The Last Ballad of Henry Allen Grayson

This took over two and a half years and two deployments of tinkering, deleting, rewriting, and too many cases of writers' block to finally get where it is today.

The Morning

I.

     In his 50-plus year existence, this was the most beautiful sunrise he had ever seen. Indescribable. For him, the lack of a better description wasn't based on observation. Instead, over the countless years of traveling through the valley, this had to be the only sunrise that he had given any recognition.

     Henry had been awake since that orange globe broke above the horizon, sending its painted rays across the frozen sky. The morning light revealed the fresh snow that fell throughout the night as bare, cragged mountains stood guard over the valley in haunting silence. He knew he should have began his morning routine by now; the view from his spot against the rock wall had entranced him like never before.

     The soundless expanse brought forth an unusual eeriness which snapped reality back into Henry Allen Grayson with a full body shiver that rose up his back. His sudden inhalation of the brisk, frigid air caused a cough deep within his lungs to escape. He stood at that moment, the light red tincture going unnoticed as he wiped the saliva from his lips. His deep breath was cut short by a slight soreness in his ribs. Had he been farther from home, he would have paid it more attention. He brushed yesterday's events out of his mind and proceeded to wake the dogs.

 

II.

      The nine humps underneath the snow were nearly motionless without closer inspection. Henry walked down the small slope to the sled completely bypassing his dogs and slowly knelt at the sled. His companions were awake and restless as Henry watched their mounds quiver with activity. His hunter's knife made quick work of the seal meat as Gretna poked her head out from her icy cocoon.

      The mother to most of the pack, she was always the first to investigate movement around the campsite. Whether from respect, fear, or both, her permission and appetite was priority to the pack, anxiously awaiting her approval from underneath the snow. Henry let a smirk get through his leathery demeanor and tossed her breakfast, his silent "good morning." Gretna ate the meat with a few quick gnashes all the while her steely, blue eyes trained on Henry. A rough bark sent off a fury of snow into the air as the remaining dogs exploded from the ground. Henry tossed out the chunks of meat to the eager mouths.

      Behind Gretna, were Spruce and Camel. The former had been blind in his right eye since birth and relied more on his smell than the others. Camel was about as dumb of a dog as Henry had ever seen. Often he would wait until the most inopportune times to drink or urinate and on most occasions would happily dangle his tongue from the side of his mouth while doing both. Homer and Wayne were twin brothers so identical, only left and right black eyes respectively told them apart. Next in line were Wolf and Brigsby.  Wolf, for Henry's lack of a better name, was a wolf.  Gretna had taken him in years ago when he'd been found hiding in a snow drift.  His pack had left him after their raid on the annual seal hunt failed miserably.  Only on the coldest days would the buckshot in his rear, left leg give him any trouble.  It had been Brigsby's first trip out to the ice and had left Henry with pride in his maturity.  He was a natural in front of the sled, just as his father had been.  Bringing up the rear were the two brutes, Thor and Stanchion.  With their massive paws and broad shoulders, it wouldn't be a farfetched notion to think that a mammoth had been part of the lineage. Their demeanor was well suited towards the pack, but outside the line they were brutally territorial.  These nine bridled canines were his children, his friends, and his purpose.  These were his dogs, but Henry was late and they wanted to run.

 

III.

     The sound of the paws stomping the snow kept a rhythmic beat with the skis of the sled as the dogs followed the invisible path home. Henry knew this song all to well and was comforted by its melody. He was making good time considering the late start and figured on reaching the forest before sundown. It was easy riding from there, a half day's trek back to the village.  He began to let his mind wander with the song of the sled as the conclusion of his trip grew near.

     He was one of the oldest in the yearly group that traveled out to the ice pack. Only a handful of the Inuit had outlasted him and he was respected among them. He was among the first of the white men to begin the seal hunt along side the Inuit and over the years more had joined them. Businessmen from the east, laborers, coloreds, and mountain men from the south had journeyed to the white hell of the north in search of fame and fortune. Many had failed miserably, and joined the hunt as a means of survival. Those that lasted became generally capable hunters and were at least tolerated by the elders.

