a town called denial
They had sent us here as one last link to civilization. Thrown
like a bone to a community who had waited in the dark of
winter for us to arrive, this strange old place inhabited by a
dwindling number of men who no longer had a place in the
outside world.
They had remained here holding on to what ever they had
amassed through life as well as their hope of the mines
opening up again. The last pieces of a bygone era,
desperately longing for a long lost world.
It had already been a while since the forest people and the
townsfolk had gathered around the house at the top of the
hill to catch one last glimpse of the sun before diving back
into the night.
They were together in this and this alone. United by the
turning of the seasons only to be driven apart again as the
cold set in, leaving each to tend to his own fire where they
would strive to keep warm and sane during the long winter
months.
There were lights in some of these windows too but they
seemed different than in the houses we had passed. As if
the fire burned colder here at the edge of the world where
the shadows had crept closer to the realm of men. Where
the well kept houses with their dark and empty windows
waited silently for life to return.
And life would return to them now and then, for the holidays
and for vacations. Whenever their people would come back
to live like they once did, to take part in the delusion that the
town was alive again or maybe pretend that it had never
died at all.
They came here to escape the world they said, to enjoy a
simpler life, one that would fit in as a coquette display of their grotesque abundance. As if having everything you
needed in life was such a burden that you had to escape it
at times to be able to enjoy it when you returned.
I resented these people. Hated the thought of them looking
down their noses at me. Hated that we would add to their
wealth by renting their houses and developing their
community, making it more alike the world they said they
needed to escape.
And I hated that it felt as if I was trespassing when I entered
the home of someone else to stay there while they were
away. A feeling that was augmented by the pictures on the
walls and the clothes hanging in the hallway, making it
apparent that I was not at home here either.
Yet I found some sort of comfort there. A familiar feeling and
a homely smell that told me that I had no business being
here and that I should pack up and leave even before I
entered.
And then I hated that I grew used to the feeling and to the
smell and that I started pretending that they were my family,
the people in the pictures, finding comfort in the illusion that
I had one, telling my self that they would come back home
anytime now and that we could take part in each others
lives. To share our stories and laugh at the townsfolk and
their folly.
And so I waited for a day that would never come. Unaware
that I, in my own fantasies, where as delusional as the aging
miners that waited for their world to return. I tended my job
and acted out a life where I lived in a house that was not
mine, pretending to be part of a family I did not know and
bought more groceries than I needed in the one store in
town that was still open every other day.
But never the same days and rarely at the same hours and
it always seemed to be closing when I came by.
There were pictures of historical events in the hallway
leading up to the store. Pictures of preachers, agitators and
others, each holding their own version of the truth which
they eagerly shared with the masses.
Some who had lived here and others who had only passed
through.
One of the pictures, a grainy black and white photo taken
the day the telegraph had reached town, showed a group of
men standing between the last pole and the telegraph
station with the final length of wire coiled up by the foot of
the pole. They waited to connect the present to the future
and in doing so bringing the town and the mines one step
closer to its inevitable end.
It was impossible to see their features or even tell their age
and I wondered if one of them had looked like me, if only
just a little bit, as if a connection to the past would lend any
importance to my presence in this place.
Further down the hallway there was a picture of the
telegraph station being burnt to the ground as a drill for the
voluntary fire department with the firemen leisurely hanging
around, smiling as they watched this pinnacle of society
disappear.
And now it was my turn to keep these wheels in motion.
Wheels that had been turning for centuries on end, grinding
down and eating anything that would come in its way on its
relentless endeavor, seemingly seeking to devour us all.
I could feel it stronger here at the edge of the world, closed
in and weighed down beneath the snow that hung heavy in
the trees. Forcing some of them to coil over so that their
crowns would kiss the ground, resembling trebuchets ready
to catapult their load towards a besieged enemy, operated
by a foe that made its present felt by faces and symbols that
were carved into the trees. Horrid faces seemingly fashioned with axes and covered with crosses, pentacles
and handprints. Geometrical shapes and runes that told me
nothing of their creators intent other than that there were
someone, somewhere, either cursed or protected.
I copied one of the shapes. A symmetrical grid that I drew on my unreliable workhorse, my little tracked vehicle, hoping that it was a blessing rather than a curse. A spell that would hold the makeshift repairs together for a little while longer and keep me safe as I ventured further into the unknown. It continued moaning and complaining without a a care of the spells intention. Threatening to break down if I forced it to go any further, acting almost as if it refused to climb any higher into the mountains. Even if it refused to follow me I continued searching for a building that was hiding up there, somewhere. Entirely covered in snow it waited to be excavated, eluding my gaze as I scanned the area while working my way forward,
moving my eyes from side to side while carefully
maneuvering the machine between banks of snow that the
wind had shaped and moulded in her own image.
