Mount Morgan

A farm hand’s life was rather dull. Of course, it became fruitful every Friday when Mr.Monroe’s right-hand man, Harold, went around handing out money to eager hands. The worn men graciously accepted a week’s wage, earned through farming, shepherding, shit-shoveling, and fencing. Some blew it off at Taitale’s bar, downing whiskey and rum. Others at Pinley’s, purchasing a rifle, some slugs, or bait for a weekend outdoor. Icarus was the latter. He was a good shot, perhaps the best in the county, but he was no hunter. “As tall as that mountain we sit under,” Mr.Monroe always lamented, “But he’s got two left feet, let me tell ya!” Icarus was never known for his grace. He was known for his patience. Patience and persistence.

Icarus liked the early morning, much before the first rays of Sol warmed the untamed trail leading to the rapids. Erini, his Newfoundland, lay fast asleep under the deck in her house. The Creighton Rapids was four miles from his homestead and Icarus enjoyed every inch of that trek. His lungs bathed in the fresh, pine-scented chill, his ears and mind put to ease at the sound of frosted grass crunching and pine trees swaying in the wind. He liked it, being alone. He cherished his own company, a skill that not many knew existed, much less mastered. The dirt path gave way to gravel as the sound of rushing water drowned out the early calls of birds and chirps of cicadas. The gravel path led to the loamy banks of the rapids, then followed the river downstream to where it was joined by Little Thames and ran through town as Great Haven River.

Morgan Peak sat in between the two streams, a tall, broad mass of dirt giving away to rough granite, barren of any trees. As Icarus approached the banks, he admired the feature. “My little Olympus,” he whispered as memories of the treacherous climb he had done a decade before resurfaced. “The only one in decades,” a voice whispered inside his head. “A retelling of the legend,” he replied out loud. “Our last hope” went unsaid. With a long sigh, Icarus reached into his satchel and pulled out his collapsed fishing rod. “Experimental design,” Mr.Pinley had told him the night before, “Give it a try.” At the moment, it looked just like a bundle of sticks to Icarus. “Fold it out, I suppose,” he grumbled to himself as he lined up sticks one end to another. They just… snapped in place. “Well, damn.” Assembling the line and the reel was considerably more complicated, taking him a good ten minutes to figure out and another five to put together. From there, it was a dream. He quickly fell into a routine, attaching his lake lure, casting the line, and then… waiting. That’s how he spent the morning, reeling in half a dozen smallmouth and largemouth bass. He packed up around noon to retreat to the shade of a nearby pine.

“Back ain’t what it used to be, eh?”

Icarus glanced up, ignoring the throbbing in his joints.

“Mornin’ James.”

James was a kind man in Icarus’ opinion. Young and full of contagious optimism. As a boy, he had been wild and unruly, frequenting trips into the forests beyond the mountain, an idea no man dared to tolerate. Icarus had been a part of too many search parties to return the boy to his hysterical mother.

“Good catch?”

“Good catch.”

Icarus gazed at the mountain as James settled down beside him.

“Wendigo boys rolled through last night.”

Icarus tensed at that. Ten long years of relative peace between them, and the fires of hell rekindled.

“What did they get up to?”

“Nothing really. Bought some moonshine, and tried to gang up on Mr.Leroy.”

“How did that turn out?”

“Boys went home in an ambulance.”

Icarus chuckled at that. Mr.Leroy was a gentleman; he was built like a rhinoceros but had the heart of a dove.

“Them Wendigo boys are… hard to underestimate,” Icarus said, his wit retained although his heart still fluttered uneasily.

James laughed loudly at that, scaring away a bluejay that had been resting a dozen feet above them.

“I like to say that them Wendigo boys got faces for a radio, their voices for a newspaper-”

“And brains for neither,” Icarus cut in, his eyes still focused on the crest of the peak, “I think the pup needs me back home.”

He got to his feet slowly, hissing at the throbbing in his knees.

“Well, let me let you go. Good day, sir!”

“Good day, James.”

Erini pounced at him the moment he was in her sight.

“Good girl,” Icarus cried while she covered him in slobber, “Let me up! C’mon!”

She let up a minute later, strings of slobber hanging from her snout as she pawed his basket.

“Ah yes! Food!”

“WOOF!”

Icarus knew a dozen ways to make fish edible. Erini liked none of those, preferring to gnaw at them raw. Icarus liked them roasted over an open campfire, but cooking them in whiskey would do. His house wasn’t as grand as Mr.Monroe’s, nor as desolate as Mr.Pinley’s. He and the town’s sheriff had built it a decade ago. They had laid the lumber for the foundations, the birch for the sidings, the brick fireplace, and the oak roof. “A peace offering,” the sheriff called it.

Icarus sighed, patting his companion’s head deep in thought.

“I think we outta go talk to Black, girl,” he told her.

She gazed at him with her chocolate brown eyes as she abandoned her attempts to devour her largemouth bass. She placed a paw on his knee, her eyes flickering to his plate.

“Wanna try the cooked one, girl?”

Who was he to deny her? She apparently liked it more than the raw fish this time, inhaling his half-eaten largemouth in seconds before returning to gnaw at hers.

“Good girl,” he whispered.

He frowned at the scene of his beloved blissfully playing with her food, a sense of dread tugged at his heart. The feud between the Monroes and the Wendigos had long been put to rest. A decade of somewhat peace later, they came up here deliberately, looking for a reason to fight.

“Just a spark, honey. All they need is a spark,” a voice whispered in his head from somewhere within his memories.

“Come, girl,” Icarus said, “Let’s go say hi to the Sherrif.”

Icarus didn’t expect to see Mr.Leroy at the office with the Sherrif gazing at the big man scrutinizingly from behind his messy desk. Even through the musty, barely lit room, Icarus could make out the titles and prints of the various reports strewn across his desk, a few even on the floor.

“Mr.Leroy, you surely could’ve apologized!”

“I’m sorry, Mr.Grey,” the big man whined, his chubby frame hunched.

“What’d I miss, Grey?”

The two men looked up at Icarus’ greeting.

“Hi Icarus,” Mr.Leroy greeted sullenly.

“Hey big guy,” Icarus replied, shifting his attention to the Grey Harper, “What was that about them Wendigo’s?”

Harper sighed, sitting back down in his chair. the harsh fluorescent light casting the old sheriff’s face into the shadows.

“Word’s spread, so I think you know what happened last night.”

“Yeah, the kid told me.”

“Okay. Well, Andrew Wendigo called.”

“Andrew?”

“Evan Wendigo’s son. It appears Andrew was informed of the, uh, true nature of circumstances surrounding his father’s arrival at the great big saloon in the heavens.”

“I see,” Icarus said, his heart sinking.

“I suppose you know what this means,” Harper questioned, staring at Icarus with tired eyes. Beside them, Mr.Leroy sniffled.

“He knows then. He knows I killed his father," Icarus groaned, stuffing his fists into his eyes and biting back a groan of frustration.

"Right," Harper took a drag from his cigar.

"He must know that I was bound by honor to kill his father!"

"The same way he's bound by honor to now kill you?"

Icarus sighed, hopelessness filling his bones.

"I can't fight again, Harper."

"Don't fret, old friend. Fortune favors us, the bold."

Icarus swallowed his pessimism, determined to somehow get out of this predicament, hopefully alive.

"What now, Grey?"

"Now," Harper said, putting out his cigar, "We go to war."