Hedge of Thorns: Delirium
A distant raven caws, and I continue my climb past the low cairn marking Grandpa’s grave.
In his last delirium, when Mom had to tie him to the bed, Grandpa’s words were not about thirst. “Put a hedge of thorns around it. Hedge of thorns….”
“Why, Grandpa? Mom, he’s not making sense.”
His muttering went on for hours, and Mom had no answers.
Dad entered, listened for a moment, and snapped his fingers. “Bobby, get your heavy work gloves. Your Grandpa’s thought up the solution.”
“Solution to what?” I asked. “Nobody’s making sense today.”
“Our walls are too obvious, Jill. Plantings in front of them should camouflage the line.”
“I’d rather go fishing.”
Bobby’s usual protest got Dad’s usual response, and my brother trudged out the door behind him. They returned hours later ravenous, ragged, and bloody, with wheelbarrows full of hawthorn suckers.
Most of the shoots survived the cursing that went on during their transplanting, and the shrubs thrive in the ash-enriched soil.
This year’s haws are beginning to form. When they’ve ripened, I’ll dry some of them, make jam of more, and the rest will feed the cedar waxwings.
People don’t cooperate much any more. The washed out footbridge delayed me, so I’ve been gone bartering in Glenoma long enough that the garden’ll need weeding. At the turning in the trail, I pause, both for necessary breath, and the view that rips it back out of my lungs. It’s also a good spot to knock the dirt out of my boots, and scatter it into the undergrowth.
This load, heavier than the others, is more important to me. I adjust the pack straps on my shoulders.
From this point my trail vanishes across a descending rock slope toward the gate into my property. A quick check that no one’s observing, then I glide through behind a silent garter snake, and push the panel closed on its well-greased hinges. Safety for me, and hunting grounds for the reptile in the garden’s shadows.
Each traverse retracing the deer trail makes it more obvious and increases the chances of some stranger finding my caches of first-aid supplies, food, and ammunition. I’m fond of my Sig Sauer, but I hunt with a bow. It’s quieter. My boots are loud on the cabin floor, but there’s no one to object, or to laugh when my stomach growls as I stand my pack in a corner.
Hedge of Thorns: Delirium is the third segment of a serialized short story that will post on Fridays.
Check the menu on this blog for other, previously posted serialized stories, here.