I could see dark clouds in the distance that threatened to
add to my trials and made me feel exposed as I continued
further along the mountainside, almost giving in myself
when the forest opened up and revealed a narrow ridge that
rose well above the treeline.
It added another scene to this story that I felt I was writing, a
story that no-one would care to read, yet it fit in as a piece of
the puzzle of the failed advancements that preceded mine.
One that would be fulfilled regardless of my success in
finding this building that was hiding out there, somewhere.
It was finally betrayed, the hiding hut, by the shape of its
roof that was barely visible through a cold, white blanket. With the first squalls reaching me I started digging down to
the entrance guided by the lights of the machine which kept
getting covered by the dry snow. The heat from the bulbs
would melt the featherlike substance making the next
portion cling to the glass eventually covering them up and
reprieving me off their guidance, leaving me blind in a hole
that was slowly starting to fill up again as the wind gained
momentum. The lights wouldn’t help me now anyways yet I left the engine running as I descended trough the layers of ice and
powder, slowly uncovering the door. Inside it was pitch black and as I shut the door behind me all the sounds of the ongoing storm were left behind and I suddenly realized how alone I was up here on the mountain.
Soon the silence was breached by the soft humming of the
generator providing light and hopefully heat in a building that
had been emptied out a long time ago.
As I carefully unpacked and prepared my task I could feel a
short sting of pride whilst lining everything up in the order I
would assemble them or by which tools I needed first.
For a brief moment I rid myself of the helplessness of my
work. The irrevocable stupidity drifted off and was replaced
by a sense of purpose, that this actually meant something in
the grand scheme of things and that it would mean
something at least for a while until something better and
less feeble came along only to be made redundant and
forgotten by the world.
It didn’t last though, the pride and the purpose, it too drifted
off, leaving room for the helplessness to return together with
the futility.
And then as suddenly as it had been brought out of its
lengthy slumber the soft humming of the generator disappeared, taking the light and the heat with it as it left,
leaving me in the darkness, letting the silence underline all
the ill will I had towards myself and my place in the world.
Outside the storm had seized and the clouds had moved on
and the stars had come out by the millions.
I could have stayed there, peering into the endless, but I
could hear the cold creeping up beneath my feet as the
clear night forced me to leave.
And so I eased my way back down the ridge, carefully
examining the snow-covered tracks that occasionally would
let me know were they ran, always being a bit off from
where I had guessed.
Back beneath the treeline the tracks were only covered by a
light drizzle and I could have sped up if I wanted to.
But I didn’t.
There was nothing waiting for me back in town other than
awkward conversations with the grocery store clerk and
evenings spent staring at someone else’s family portraits,
slowly heading deeper into the delusion of having something
other than an overwhelming feeling of emptiness, something
that would appear out of nothing to chase it all away.
Instead I drifted around in the mountains, going from
location to location, unwillingly carrying out my mission as a
conquistador of futility.
Sometimes I slept in the tracker.
Sometimes I slept in one of the cabins.
And sometimes I remembered the picture of the telegraph
crew just as I was falling a sleep and it always made me sad
that their work seemed pointless just like mine and I
wondered if they knew that the telegraph station had been
burnt to the ground while the fire brigade stood idly by.
And yet I kept going, travelling through the mountains,
reluctantly searching out all these little huts and locations
that I had to tie together in an endless chain that would not
last.
From time to time tracks would cross my path and
sometimes they would travel in front of me for a while before
disappearing between the trees.
Sometimes I could see smoke rising above the treetops and
one time I believe I saw a person standing up on a ridge
looking down on me but I never encountered anyone up in
the hills and I would hold on to my solitude as well as long
for company.
Ever so often I caught myself looking for the tracks and a
few times I found them and followed them until I had to get
out of the vehicle and continue on foot.
But I never got close to the skier.
Or maybe I did.
When I ran low on supplies I would have to head back to
town, sneaking my way down to the rigging area, hoping
that I would not run into any of my colleagues. There were
always so many questions that I had no answers to and it
was easier to ignore them over the radio.
And after a little while they stopped asking all together.
Even the awkward encounters with the grocery store clerk
became easier as the false sense of interest were discarded
and replaced by a mutual understanding of not caring. It felt
more polite in a way than to bother the other with false
courtesies.
So I kept to myself and waited in the darkness for the
shadows of the first light to return and outline the contours
of day.
Hoping that a shift of seasons would bring on the change I
was waiting for.