Andrew F. Harman

© April 1989 by Andrew F. Harman, Albright College

Three beams of pure white sunlight flowed through the cabin’s east window. Parted by evergreen trees which shelter the cabin from whipping winter winds, the light served as Bill’s alarm clock. Every day, Bill woke within minutes of the rays’ initial contact upon his bedroom ceiling. Strange as it may seem, the light was always broken into three distinct beams. Even on cloudy days, Bill could still distinguish three faint, yet individual rays among the soft flood of light.
As Bill lay in bed allowing his mind to awaken more fully, his eyes glanced inadvertently about the room until they halted — and focused on the eight by ten inch picture which sat upon the oak nightstand next to his bed. The picture, which always seemed to longingly look back at him, was of his deceased wife, Deborah, who had died over eight years earlier while giving birth to their only
daughter, Julie. Staring at the picture reminded him of their radiant honeymoon spent in the Bahamas. The sun, sea, and wonderful warmth — it all had miraculous effects upon Deborah’s health, which for as long as he had known her, was always poor. Bill wondered if perhaps they had lived there, she may have been strong enough to live through the pregnancy that had countless complications.
Snapping out of his daze, Bill slowly rose from the bed to begin his daily routine. As both father and mother to his daughter, Bill had a full day ahead of him. However, the thought of his responsibilities being unnecessarily demanding never entered his mind, for he believed his only purpose in life was to raise and love Julie.
Still wearing the red thermal underwear he had slept in, Bill slid into a clean pair of jeans and put on a navy blue flannel shirt. The first and most important task of the day was to bring in more wood for the kitchen stove,
which provided most of the heat for the four room cabin. The cabin’s other source of heat was a new oil burning furnace, which Bill recently installed so he could keep Julie’s room at a constant temperature of seventy-eight degrees, since Julie, like her mother, was not a healthy girl. Despite the new furnace, however, Bill faithfully kept the stove burning year round. Since his childhood, he had always been good at making and tending fires.
After pulling on heavy socks and a pair of slightly damp hiking boots, Bill went outside to get the wood. He was surprised to find about an inch of snow on the ground. An early winter, he thought. It was only the second week of October.
Inhaling the chilled mountain air with deep, strong breaths, Bill looked down the steep slope that led from his cabin to the seemingly slow and gentle river below. The pure morning silence was only faintly disturbed by the sound of rushing rapids which began a half mile down stream. Everything was covered by a delicate combination of hoar frost and snow.
Standing with his eyes wide open and a great smile on his bearded face, a tingly, warm feeling tickled through his body and down his arms and legs. Bill felt a bond with the mountains, especially Mount Hope, which loomed over the cabin like a watchful friend. He like it because it wasn’t marred by ski resorts and social escapees. The area was scarcely known about by tourists or developers. The population of the nearest town and surrounding area did not exceed one thousand.
Bill could see that his only neighbors, the Jones, were also awake with the dawn. The smoke of a good fire billowed out of their cabin’s chimney, which was barely visible, since they lived two miles up the mountain road. They were an elderly couple who had made their living by running a small sports supply store in the city. When they retired, they decided to get away from the rush of the
city and move to the mountains to enjoy the remainder of their lives. At least once a week, Bill and Julie would visit the Jones’ and have a family-style dinner. Mr. and Mrs. Jones loved Julie as if she were their grand-daughter, and Bill as if he were their son. They had lost their only son in the
Vietnam War. Mrs. Jones often knitted Julie sweaters and scarves, while Mr. Jones treated her as if she were a princess, offering her cake, cookies, and candy every opportunity he had. Bill remembered that he had to deliver more fire wood to the Jones’ today.
Returning from his own thoughts, Bill grabbed an armful of wood from the large pile on the west side of the cabin. Smoothly walking upon the slippery white ground to the front door, Bill stopped short. In the soft snow, a dead sparrow lay with its head turned nearly completely around. Its wings were crumbled and contorted. Two drops of deep red blood stained the snow near the young bird’s half-opened mouth. Its tiny feet were clenched as if they had desperately tried to hold onto its life. It had apparently flown into the side of the cabin and broke its neck. Bill felt extreme sadness for the bird — he hated all senseless loss of life.
