The Unforgiven

The Unforgiven

High above the Shenandoah Valley a lone raven takes flight, rising above the sparsely spaced sycamore trees, silently circling overhead. Its broad wingspan cuts the midday air effortlessly—casted shadows it leaves behind turn cold.

Drifting like a kite in the breeze, the raven glides smoothly, eventually landing on a branch of the sycamore. It peers between the rusty orange and yellowing leaves. Lifeless clumps of browning grass have lost their will and rustle with the occasional gusts of wind, adding eeriness to this desecrated ground.

Approaching intruders have interrupted the raven’s slim pickings, found on the sand ridge of this desolate area of the Appalachian Mountains. Suspicious and intrigued, the raven vigilantly watches as a mystery begins to unfold.

The dust begins settling onto the dirt switchback trail that winds from the foothills up into the mountains. A reflection from the vehicle’s circular mirror startles the raven—sending it into the skies once again.

The meshing of the reverse gear clunks into place, and the 1908 Model T backs onto the sand ridge that overlooks the Shenandoah Valley.

From a thousand feet above, the raven silently circles overhead, watching. A man wearing overalls opens the car door, puts on his brown hat and walks to his vehicle’s trunk. He hesitates for a moment, and glances over the eerie area, listening, then removes a shovel from the trunk of the car. His large stature and unusual facial features brings the raven back to the branch of the sycamore tree out of curiosity.

A female passenger wearing a plain cotton dress and smoking a rolled cigarette joins him at the rear of the car. She points to a spot where he should dig, then calmly walks along the trail, lifts her dress and squats behind a tree.

After a short while, the man returns to the car without the shovel. The woman joins him, and they take a dismembered body from the trunk of the Model T. The body is that of a girl in her early teens. The twisting and turning while being carried breaks open the scabs on the girl’s cut and disfigured body. Blood trickles onto the dirt, marking the gruesome trail. Her long blonde hair brushes along the sand, occasionally getting tangled in a twig, leaving small wisps of hair behind.

The pair mercilessly carry the body to a spot alongside the pre-dug grave. They set her limp, lifeless body on the piled sand. Her dress shows sections of blue fabric that was not stained with the blood that seeped from her.

The man and the woman casually walk back to the car, stopping and pointing to different areas on the ridge. The woman discards her cigarette while the man reaches in the trunk for a mason jar. Removing the lid, he takes a swig of the brew and passes the jar to the woman. She spits on the ground, wipes her mouth on the sleeve of her dress, and takes a gulp of moonshine, then another.

Without hesitation, the large man reaches into the trunk of the car, retrieving the young girl’s dismembered arms. The woman sits on the edge of the car’s rusted bumper, rolling a cigarette. She watches as he slips into the grave, then pulls the body in, turning the corpse face up and placing the arms next to the body. The young girl’s cold, terrified eyes stare blindly as his chubby fingers close her eyelids for eternity.

Without remorse, he slowly covers the body with the piled sand, then packs the ground with his large boots and sprinkles a dusting of sand over his tracks with the shovel.

From nowhere, a gust of cold air suddenly twists downward from the top of the mountain, sending the man’s cap rolling under a red willow bush. Covering his eyes with the sleeve of his shirt, he waits till the dusty twister passes. The female runs to the car and rolls up the passenger window.

Frustrated by the blowing dust, he rushes to get his hat. He trips, stumbling into a shallow sunken grave. Shaking himself off, he tramples and kicks the exposed rib cage, breaking the brittle bones like twigs with his big boot. Angrily, he heads to the car, cussing.

The gears grind into the forward position, and the car begins its trek down the mountain road. The raven, disturbed by what it has witnessed, returns to the slim pickings of the newly exposed rib cage.

No words, no prayers, nor any markers. Only the tears sent in the form of warm rain falling from the Heavens—onto the killing meadow that overlooks the Shenandoah Valley.