     Henry had lost count years ago how many times he had been to the ice pack. It was a part of his life and the way of the North. The trip out never took more than three days with eager dogs and hunters alike. There were a few packs that traveled before the main group and a few stragglers, but most everybody arrived within a few days and immediately set up their holes on the ice. There was no set time on the trip, you caught what you cold carry back and left. If the weather was bad, you waited it out and lived off your catch. It was almost a subconscious sequence of events that pulsed quietly through the men and the dogs.

     What Henry liked best about the time on the ice was the evenings. The fading light of day would gradually be replaced by the small fires of the camps. Some hunters would bring out their harmonicas or fiddles and play a little before closing up for the night. He knew some of the older tunes but had long forgotten the words. A younger man said to be from Tennessee had brought his banjo with him. Henry was annoyed by the twang of the strings but many of the younger guys enjoyed listening to the jingles and often huddled off in the distance as to not disturb the dogs as he played. It was quiet at night, no ice picking, dogs barking, or men yelling about their catches. He enjoyed the silence; it relaxed his nerves and put him at ease. There was no element of surprise when it was quiet; you could hear it coming.

     Henry was catching up to schedule and it pleased him. Listening to his dogs beat through the snow, their escaping breath with each pant, clinging bridles, and the skis whisking across the snow was his favorite part of the trip. It was the language of the snow and he understood as it spoke. He listened to its conversation in the open valley as Gretna led them home.

 

The Afternoon

I.

       Henry had stopped. It was the last thing he wanted to do but there was no choice. The sled had to be repaired. The dogs knew something was wrong and stood anxiously taut against the bridles. He stood there in thought looking over his supplies, the polar bear hide covering the chunks of meat, and the broken strut that had finally collapsed under the weight of the sled. There hadn't been any signs of damage when he inspected that right side yesterday; the amout of polar bear meat he loaded had obviously found it for him.  Shot that damn bear yesterday and he's still giving me problems, Henry thought.  The jovial attempt didn't help his demeanor, and if anything, reminded him of the swelling pain on the left side of his chest.  He had managed to keep  his breath steady so far and was uneasy about exerting any extra energy.  There was no alternative though, he had left the ice at least four days ahead of everyone else and his supplies would not last another two.  A man alone can love off near anything but without fire, frozen meat is as useless as the snow and ice around him.  Add a pack of dogs to the mix and you could find yourself choosing between transportation and food.

     Henry took a slow breath and knelt down by the sled. Finding his ice pick, he jammed it between the ski and the sled along side the broken strut. It was shorter than the strut itself but it would work. Using the rope he had left, he wound it around the pick and strut. The bear trap he had left behind yesterday would have held it in place nicely. Shaking his head in disgust, he finished up the job breathing heavily. It was as secure as it was going to get and even that was an overstatement. The pick could handle the struts share of the weight but there was nothing attaching it to the ski save a carved out notch. He would have to take it slow at first before trying to make up lost time.

      The sun was barely favoring the western side of the valley. He wouldn't make the forest until after nightfall with the moon not showing up until midnight.  It was a bad situation to be in at night with no moon to light the way.  The polar bear had completely changed the urgency of reaching the village.  Henry slowly got back to his feet, trying not to cause any more pain than he was already in.  Back on the sled, he let the dogs creep forward, keeping a watchful eye on the right side of the sled.  Seeing that it was holding, he let the dogs into a jog and finally, a full run.  The pick should hold just fine and I'll be able to make a better strut once we hit the forest, he planned.  Henry found a little comfort in that thought and again tuned into the song of the sled.

II.

     Coming down the hill to the ice pack, Henry saw the early hunters had already staked their claim. The dogs were fresh with excitement, nipping and playing as they were tied to their stakes. He slowed his team and proceeded to the front where he guided Gretna to a spot of his liking. Apart from the rest of the hunters with plenty of room for those yet to arrive, Henry loosed his dogs. Of the men participating in the hunt, only the elders and he didn't keep their dogs tethered.  It was the respect that he had earned as well as the training put into his team.  Gretna knew how much territory they controlled and ensured the rest of the pack enforced it.