After bringing the wood inside and adding three logs to the glowing remains of the previous day’s fire, Bill returned to the stiff foul. He carefully lifted the poor bird’s chilled body and found a place to bury it under an evergreen tree. As he dug a hole with his bare hands, the hard dirt numbed his large, calloused fingers. He placed the bird into the foot deep hole and covered it with the dark dirt that was now mixed with white granules of snow. Bill found two sticks and a twig and made a miniature cross to mark the tiny grave. After a moment of silence, Bill returned to the warm cabin.
Inside, the stove’s fire had resumed its daily brilliance. While Bill prepared breakfast to the sporadic pops and hisses of good wood burning, Julie awoke and entered the main room of the cabin which served as a family room, living room, kitchen, and dining room. Not yet fully awake, Julie stood outside her doorway hugging her favorite doll, Christine. The large cloth doll, with one eye remaining and a half missing mouth, originally belonged to Julie’s
mother.
“Good morning, Daddy.” Her soft voice cracked. Three weak coughs escaped from her tiny frame. She had been sick with the flu for the past week.
“Good morning, Darling. How’s my big girl this morning?”
“OK, I guess… but I don’t feel too good.”
“Well go ahead and wash up. Maybe after you have something to eat you’ll feel better.”
Dragging her feet, which were encased in one-piece yellow thermal pajamas (the kind with slippers attached to the pants, and elastic cuffs around the wrists and neck) she slowly entered the bathroom, coughing three more times before she shut the door.
Her cough bothered Bill. She had not coughed at all during the past week, and he had hoped that she wouldn’t start, since, unlike her mother who seemed to have an overall body weakness, Julie was particularly prone to lung infections.
When Julie was five years old and they lived in the city, she suffered a severe case of pneumonia which scarred her lungs permanently. The doctors recommended that she “take it easy” for the next few years, since “recovery is a long, slow process.” Thus, they moved to the mountains. Julie loved the mountains just as much as her father did. The clean air — and the clean living — had sped Julie’s recovery along at such a pace that all her doctors were amazed.
Julie returned to the main room and sat down at the table just as Bill finished cooking breakfast.
Eight large blueberry pancakes, twelve strips of bacon, four fried eggs (sunny side up), a pitcher of freshly squeezed orange juice, and two glasses of milk sat on the table ready to be devoured.
“Daddy, I don’t feel like eating… I feel sick,” Julie said with a cough.
“But Honey, you have to eat something. You need energy if you expect to get better… You heard the doctor.” Julie had been to the local doctor earlier in the week; he told her to get rest and drink a lot of fluids.
“I hate the doctor.”
“Now what makes you say that? The doctor is always nice to you. He wants to help you get better.”
“I don’t like him. His hands are always cold and his breath smells bad.”
Julie raised a fork with a bite size of pancakes on it three layers thick, starred at it, and placed it back on her plate.
“Do I have to eat, Daddy? I really don’t feel like eating.” She looked at her father with pleading eyes, as if he may change his mind.
“Please, Julie, just eat as much as you can. You have to get better.”
Bill watched as Julie grudgingly ate half of her three pancakes and two small strips of bacon and drank two thirds of her orange juice. She didn’t touch her milk. Bill watched amusedly as she pretended to feed the rest of her breakfast to her expressionless doll.
Bill couldn’t believe how much Julie looked like her mother. Her soft, slender face was an almost exact miniature of Debbie’s. Despite the paleness of her complexion, and the two large half circles under her hazel eyes, Julie radiated natural beauty. Her eyes had the ability to absorb anything —
or anyone — that they beheld. More importantly, her eyes made you want to be absorbed.
“I’ll call the school and tell them you won’t be going today. Also, I have to deliver some fire wood to the Jones’.”
“Can I go with you, Daddy? I can help you!” Julie’s eyes opened wide as she smiled. She loved going to the Jones’ and helping her dad.
“No, Honey. You’re sick, remember? How do you expect to get better if you come with me? You stay home and read. Besides, we’ll have to go to the doctor’s later. I don’t like the sound of your cough.”
Julie’s expression went blank. She disliked going to see the doctor more than anything, and she knew that if her father said they were going, they were going.
