Shadows in the Dark

In the dark, smells heighten, and sound is heightened so that every loud heartbeat might be the sound of a predator’s footfall. Wolves or wild dogs, bears, and bandits might rove these woods. I hear a rustle so faint that it might be the noise of my own thoughts, but I freeze and listen, eyes closed in the dark. A breeze stirs leaves and carries the smell of distant rain-wet dirt and breathing trees. The murmur like furtive voices hidden in the distant dark might be the sound of air in my throat. I have never been attacked by an animal, but I find myself pondering the grim; a black beast in black night could have teeth in me before I draw and swing my blade. My hand rests on the tight leather wrap of my katana handle, fingering the ray skin nervously.

The soft dirt trail before me is more of a footpath than it is a road, where here and there boulders had been rolled aside, and occasional trees hewn to stumps to make way for the very occasional single-mule wagon.

I smell it before I see the smoky glow of the tallow-candle lantern. I hear the clomp of rough-shodden hooves, the creak of wood rubbing wood, rattling and jostling as the axels spin and whine. When my eyes make out the shape of the mule’s long face, I can already smell the hay and barn-animal musk. Without my lantern, I am a shadow, and in the dark, every shadow is a threat. I could stand in the path and try to convince the wagon driver that I mean no harm, but that could lead to a few long, tense moments. No telling who carries a musket these days, and a man foolish enough to drive a wagon in the dark is probably too foolish to discern foe from passer-by. It would be safest to hide, and let them pass. That will be easy on this moonless night. I pass from the trail into the thick dark, ten paces over a soft loam of decayed leaves, where I crouch close to the earth. I wrap my woolen cloak tight about me and throw the broad hood over my head. With no distinguishable human characteristics, I look like a stump, or a blur in a cautious man’s vision.

I am still, breathing slowly so my nostrils make no hiss or whistle. The damp soil fills my nose with its thick richness. Nearby, an apple tree grows, for I can smell the smooth fruitfulness of its boughs and the sickly sweet rot of unclaimed windfalls. On the trail, the wagon clatters past. The lantern illuminates the driver’s face, and I can see that his eyes are bulged out against the dark, his hand taut and wiry with fear as he grips the reigns. He hunches his shoulders up about his ears as though he expects a blow to the head at any moment. With a breath I wish him good fortune and a safe journey, too soft for him to hear me, almost too soft to hear myself, and yet he jerked the mule to a stop, the wagon jolting behind him. The night is silent now except for the nervous stamping of the animal and the harsh breathing of the driver. I hear him catch his breath and hold it, probing the darkness with panic-sharpened ears. If he can hear a whisper from ten paces, over the constant racket of the rolling wagon, then he is no country bumpkin, and he would hear me breathing in the silence. Perhaps I should have hailed him openly on the road; if he finds me now, armed and hidden, I will be treated no better than a bandit.

In a sudden flurry of motion, the driver leaps to the ground, grabbing a long bulky rifle from beneath his seat, and lighting the rope-fuse in the lantern. The gunpowder hisses softly in his hands, and the smoke stings my nose. At his side hangs a scythe, glinting wickedly in the dim light. His stance is solid, his face menacing and intent. Suddenly he bellows.

"Come fight, cowards!"