     Henry unloaded his provisions from the sled and began to set up shelter.  Digging about a half foot into the snow, he anchored bowed rods into place and laid a body length of furs.  The remainder he lashed to the rods, leaving the end facing the ice pack open.  Satisfied that his shelter would suffice, he turned to the rest of his supplies.  An old Winchester had served him well and it was holstered to the side of the sled.  He breached the barrel to inspect the shells before reloading and laying it inside the shelter.  A bear trap he opened and placed a good distance away from the tent.  The polar bears always came from the ice and one bad step would mean a good kill.  There were many that had come and gone throughout the years, fated to dine at the frozen tables. Misfortune did not discriminate and waited silently to strike at moment's notice. A stock of firewood, two hindquarters of caribou, hand tools, two spears, a length of rope, potato bread and a few other odds and ends for the hunt were each put in its place around the camp.

     Unlike the younger men on the ice, Henry waited a day before beginning his hunt. The bigger seals would not investigate the new, perfectly rounded holes made with drills. Instead, he dug out an oval shape with the closer side angled down to the ice to give curious seals a ledge to land on. Taking his hatchet, he cut through the ice and removed the larger pieces. He would leave the hole alone until the next morning only taking time to break the ice up a bit. His hole in place, he turned his attention to his four legged friends.

   He inspected their paws one by one after each trip and used this time for play. The dogs were happy and ran around the camp. Wolf appeared no worse for wear and slightly favored his right hip when he walked. Thor and Stanchion never ran except when pulling the sled and lumbered about the camp huffing and snorting as the rest of the pack ran around them. Gretna sat by Henry's side, her rightful place, as he stroked her head.

 

III.

      It was all too apparent to Henry that he wasn't going to make it to the forest.  He had stopped too many times and the pain was becoming too much.  The pick ax had only held up for a few miles before it fell out of its notch on the ski.  The middle strut was also showing signs of stress to which Henry attached the shovel.  That process had taken a turn for the worse on him.  With each cough, more blood came out and the dogs could smell it.  They were becoming belligerent, snapping at each other and not pulling as a team.  The dogs' cooperation and obedience would not last much longer.

     He might have made it six or seven miles since he took off this morning putting him nearly a half day behind schedule. Normally, the receding peaks of the ridge line would have given him comfort, but not now. It only reminded him just how far the forest lay ahead of him and how fast his energy was draining. He had begun to sweat under his clothing; the responding chills worsened his wheezy breath and coughs.

      Henry was at the crossroads that he never envisioned and was surprised that he had decided with so little thought. He stopped his companions one last time. Painfully, he removed the fire wood and took it to a rocky outcrop a few yards away. Gretna watched him trustingly, yet with the same suspicion that he had grown to understand and expect. With the rest of his supplies off the sled, he took his rifle and walked to the front of the pack. He looked in her eyes, as time itself froze, squeezing his hands in a death grip on his rifle until he had worked up the courage to face the decision he was about to make.

 

The Evening

I.

      Henry never saw the polar bear coming. Two days removed from the ice, he had never seen a bear this far inland. It came barreling off a hill and plowed into the side of the sled knocking it and Henry over. Stunned, he watched from the snow as the bear moved towards the sled and his dogs. Henry didn't mind the seals being lost, but his dogs had become tangled and were nearly defenseless.  He got up and ran for his rifle.  It had been knocked off the sled with most of the other gear.  A few feet from the bear he raised the weapon to his right shoulder.  The white monster attacked first landing a swinging paw to the left side of Henry's chest and knocking him over breathless.  He gasped for air in the snow again as the bear's massive frame blocked the sunlight above him.  The animal roared as it stood over Henry about to make the kill.  Gretna howled and barked in fury trying to get the bear away from Henry.  He raised his rifle again, the trigger sending a lead nugget into the bear's neck.  It staggered backwards and fell onto the ground.  Henry got up and placed another round through its head, ending the attack.  The shot reverberated off the mountainsides before the silence of the valley returned.

     The bear was massive. An adult male, easily over 500lbs, with off white fur and large front feet. Henry made his decision without hesitation. He went over to his dogs and untangled the lines. Still shaken and in fighting mode, they growled, and bit at Henry while he sorted them out. Turning the sled over, he removed what supplies that remained attached. He returned to the bear and pulled out his hunting knife. He sliced around the neck, feet, and down the underside of the bear and removed the hide. The shoulders and front legs were cut first and laid on the sled, followed by strips of back meat. He finished his carving by taking one side of the rib cage and laid it on top of the rest. The bear skin was wrapped around the meat and tied securely, the sled creaking under the weight.

