf. That’s not the sound of four legs.

*CRUNCH* *CRUNCH*

It could be a bear? But no bear can walk on two legs so steady.

*CRUNCH* *CRUNCH*

“My friend if you have a deathwish, I’d be much obliged to help you out.”

The shadow emerges from the darkness, nothing more than a jackrabbit.

“Now ain’t you the devil.”

Bill lowers his rifle at the curious creature.

“No Bill, not yet.”

Bill’s heart stops at the sight of the creature, a stinging pain in his chest steals his breath an-

“AHHHHHHhhhhh, ahh… ah… ah.”

Bill wakes up in his tent, he’s drenched in a cold winter sweat and still rattled by the dream. The sky outside is greeting him with color, and he decides to brush it off in favor of breakfast.

A quick meal of beans finds its way to Bill’s stomach, and he starts packing up. He wraps up the tent, cleans the dishware, and kills the fire. He packs the dishes last while they dry and decides to empty out his bag to reorganize it. The dishes, then the utensils, then the photo?

Once again his cowboy blend is missing in favor of a photo of his son, he doesn’t know how it got there. Bill turns over the photo, “James McAdams, 1871.” It’s certainly his, but he doesn’t recall packing it. He puts it with the rest of his items and presses on, today would be rough.

Amarok valley isn’t all beauty. The Amarok trail winds through three distinct areas, the placid forest, the white marsh, and the mossy face. He’d already passed through most of the placid forest, and today’s goal was to make it halfway through the white marsh.

Bill tugs at his sled and clears his mind of all doubt, he was here to kill a beast, nothing more.

Bill carried on through the edge of the placid forest as it sank down into the white marsh. A winter’s morning fog has settled here and won’t be gone until evening, but that’s not the worst bit.

A normal marsh is deep pits of watery reeds save for sparse trails. The water’s frozen solid so it’s not a problem, but the reeds break up the snow to make it softer and deeper than anything before. It would be easy if he could find the trail again, but if it weren’t for this fog, he could bend down and gaze across a perfectly flat field of unbroken snow.

Some steps are easy, some steps are hard. It’s impossible to tell how much land Bill has cleared at the end of the day, but it’s not much. Bill’s dripping with fatigue and sleeps without a dream. His morning breakfast of crackers is distressing for Bill. No wood for miles means no fire, at least it’s warmer down here.

“Goddamn marsh, Goddamn winter.” Bill angrily curses at mother nature as he packs his gear and marches on.

Some steps are knee deep in snow, others to his ankle, but all of them are taxing. Bill can hardly see in this fog either, he prays that it’s not far to the mossy face, he knows he might not make it.

“Lord, let me make it. Just this once.”

“He’s not coming.”

A voice rings through the fog. It speaks to Bill’s heart, and his ears.

“No, no, NO.”

He swings his rifle around and aims into the fog.

“It’s another dream, I passed out, I’M TIRED GODDAMNIT.”

Bill fires a round into the fog, birds fly aimlessly in the distance.

“I’M TIRED, I’M TIRED of… OF WALKIN’!”

He spins and fires another round.

“You’re not tired Bill, and you’re not dreaming, but you are close.”

Bill spins back once more, a figure stands in the fog. Just close enough to let his vision zero in.

“Jess?”

“Keep going Bill, you’re closer than you think.”

“JESS!”

The woman turns around and walks gracefully atop the snowy plain as Bill stumbles through the marsh.

“JESS PLEASE, JESS I’M SORRY, JESS!”

Bill makes ground on the woman as the ground toughens up, and the slope increases. He abandons his sled to make progress on the woman and nearly catches her.

“JESS STOP!”

He dives at the woman’s feet and his nose hits hard ice. The woman’s faded away. He rolls over and nurses his aching nose, the sky is clear and pink streaks of cloud soothe his pain. He looks downward past his toes at the endless marsh and all its fog, then upwards beyond his head at the massive mossy cliff face.

“You’re closer than you think Bill.”

“I’m sorry Jess, I- I’m… I’m sorry.”

Bill frowns in a debilitating silence, the closest he might ever come to tears again, but not today. He’s made it through the marsh, he’s close.