Two
Pheasants
by Freya-Kendra
Rating: PG
Summary: Blair's stream of semi-consciousness after a good day in the woods
turns bad.
In a
field. Feel of bristly straw beneath my
probing fingers. Smell of damp soil. And earthworms.
The rain is gone, the air dry. Frogs and toads speak to that recent rain,
croaking and chirping against the night.
It must be night. Only at night
would so many crickets cry out that competitive rhythm.
Everything is in competition. Crickets. Frogs. Toads.
The throbbing ache behind my eyes. The strange call of
some wild bird I can't name. A pheasant, maybe. I saw
two yesterday.
I can't see anything now.
I wish I could see the stars. There
must be a million up there, out here.
Here is where? Far
from the city. No screeching tires. No heavy bass beats pounding out the
latest hip-hop. No exhaust fumes. No diesel engines. Nothing
but me. And the frogs and toads and crickets and that
bird. Wild turkey, maybe.
Wild
turkey. I could use some right about now.
Jack Daniels would be better. Something to take off the
chill.
Shivering. I can't remember getting cold. I don't remember not being
cold. Cold is now. Everything is now. But now can't be all there is. Can it?
But I saw two pheasants yesterday.
How can everything be now if there was a yesterday? If there were two
pheasants, then there must have been a yesterday. What else existed in
yesterday? My sight, because I saw two pheasants. Two
pheasants frightened into flight. Chased into the woods.
Chased.
Was I chased into the woods?
Frightened into flight?
Flight and
sight, two things that existed yesterday, but not now. So there is more than now. And if there was a yesterday,
there must also be a tomorrow.
Then what will exist tomorrow? Frogs, toads and crickets? Or like flight and sight, maybe
it will all just disappear. That would mean nothing would exist tomorrow. And
if nothing exists tomorrow, there can't actually be a tomorrow. Which could
mean now is all that exists. Which would mean there could not
have been a yesterday.
But there was a yesterday. I'm sure
of it.
I saw two pheasants. They were
frightened into flight. Chased into the woods. Frightened by sound. A loud sound. Explosions. Gunfire?
I saw two pheasants. I had smoked
pheasant once. Some guy who lived out in the woods. He smoked them himself. Smoked other things, too. I could use some of that right
now. Some of that other stuff he smoked. To take away this
throbbing in my head. And the chill.
I had smoked pheasant once.
That must mean there were other
yesterdays, before yesterday. So now is not all there is. Which means there has
to have been a yesterday. Because
something existed yesterday. Not nothing. Which means something has to exist tomorrow. Nothing didn't exist yesterday, and nothing can't exist
tomorrow.
A double
negative. But it's okay. A double negative
makes a positive, which means something has to exist tomorrow. Something. But maybe not me.
Why wouldn't I exist tomorrow? Because I barely exist today. Because I
lost flight and sight and who knows what else.
I saw two pheasants and was
frightened into flight. I flew into the woods. But not with
wings. No. I ran.
But there were two pheasants. Were
there two me's?
I saw two pheasants. I asked Jim if
he'd ever had home-smoked pheasant.
I asked Jim. I was with Jim. Not two me's. Me and Jim.
It's always me and Jim. Partners. We watch each other's backs.
I'm on my back. Lying down in a
field of straw, surrounded by frogs and toads and crickets, and some wild bird
whose call I don't recognize.
But we watch each other's backs. How
can we do that if I'm on my back, so he can't be watching it? And I can't see
to watch his. And where is his?
Jim?
Flight and
sight and speech. Three things that
existed yesterday, but not now. I cannot speak. I hear nothing but my
own breathing. And frogs. And toads.
And crickets. And that bird.
And
explosions. Gunfire?
That was yesterday. Or today. Before.
Before now.
No, I hear it now, too. Gunfire. And I hear the rustle of straw in the field near
me. And the whoosh of wings as a bird takes flight.
Frightened
into flight.
I heard gunfire. The
sharp thwack of bullets hitting wood. Jim shouted, "Go!" And
we ran into the woods.
But I'm not in the woods now. I'm in
a field. With the frogs and toads and crickets. But
the bird is gone. Frightened into flight.
We flew through the woods. Chased by gunfire. Then something hit the back of my head.
And I lost my sight. And my flight.
And now I'm here. In
a field of straw. Because Jim couldn't watch my back.
Because he was running, too. Right
beside me. Because that's what we do. We stay
at each other's side. Partners.
He watched my back. He carried me
back here.
"These rocks will protect
you," he said. Because he is my protector. But he
couldn't protect me. Because he had to stop the gunfire.
And I couldn't help him.
I couldn't watch his back. And he
couldn't watch mine. And he couldn't stay at my side and protect me at the same
time. So he left me here, protected by rocks. And he went back into the woods
to stop the gunfire. To protect me. Because that's
what partners do.
Now I'm here. In a
field of straw. Protected by rocks. Listening to frogs and toads and crickets. But no gunfire. The now that included the gunfire has melted
into the now that does not.
In this now, there's
just me. And frogs and toads and crickets. And no bird. Because the bird was frightened
into flight. And time is passing. Because the bird was here, but now
it's gone. Gone, like my flight and sight.
And if time is passing, then
tomorrow is coming. And something has to exist tomorrow, or time wouldn't pass
at all. And nothing can't exist tomorrow. And double
negatives are okay, if you want to make a positive.
And I lost my flight and sight.
Sounds like a double negative to me. Which means there has to be a positive
coming, right? Like tomorrow, it has to exist.
Think positive. Think. I think my
head hurts. And my hands are shaking, chaffing my useless fingers against the
coarse straw. And the frogs and toads and crickets are all starting to sound
alike. All I can hear is a distant buzzing sound.
And one
word. "Blair?"
I open my eyes. And finally see the
stars.
I hear the sound of a voice muffled
by water. "We made it, Chief. It's over. And you're gonna
be just fine. You hear me, Blair? Come on. Look at me. Let me know you can hear
me."
Something moves in front of the
stars. It's Jim. My partner.
Jim?
I still can't hear my own voice. But
I can feel my mouth moving. It's a start. And my sight is back. Flight must be
next.
"Cavalry's here, buddy. Simon
saved the day, just like in the movies."
I realize I can smell Simon. I
recognize him by the cigar. He wouldn't have lit a cigar if there were still
bad guys around. Bad guys with guns. Chasing two pheasants into the woods.
It really must be over. And tomorrow
really must be coming.
Someone else is saying something.
But I can't hear all the words. The buzzing is getting too loud.
"... back
of the head ... thick skull ... little blood."
A
helicopter. That's what's buzzing.
Sight and
flight.
"We're gonna
get you out of here, Chief."
Sight and
flight.
And I can feel them strapping me in,
securing me for the ride home. The flight home.
Jim? I don't like to fly.
But I still can't speak.
I remember two pheasants, frightened
into flight, as I shiver through my own frightened flight to the hospital.
And I know that tomorrow exists. I
even know what will exist tomorrow. Jim. Jim and me.
At each other's side. Watching each other's backs. Because it's what we do.
~end~