After breakfast, Bill cleaned the kitchen alone. Julie wanted to help, but Bill insisted that she rest — he was intent upon her getting better as soon as possible. Julie sprung herself out upon the huge leather coach that sat across from the now hot wood burning stove, covered herself with the black and red afghan that Mrs. Jones had made for her, and began reading the new mystery novel
that Bill had bought for her the day before. After leaving the Jone’s phone number with Julie in case of an emergency, Bill set out to deliver a half of cord fire wood.
Cutting and delivering fire wood was just one of the odd-jobs that Bill performed. In the two and a half years that he and Julie had lived on the mountain, he had gained a reputation of being an excellent carpenter, plumber, and all around handy-man. However, his main source of income was freelance writing for a national outdoors magazine located in New York City. Bill only wrote for the magazine part time now, but his ten to twelve articles a year allowed him and Julie to live comfortably. His odd-jobs were more like a hobby than a vocation. He loved working with his hands.
The snow was already melting by the time Bill had his pick-up truck loaded with the split wood. As he slowly headed up the steep mountain to the Jone’s, Bill couldn’t stop thinking about Julie. “Why was she always sick?” he wondered.
He remembered Debbie’s face when she told him she was pregnant. Her big gentle eyes looking up at him with a mixture of joy, sadness, apprehension, and love. Her pale complexion flush with a healthy red glow — the glow that only mothers have. Her voice was so soft and it cracked. Her usual plush lips were dry and tight. She had to wet them to speak. It was the only time he could remember that she was nervous. He held her tightly as she trembled — her tear-wet cheek pressed against his right shoulder. She was so warm, so soft. It was, without doubt, the happiest day of his life.
The full truck purred with a strong, steady hum as it climbed up the road the locals had named simply “The Dead End,” for that is what it came to half way up the mountain. The expense of continuing the road (for which expert engineers would have to be hired) far outweighed the amount of traffic such a road would carry. Therefore, the road has never, nor probably will it ever, be continued
to a final destination. Instead, the road stops abruptly at the face of a natural rock formation that rises, at a ninety degree angle, almost fifty feet above the road. The only people who ever traveled the road to the end were either lost, or on a hunting trip.
Bill pulled the truck into the Jone’s driveway, which began about a half-mile before the end of the road, and parked next to the wood pile that only had enough wood for two or three more days. With machine-like strength and efficiency, Bill began unloading the dry timber. His body moved
without thought. His mind labored over his sick daughter and the doctor appointment in town.
It took Bill less than two hours to unload and stack the wood. After politely declining Mr. Jone’s offer to stay for lunch, and graciously accepting a large container of Mrs. Jone’s famous chicken soup (for Julie), Bill headed home in his empty truck. Listening to the radio on the way, Bill heard the news. A major snow storm was coming from the northwest. Ten to twenty inches — Bill thought — In October!
When he returned, it was ten o’clock. Bill found Julie snuggled up in a ball on his bed, asleep, with an open book still in her left hand. Her breathing was slow and relaxed. A curled strand of amber hair lay upon her soft white cheek. Bill wanted to snuggle up with her, but it was best not to disturb her sleep. Instead, he went outside to split more fire wood.
Bill was careful to go far enough away from the house so he wouldn’t wake Julie. It felt good to wield the ax. Bill moved like a professional boxer. All his movements were one movement. Without thought, hesitation, or error, each piece became two. Chips of wood flew through the cool air as the perspiration on Bill’s brow glistened in the autumn sunlight. Bill felt healthy and strong. In just an hour and a half, Bill had split more wood than any two men his size could have split.
It was twelve o’clock when Julie woke up — coughing. The appointment was for two-fifteen. Bill made ham sandwiches while Julie grudgingly showered and dressed. Wearing a forty-five dollar flannel shirt and a pair of designer jeans, Julie looked like a miniature (but pale) L.L. Bean model. They each ate half of their sandwiches — Bill, because he was worried about Julie — Julie, because “she didn’t feel good.” Bill carried Julie and her doll out to the truck as if she were a young bride, singing her a song about precious things.
The drive to the doctor’s office was fifteen miles long, and since Bill left early, they would arrive with time to spare. Bill was filled with anxiety — her cough sounded worse. Hugging her doll and gazing at the rolling landscape, Julie coughed intermittently throughout the winding ride.
