Down from the Mountain

This is another story that started as a writing prompt. We were given the task of telling a story about gods in the modern age. Instead of going for either Greek or Roman gods, I decided to tell a small intimate story with two gods from the Wabanaki pantheon. This story was published in the WolfSinger Publications anthology Winter: Ruin & Renewal, and will be featured in my upcoming short story collection. 

I hope you enjoy.

Down from the Mountain

Anthony D Farr

The patrons of the Great Falls Tavern ignored the storm beating against the windows. The wind and snow raged against the walls, buffeting the building in the icy blasts of the Nor’easter brewing outside. The street lights, barely visible in the storm, cast their sickly yellow light across the street. A lone plow truck rumbled past, only the cab and driver visible above the immense plowline. It grated against the road as it piled the snow even higher. The aging bartender, Keith Davidson, looked at the clock then to the muted television displaying updated weather alerts. He sighed and tugged the hem of his white tee-shirt as he rapped his hand twice on the counter, gain­ing the attention of most of the remaining patrons.

“A’rite, folks,” he said, raising his voice above the wind raging against the building, “last call. You need to git before you’re snowed in here. I ain’t babysitting the lot of ya tonight. Maine’s finest have just cleared the roads for you sorry lot.” A few groans of protest greeted his announcement. He responded to one regular in particular, “Sammy, quit your bellyaching. Mary will be waiting for you. Weather says it’s just going to get worse and I’m not having you sleep here tonight. Go on.” He swiped the wad of cash in front of Sam and patted his regular on the shoulder.

Out of the six left in the bar, all but one shuffled outdoors, bracing themselves against the biting wind as it whipped in through the open door. The lone patron left remained seated at the bar, sipping his drink, as he had all night. Except for his original order, there were no words from the new comer the entire night as he sat at the bar.  He just continued sip the drink slowly, his mouth obscured by the long black hair hanging around his face. Keith sized him up. Below the hair hanging in front of his eyes, Keith saw high cheekbones and dark complexion. The bar­tender considered the stranger’s thin wiry frame beneath his tattered brown trench coat. He reached for the baseball bat he kept behind the bar as he waved at his departing regulars. Keith approached the stranger and leaned low to look into the man’s face. He swallowed hard and tapped the bar top in front of the stranger’s glass.

“Time to go, sir. It’s time for me to be closing. Time to pay up.” The stranger laughed and sipped his drink again. When he set it down Keith gen­tly pulled the glass away and said, “You need to leave before the storm out­side gets worse. Weather says if you don’t head out now, it’ll be rough going home. Now’s a good enough time.” As the stranger laughed again, parted his hair from his face with his forefinger, and Keith received his first good look at the man’s face. The gray eyes that stared out from a smooth, young face carried a weight, an age to them.

“How’s a deal sound?” The stranger said his voice low and gentle. “A wager. A gamble. If I win, I’ll not pay and you’ll let me weather the storm here for the night.”

“Are you crazy? You need to leave.” Keith gripped the bat tighter in his hand and stood upright.

Before the stranger could respond the wind howled as the door opened to the maelstrom outside. A large man bundled in multiple layers of furs ducked to enter the bar. He shook his body, knocking the accumulated snow onto the floor in the opening, then turned and pushed the door shut against the wind. He took three large strides and set himself on the stool two down from the stranger. He did not speak but sat staring at the other two men. Keith glanced at the stranger who took his glass back and returned to his drink.

“I’m sorry, sir, but we’re closed. I just haven’t locked the door yet.”

“No, I think I’ll be staying,” the larger man said, his voice boomed throughout the bar. “I have business to discuss with your customer.” He pulled his hood back and revealed a face set deep within a shaggy black beard.

“Nothing to discuss with me,” the stranger said above his drink. He took another sip and continued, “You interrupted us. I was about to wager with our fair purveyor of whiskey.”

The larger of the two snorted.

“Azeban, you still trying to swindle free stuff from them? From what I hear, you’re not even good at it anymore.”

“Now, gentlemen, I must insist,” Keith slammed his hand down on the countertop, “the two of you leave now or I’ll…”

“You’ll do what?” The larger man stood and continued, “No police are coming out in this storm. You don’t have a weapon that could hurt the two of us. You’ll do nothing.” He leaned forward, his face shimmering in the dim light, and his features became blurry. He inhaled deeply and large white feathered wings rose behind him and his face appeared covered in feathers. The storm increased in intensity and the building began to shake. Keith backed into the shelf and knocked bottles onto the floor. He slipped on the spilled liquor, but caught his balance before he fell. He regained his footing and ran for the front door and out into the storm, his screams lost in the wind. The winged man shifted back to his original appearance, walked over and shut the door, and said, “Now, Azeban, we need to talk.”

“Bemola, first you need to calm the storm before you kill that poor man. Then, we’ll talk.” Bemola waved his hand and the storm reduced its intensity. Azeban continued, “Why are you here? Did Dabaldak send you? Does the Great One want you to bring the raccoon back to the family?” He twirled his hand and bowed his head toward Bemola.

“Raccoon,” Bemola said as he laughed, and continued, “you haven’t assumed that shape in about a hundred years from what I hear. But no, to answer your question, Dabaldak didn’t send me. You know the Great One doesn’t really get involved in family matters for the most part.” He paused and bobbed his head from one side to the other before saying, “No, Gluskab sent me.”

“What?” Azeban stood, the stool falling behind him, the clattering echoing in the empty bar. “Gluskab knows how I feel about him. Why do you think I’ve been with the humans all these years? He lied to us.” He slammed his fist down cracking the thick wood of the bar and said, “More importantly, he lied to them. He told them he would come back and he nev­er did. Why does he want me now?”