      Henry looked around at his supplies and knew he would have to leave some behind. The returning hunters that had room to spare would pick the site clean. With one of his spears, he impaled all but one seal and the last caribou leg and set the lot into the bear carcass. The majority of the firewood, shelter furs, and the bear trap were placed conspicuously for passersby. He looked over the sled for any apparent damage and gave the dogs one last look. Rifle stowed, a night's worth of firewood, the last seal, and a few tools, Henry and his dogs continued North.

 

II.

      For generations, the village had been isolated from time. A name was neither given nor ever thought about. The Inuit had lived there for generations, trading seal blubber and skins in the winter and farming in the summer. They shared a common existence with the white man, adapting to his innovations and technology. There were still a few of the elders who maintained the traditional abodes, however most had opted for the log cabins and hard roofed houses that the settlers constructed.

     The village itself had no more than 20 families during the majority of Henry's life.  The past few years saw an increase of newcomers and the village quickly expanded to 70 and growing.  With the growth, the need for sled dogs was greater than ever.  Raising teams had become the staple for most families, overseen by the Inuit elders.  The village now boasted a small mercantile, a sheriff in name only, and a doctor whose primary purpose was to look after the sick and injured dogs.  Rumor was that gold had been discovered down near Juneau and the American government wanted settlers to go get it.  Dreams of fortune and new lives in the frontier had driven everyday people into the harsh reality of the Alaskan wilderness.  Many lost everything they had owned on sifting for ghosts or became victims of the greedy.  Nevertheless, the village survived.  Those that couldn't leave the frozen North found a new home among the Inuit and the likes of Henry.

     He liked it there, even more so without the people. It had gotten too noisy for him. He had moved twice already to the edge of the village, each time after being surrounded by the new folks. Most everyone left him well enough alone. Only the elders would come by from time to time to get him talking of dogs, hunting or the weather. His first home had been a log cabin where he consummated his wife, Fingers of Wind. Chosen by the Inuit elders, she was the only one that had seen the man beneath the leathered exterior. It was 14 years this summer since she had died, taking that man with her and leaving that weathered face behind. It was then that he built the Inuit hut, feeling more at home there than anywhere else.

 

III.

      A small flame still danced among the embers as Henry sat against the stone. His coughing had left a trail of blood frozen into his overcoat. The rifle lay on his lap with his hands loosely holding it. He didn't regret his decision to send his dogs on their way with the meat but he did question himself.  Using the rifle as a crutch, he had bent down and told Gretna to go home.  He gave her a scratch behind her ears and she licked his cheek in hopeful understanding.  That had been about three hours before sundown.

      His weight was too much for the sled in the condition it, and he, was in. The broken ribs and punctured lung needed a doctor, there was no doubt about that. There was no need to remove the meat to conserve the weight for himself. His chances were too slim even if he had made it to the forest and there was nothing that could have been done had he headed back to the ice pack. The White Wilderness can be cruel sometimes; rarely does she show mercy. Generally, it was the more experienced hunters that left the ice early. The younger guys typically traveled closer together in the trails of the elders leaving little in the way of hope for help. Ultimately, Henry was doomed from the moment the polar bear made contact with his ribcage; the adrenaline hid the severity of his injuries.

      The flame eventually died and the embers glowed under the starry sky. Henry's cough had died away and he sat there motionless.  No longer feeling his arms and legs, there was nothing more to do but wait for the moon.  The starts were bright tonight and not a wisp of wind to speak of.  It was quiet there in the valley, the way it should be.  The dogs should have made the forest by now and should make it back to the village by dawn if they keep going.  Gretna knew when and where to stop; they will be fine.  The embers dimmed, finding no more wood to burn, and the night crept in.  The shallow breaths grew farther apart as his lungs succumbed to the cold.  A faint smile spread across his lips as the moon pulled itself over the horizon and lit the valley with its haunting glow.  The last exhale dissipated into the night and Henry Allen Grayson was dead.

Reviews

[Tegon Maus]

A sad story Mark... well written but sad none-the-less