Once at the doctor’s, Julie had to wait her turn. It seemed as though everyone in the area was sick in one way or another, and they had all come to see the doctor on this day. Julie browsed through the children’s magazines quickly dismissed them as childish and boring. Instead, she found
an old issue of Good Housekeeping and read every page. Finally, after a forty-five minute wait, the doctor saw Julie.
Julie clenched her father’s hand as the nurse (the doctor’s wife) led them into the off-white room that smelled like antiseptic spray. The room was hot and stuffy. Bill’s first impulse was to open a window, but there wasn’t one. As the nurse handed Julie’s records to the doctor, Bill could see why some people joked about how the doctor and his wife looked like brother and sister. Their plain faces and lack-luster dispositions were mirror-like. Neither of them ever seemed to smile.
The doctor, dressed in an old, but pressed white lab coat and black polyester pants, stood next to the examining table looking over the records for a minute or two before greeting them.
“Hello, Julie,” the doctor said without inflection. “Still not better yet, eh?… Well let us have another look and see what we can do.” The doctor always referred to himself with plural pronouns.
Julie stood staring at the doctor, terrified, as if she thought he was going to cut her into pieces. The doctor was confused by her fear. He had treated thousands of scared children in his thirty years of practicing, but none of them seemed half as frightened as Julie. Bill prompted Julie to allow the doctor to examine her. Reluctantly, she stepped forward.
The bald and grey doctor coaxed the trembling child onto the table. He methodically checked her eyes, ears, throat, pulse, and finally, her lungs. He took Bill out into the hallway.
“It doesn’t look very good. It sounds as though there is some fluid in her lungs. It’s nothing too serious, as long as we nip it in the bud. I’m perscribing an antibiotic. I’ll have to see her again in two or three days.”
Bill’s stomach sank and his thoughts went unclear. All the memories of five years earlier resurfaced. His face revealed his fear. The doctor reassured him that Julie would get better and that he did the “right thing” by bringing her to him right away. The doctor gave Bill the medicine and explained to Julie that she must take it three times a day, get a lot of rest, and drink a lot of fluids.
Bill drove home in a daze while Julie, unaware of the seriousness of her diagnosis, played with Christine. Like a faithful horse, the truck seemed to bring them back home all by itself.
Once home, Bill cooked dinner — pot roast, mashed potatoes, and asparagus — Julie’s three favorite foods along with Mrs. Jones’ chicken soup. While eating, Bill explained to Julie that she must take her medicine if she wants to
get better.
“But I don’t like medicine,” she replied.
“You have to take your medicine,” Bill insisted. The conversation was ended.
Neither of them ate or said much. After dinner Bill gave Julie her first pill. Without complaining, she went into the bathroom carrying her doll, and got a drink. The rest of the night, Bill read bedtime stories to Julie and her doll. He carried both of them to bed, tucked them in, and kissed Julie
on the forehead.
“Good night, Daddy… I love you!”
“Good night, Angel… I love you too.”
Before shutting off the light, Bill counted down from ten. It was a game that Debbie’s father had taught her, and Debbie used to play it with Bill whenever she turned off the lights. Bill taught Julie the game when she was three years old and learning how to count. The only numbers she could remember at that age were three, two, and one. As soon as he got to three, she would join in
and they would count down in unison. It had become a ritual that they did every night.
“…Three …Two …One!” They giggled as Bill shut off the light and closed the door.
Outside, winds from the northwest pounded the sturdy, warm cabin. No matter how he tried, Bill could not sleep. “Please, God,” he prayed over and over again, “Help Julie get better.“ Somehow, probably from sheer exhaustion, Bill managed to fall into a deep sleep.
In the morning, Bill awoke to the usual rays of the sun and an unusually bright glow of soft, white light. Looking out the window, Bill found that about a foot of snow had fallen.
Following the usual routine, Bill made breakfast. But Julie did not get up to join him. Instead, she slept straight through until lunch, when she again claimed that she wasn’t hungry. Bill insisted that she eat, but she ate less than half of her meal, the remainder of which, she pretended to feed
to Christine. Throughout lunch, Julie coughed — deep, harsh coughs. As Bill cleaned up, Julie dragged her doll into the bathroom to take her pill. Bill was pleasantly surprised that she did not argue with him at all. Since the snowfall had been so great, Bill spent most of the day reading and playing board
games with Julie. She laughed and smiled as she won almost every game, not realizing that Bill was not trying his hardest. She simply laughed and coughed until she fell asleep on the couch.
