Hedge of Thorns: Delayed

Hedge of Thorns: Delayed

I’m alone again, with all the ingredients I need to make a fresh batch of ink. The thorns Tumble prepared are waiting.

The bobcat, I want to try drawing the bobcat kitten. Can my skills convey the impression of soft fur, taut straining muscles, its solid weight?

Ink takes time: grinding pigments, weighing, measuring, dissolving, filtering—but there’s the charcoal…I rush to the corner where I’d stacked the willow poles and the bundled hunting blind.

The cords slither snake-quick from their knots through my fingers, before I give the rolled canvas a push.

Bulges along three seams prove that several finger-length pieces survived the journey home with me. I yank the zipper down, then flip one side to expose the pale, unpainted interior.

My breaths come quicker as I reach out to make the first stroke.

Gusting breeze catches the gate and it swings wide with a creak and clack. I drop the charcoal chunk, go to do what Bobby and Tumble neglected, stamp my foot, and groan.

Art must wait. Taking a pair of mules up and down my approach trail has left damage as obvious to my eyes as if heavy equipment had gone through.

Clear tracks, twigs cracked or debarked because they’d caught on the pack saddle, tufts of animal hair, clods of manure, it’s all there, blaring “This Way”, with highway billboard efficiency.

I snatch up the charcoal pieces, take them in, and leave them on the kitchen table. The hoof prints will be easy to obscure. I can do that with the broom.

What shall I do about the twigs? Binding them like grafts isn’t the answer. It’d multiply the visibility of the damage.

Camouflage? Perhaps, but not by adding plantings. I go to Grandpa’s room and rummage through the dresser drawers until I find his moose hide driving gloves.

From the tool chest in the main front room, I choose pruning shears, and shove them into my belt. My fingers are sweaty and damp inside the gloves. I snatch the broom from the corner, and jog to the first sandy patch along my trail.

Each damaged twig on left and right gets pruned away closer to the branch or trunk, and tossed into the underbrush. I smear the cut marks with dirt. Step by step, working my way toward the gate, I deal with the bushes, scatter the snags of mule hairs, kick the manure into the shadows, and sweep away the hoof prints.

At the top, I close the gate firmly behind me and wipe my boots clean with kale leaves that I drop into the compost bin. My mind balances the composition of the bobcat sketch I plan as I yank the heavy gloves from my hot hands. I wrinkle my nose. My fingers smell like leather.

Hedge of Thorns: Delayed is part of a short Post-Apocalyptic story with episodes posted weekly.

Find previous episodes of this story, and other short stories here.