“You’re right, Aze.” Bemola leaned over the bar and grabbed a bottle at random. He twisted the cap and pulled the bottle to his lips. Before taking a drink he said, “He didn’t come back, but that doesn’t mean that he won’t.” The bottle upended into his mouth. After a long draught of the alcohol he sighed and continued, “That’s what he’s planning. He promised the People of the Dawnlands that he would return, and that is just what he is doing now. He is gathering the family back together and we will be with him when he returns to the People.”

“Bemola, you’ve got to be kidding me?” Azeban straightened his stool and sat back at the bar. He put his finger on the larger man’s chest and said, “You’ve been on Katahdin for far too long. You haven’t seen what’s been happening to the People. You don’t know what they’ve been through. It would have been better for them had Gluskab never shown them the way. We should have never interfered.”

“He thinks that now that they are regrouping and growing again it is time to return.”

“He wants to come back,” Azeban spat on the bar between the two men and continued, “as the benevolent hero and lead them to a glorious return. Snow Bird, go back to your mountain and make storms.” Azeban waved his hand at Bemola as he leaned over the bar and returned to his drink.

“Do you not care for the family?” Bemola said as he rose from his seat. A hint of feathers showed on his face as he said, “Whatever your differ­ences with Gluskab, the fact remains that we need you.” His face blended back to human features as he took a step away from Azeban.

“What are you not telling me, old friend? What can I do that Gluskab cannot?”Azeban placed his glass down and met Bemola’s gaze.

“It’s Miko. He’s never forgiven Gluskab for turning him into a squirrel.”

“That was pretty funny,” Azeban said between laughs, “but what does that have to do with me?”

“You and Miko were close. You were the tricksters.” Bemola took another pull from his bottle.

“Yes, but I never condoned when he killed and ate humans. He and I never saw eye to eye on that. It wasn’t until he was changed that we,” Azeban wavered his hands back and forth, “worked together. I wouldn’t say we were friends, but we trusted each other.”

“That is why Gluskab wants you. Miko has vowed to not allow Gluskab to return. Not just that but he has promised to use all his powers to terrorize the People.”

“What’s he going to do as a squirrel? Bite their ankles?” Azeban tilted his head to the side and raised an eyebrow.

“No, as the ages have passed, he has been able to shift his form, as you and I can. Gluskab’s powers keep him from returning to his form as a wolf or bear, as of now he can only be a squirrel or a human,” Bemola leaned closer to Azeban and lowered his voice, “but he is working to undermine the People as a human would. He fights against them and against us. He is no longer just a simple trickster anymore. As time passes, he is closer to return­ing to full power. We need you to talk to him and if he won’t listen, we need you to stop him.”

“Why? The People are fine without Gluskab. If he comes back now it will not be what he expects.”

Bemola placed his hands on Azeban’s shoulders and said, “Don’t do this for Gluskab. Do it for the People of the Dawnlands. Miko’s true nature has been suppressed by his form for so long. You know what he will be like when he regains his old habits. You are the only one in the family that he will talk to.”

Azeban pressed the bridge of his nose between his fingers, breathed deep, and muttered under his breath. “You mean that I’m the only one that he will allow to get close enough. Bemola,” he said as he stepped away, “go back to your mountain. Keep making your storms. Stay away from the humans you claim to care about so much. They don’t need us anymore. Tell Gluskab that if he wants to come back, to do so quietly. Live amongst the People of the Dawn as one of them. They need us to learn who they are, serve them, not to come back and lead them as lords above. I know Gluskab wants to come back and do as he did once before. Gift them knowledge and protect them, but he has not returned for so long. How would they feel? Would they feel as I do?” Azeban began to pace as he said, “That he did not come back in their time of need. I don’t know, but I do know that we need to stay out of their lives.” He stopped and held his hand outstretched to Bemola as he continued, “So, go back to your mountain. Send word to the family that I am not returning. I will find Miko and will try to reason with him. It may take a trickster to capture a trickster.” Bemola opened his mouth to speak but Azeban continued, “No. I’m not coming back. Gluskab can come after me himself if he wants, but it’s not up for debate. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be going.”

Bemola reached out to grasp Azeban but his fingers passed through the trickster, leaving ripples in the image as if his body were made of water. He shook his head, the storm grew louder, and the blizzard grew to a white­out condition.

“How long have you been gone, my friend?” His voice echoed in the bar and the wind blasted with every syllable.

“Just during my last speech to you,” the image of Azeban said. “Sorry to have fooled you, brother.” He paused and allowed himself a half-smile before continuing, “Oh, actually, not really, I couldn’t stay and have you take me home. I may be a trickster, but you are far stronger than I. Please, tell Gluskab to not interfere. Tell him, no, tell all of them to come live among the people. Our age is done. Let’s live as they do. On the ground amongst them and not in the sky over them. We had a good run. Go back to your mountain. Maybe I’ll see you next time you come down.”

The image faded as it walked away and Bemola stood alone in the deserted bar. He laughed and shook his head again before walking out into the storm. As the snow and wind tore at him, he raised his arms to the sky and let the Nor’easter carry him back to his mountain. Above the roar of the storm the screech of an owl faded away on the wind.

Thanks for reading. Be sure to comment down below or on whatever social media you found this on to let me know your thoughts.

If you liked the story and you want to help support my writing habit, I've just signed up for Ko-Fi, which is like an online tip jar. So, no pressure, but if you are feeling so inclined, I would appreciate any amount. 

-Anthony

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