The radio announced that another large storm was approaching from the north. “Two large winter storms in two October days… Has not happened in over one hundred years…” the man said. The day passed into night, and Bill and Julie ate the rest of Mrs. Jone’s chicken soup for dinner. He gave Julie her medicine, and again she did not complain. She simply dragged her feet and her doll into the bathroom and got a drink of water. Around ten o’clock, Bill tucked Julie and Christine in, and counted down. “… Three … Two … One!” The both laughed as the lights went out.
Overnight, almost ten more inches fell. Bill and Julie were snowed in.
The next day, Bill was supposed to take Julie to the doctor’s, but couldn’t. He called the doctor and told him that Julie’s cough was much worse. The doctor said she should keep warm, get rest, drink a lot of fluids, and take her medicine. He would see her as soon as the roads were cleared.
The entire northern half of the state had been caught off-guard by the storms. Many urban areas weren’t even plowed yet. Bill gave Julie another pill.
The day wore on and on, and Bill worried more and more over Julie’s health, which was becoming steadily worse. She was as pale as a cadaver and she no longer smiled. She slept almost all day long, waking only when Bill made her get up and take her medicine. Each time, she dragged her feet and her doll into the bathroom. Her coughs were incredibly harsh; she tossed and turned so much in her sleep that Bill thought she was having seizures. By nightfall, her temperature was at one hundred and two.
Bill had to get her to the doctor’s. But how? he wondered. He would never make it on roads covered with almost two feet of snow. Bill spent the next hours hovering over Julie’s bed, pacing the floor, and clenching his hands. He had never before felt so helpless. Around three A.M., she began groaning in her sleep. Hoarse coughs exited uncontrollably from her small mouth. Bill was desperate. He had to try to get her to the doctor’s. He phoned. He was on his way.
He dressed Julie, now semi-conscious, shaking and trembling, and wrapped her in a wool blanket. In a daze, she demanded that she take Christine. After swiftly carrying both Julie and her doll to the truck, Bill headed for the doctor’s. The headlights cut through the freezing white darkness. White mists of snow swirled chaotically and thrashed about. Julie lay shivering on the seat, hugging her doll, and coughing violently.
As the heat blared full force, sweat dripped from Bill’s forehead. With his eyes fixed foreword, and both hands gripping the steering wheel, Bill managed to move the truck successfully forward in a slow, awkward pace.
“Don’t be mad at me, Daddy… Don’t be mad,” Julie muttered and coughed.
“I’m not mad, Honey… Just hold on… We’re almost at the doctor’s.”
Bill lied. He had only gone three quarters of the way and the worst was yet to come. A two and a half mile hill lay between themselves and their final destination, and the truck was having enough trouble moving on a smooth surface.
As the truck inched up the hill, the wheels began to spin, and the back started to sway. Bill tried desperately to keep the truck moving upward, but his attempts were in vain. Halfway up the hill, the truck slid off the road.
Not even worrying about turning off the engine, Bill grabbed Julie, who was clenching Christine, and carried her, running up the hill.
“Don’t be mad, Daddy… Don’t be mad…”
The wind whipped Bill’s face, arms, and body. He held onto Julie tightly. The deep, stiff snow crunched as Bill’s powerful legs pulled the desperate man, trembling girl, and expressionless doll up the steep slope.
“DEAR, GOD! PLEASE, GOD!” Bill shouted.
Over the hill he could see the doctor’s home. The lights were on. Almost there… he thought… almost…
Bill burst into the hot house, carrying the shivering, coughing body. Sweat and tears poured from Bill’s clenched face. The doctor and his wife tore the child’s body from Bill’s strong grasp. Yelling as loud as he could, “PLEASE DO SOMETHING!”
The nurse tried to calm Bill down while the doctor looked at Julie. He pried the doll away from her and she screamed– “Don’t take Christine! Daddy, don’t let him!…” Julie’s body went limp as she seemed to pass out.
