Dendrite

We wish we could say they deserve it. They won’t be the first to meet this fate, nor the last. The hare doesn’t deserve the fox’s teeth plunged through its neck. It is just the nature of things. But it does make it so much easier when they deserve it.

The three of them tread along the path. Their voices come out in white trails of vapor that catch the winter sun. We would guess they are in their 20’s. Not children but certainly not full-grown. They suddenly whisper at the sight of a doe traipsing through the fallen, moldering leaves. Their wonder makes us feel joy and a deeper sense of guilt. This is amplified as they are mindful not to leave trash behind, stuffing their litter into their packs and pockets.

They pause at the crest of a hill and survey the wilderness around them. Two of them clasp hands. Perhaps we could take just one. Or perhaps it would be better to take the pair, so as not to leave the other languishing. The decision does not need to be made right this moment, but it will not be much longer now. The third points to a spot further on, saying that is where they should make camp. They all agree.

“We must take them all,” we say to ourselves. We had been merciful in the summer when the family had come tearing through. They really had deserved it, we think. “Even what these three have to give will not be enough to last the winter,” we point out. We think that may be reason enough to not take any. We could just let them go, like we have done before. But we know that is not actually possible.

We try to make the rest of their walk a pleasant one, drawing them deeper down the path. We do our best to block the wind coming down from the mountains and blowing up off the river. They reach their designated spot as the sun hangs heavy and fat on the horizon. They dig out a spot for a bonfire and just as darkness sweeps over them, its orange light bathes them in its warmth.

We wait.

It is easier when they are asleep.

A bottle is being passed between them. They eat and laugh. We are growing impatient, but we think just a few more hours of happiness are owed to them. One of them stands and walks away to relieve themselves. The other two quietly come together. They whisper so the other cannot hear, but we can. Their lips touch for a moment. The one that had walked away screams and the other two jump to their feet. One gets a flashlight and points its cone of light out into the darkness.

The scared one runs back to them, pants still undone. They tell their compatriots about what they saw in the dark. We know already. A grinning skull emerging from the loam, shining bright in the moonlight. The whisper of spiders erupting from its empty eyes. We take it back beneath the ground before they can all reach the spot. The scared one swears they know what they saw. The others think it’s the amber liquor amplifying a cowardly soul.

Back around the fire, one tries to make light. They want to tell ghost stories. They are met with an icy silence. We try hard not to feel pity. If we do not take them, they will not care for scary stories anymore. The third suggests they go to sleep while the drink has them feeling warm. We nearly leap with excitement.

Our time has come, we think. But we must remain still. One disappears into their tent. The other draws close to the last left by the fire. They say goodnight, to give their friend time to get over their fear. It would be better in the morning. The zipper of the tent seals two of them away from the third and we know we must take them while we can. The last of the liquor disappears into the lonely one by the fire. Before long, their chin rests on their chest and they are snoring quietly.

A snap just outside the fire’s light causes their head to snap up and over to the sound. They click on the flashlight. They do not see anything in the tiny bulb’s sickly yellow light. But they hear a whisper. Their friend, telling them to be quiet, to follow their voice. A drunken grin pulls at their cheek and they cautiously stand. They stumble out into the darkness, the flashlight beam wavering with each step. We pluck it from their hand once they are far enough away from the fire. It shatters easily and they are left in the dark.

They spin, their eyes wide and their limbs heavy. We feel their quickened pulse. We know what they are seeing. Bent and broken shadows outlined by the waning moon. Jagged hands reaching out for them. They step backward and fall, hard, onto the frigid ground. Staring up, they can see us standing over them, grinning down with impossible faces. We feel the hairs on the back of their neck stand on end and we cannot stand to wait a moment longer. They do not have time to scream.

Soon we are soaking up their blood and their sweat.

Morning finds the other two still safe in their tent. We were too greedy with the first; too hungry. We will try to make the other two last. We have done what we know to be effective. The path has been obscured. Their packs lay busted open like bodies left in the sun. Whatever is edible will be carried away my animals. Whatever is not we will slowly swallow. We tenderly pull them far away from their fire as it sighs its last breaths.

They wake and emerge. They call out for their friend. They speak coarsely to one another, their fear delectable as it blows about in the air. It does not take them long to realize that they are not where they should be. In our experience, it will take them much longer to stop calling out for their friend. It is possible they will turn on one another, and we can only hope.

They cannot know that the third’s flesh and bones are scattering beneath their feet. We do our best to make them spread as far as they can. Along with their marrow and their guts comes their soul. We make room for another.

We plead to let the other two go, but it is only because the newest part of us has not felt the hunger we have. We tell ourselves that it is better this way. We will never be alone. The other two will join us in time and we will live for many years to come.