Minutes later, the doctor said there was nothing he could do. The infection had weakened her entire system. She had a heart attack. The nurse noticed a small hole near the doll’s mouth. Inside there was a handful of antibiotic pills.
Bill cried all night long.

© March 1989 by Andrew F. Harman, Albright College — Selected by Rutgers University/Camden Fiction Competition

“Yield, you worthless piece of slime!”
The bigger of the small men, grand master John, named after his
great ancient ancestor the baptizer, slugs the prisoner’s groin with
the staff of divine power. The captive, unable to move, grunts in
pain from his blood smeared mouth. His eyes closed, he says
nothing.
“Still thou do not yield, no? We’ll see about that! Peter, bring
the sacred broth… and make sure it is plenty hot with divine heat.
We’ll fill him up with our God’s goodness. Then this demon will
yield to our supreme God!”
Peter swiftly runs down the small hill to a shanty in the distance.
He soon returns with a copper pail of boiling liquid. Using extreme
caution not to spill the sacred mixture upon himself, Peter rejoins
the large group of small men gathered around two ancient, dead
trees. The massive prisoner hangs between the trees silently. His
limbs are spread wide, his torso is exposed and vulnerable.
“Heathen scum… do thou yield to our God?”
There is no reply.
“You will! Luke and Mark, fasten his tongue and hold his head
still… Peter, perform the ritual!”
The two smaller men do as they are told. The weakened prisoner
squirms in resistance, yet the men succeed in securing a metallic
clamp which fastens his tongue to the bottom of his mouth. They
firmly hold the prisoner’s head back and put a funnel into place.
Peter mumbles words and moves his hands over the steamy fluid.
The prisoner does not understand. The other men bow their heads.
The grand master smiles.
John signals with his divine staff for the ritual to begin. The
scorching liquid is poured down the muscular man’s tender red
throat, the excess splashes onto his noble face. The prisoner’s body
flexes and twists so powerfully that it appears as though the ropes
may break. A few of the smaller men in the group back away. The
prisoner’s wrists and ankles begin to bleed where the ropes cut into
his soft, dark skin. When done, the man hangs motionlessly.
“The holy mixture has conquered our enemy’s strength… soon he
will yield to our God! The men smile and anxiously await the grand
master’s next action. The clamp and funnel are removed, their
purpose completed.
The prisoner, after a short time, awakens and finds the group of
happily angry men starring at him.
“NOW do thou yield, demon?” shouts the grand master.
The prisoner still does not reply, but a tear drops from his eye
onto the sun-dried earth. Blisters are forming on his pale face. He
flinches in agony with each breath he forcibly takes.
“Remove his clothes! Our God will have his way. We will whip
him!”
Four of even smaller men use jagged knives to cut away the
prisoner’s slippery soft white clothes. A shiny object hangs by a
bright red string around the prisoner’s neck. The object, two lines
intersecting each other and surrounded by a ring, is the symbol of
the ememy’s god who is said to be in and of everything, good and
evil. The group knows that the god is only of evil and it is certainly
not in them. Besides, the grand master’s book, which was written by
wise men of the ancient past, does not mention this god from the
other side of the world.
The prisoner’s object shines like copper, but with a yellowish
tint. The bright light in the sky moves in the object with an
unfamiliar brilliance that amazes the group. Even the grand master
is offset by the powerful beauty of the symbol.
The men jump back as if stunned by an unseen force, but it is
only their own fear that speaks to them. The grand master, too, is
silent and puzzled, but when the men look to him, he resumes the
role of leader. The prisoner looks the grand master in his eyes,
saying nothing.
“So evil one, your god is with you now? We can all see how he
has defended you here. He is no match for our God, no? Our God is
powerful… he defeats all… destroys all… yields to nothing! Our God
Reigns! I have decided that there is no hope for you or your god.
Kill him!”
The group swarms onto the foreign prisoner, mutilating his
body. His symbol and the sack of teachings brought from the
distant brother land across the sea about the universe and the True
God are burnt and pounded into the earth, as are the remains of the
prisoner’s body. The men dance upon the ground so as to make
sure the evil one would not resurrect, ever.
Often, late at night, the men of the group, from the smallest of
the small, to the biggest of the small, wonder what it all meant.