image from westernpulpcovers.com
“To the well organized mind, death is but the
next great adventure.”--J.K. Rowling.
1(sound cue) the Bukkehorn (ghost horn) Viking
2(close-up) the flames danced across Buck’s
raw retina; his eyes becoming fire, his cones
glowing hellish red, from the wounded core of
him, and still he did nothing.
3(sound cue) violins and French horns.
4(medium wide shot) He watched the long
bunkhouse burn, knowing it was the last
structure, the last vestige of a dream that
his father had created.
He watched the brigands put up the wide
tailgate on the lumber wagon, and ride off to
the north, their foul flesh swirling into pale
shadow, then submerging beneath the rim
above the ranch--Antlered Buck that was no
more, replaced by piles of hot ash, like the
brimstone foyer to Hell.
5(sound cue) branch flute and cello.
6(medium close up) He rested his sweaty chin
on his crossed arms, allowing leather’s sweet
pungence to chase away all others. He closed
his eyes, extinguishing the flames of wrath. He
watched the sun through his eyelids, letting a
cornucopia of colors, wild chive green, pond blue,
mustard grass yellow, blood clot red, and angelic
white spots frolic before him, drifting like
cottonwood spirals on the breeze, the afternoon
sun hot on his neck, floating, weightless, flying,
before settling into a pool of darkness, a honeyed
abyss, an ebony stillness where he might find
temporary harbor, succor and rest. Floating more
than falling, with the wind in his hair, intensifying
as he descended, yet still a soft whispering wind,
wounded, mournful, into a nothingness of ink,
black blood without flesh, falling fearless for the
first time, faster, faster--then suddenly a deep
chill, and someone calling his name,
7(sound cue) Buck, B U C K !
frighteningly clear, and then for an instant,
his mother’s face, Buck,
and then a sweet voice calling to him from a
great distance, Buck, clearly Buck,
and then a cavalcade of faces, his dead wife,
his dead father, his dead brother, and again
his mother, and the visages of the hundred men
he had slain, all dead, all beckoning to him
as he was a dervish in the darkness,
accelerating toward a powerful pinpoint of
light a hundred thousand miles beneath him,
Buck, bombarded by a bluish light, brilliant,
blinding, seeming to sear the flesh from his
bones, until the bottom, all the way down,
serene, at One at last.
8(one shot) a gentle breeze churned the grass
and embraced him.
9(sound cue) birdsong and insects over a seed
He awoke hearing voices. The Thunderer leaped
into his right hand. Bristling with alacrity, he rose
and looked around. Four people sat in a circle in
the grass near the family graveyard. They sat quietly,
their eyes twinkling, all holding hands, staring right at
him; a beautiful fair-haired woman, a fragile tow-
headed boy, a thick shouldered older man, and a lean
well-muscled Indian--they were there, and then they
10(sound cue) timpani drum and coronet and cello.
12(close-up) Buck’s eyes, weeping...Johnny, Johnny.
Buck stood up straight, and raised his arms and
clenched fists to the sky...the Eagle has fallen.
13(wide shot) the sun of blood was setting over th
top of the trees to the west. Night shadows began
snaking off of things. Faint gray-blue smoke curled its
up into a red sky from the smoldering bunkhouse.
From the ashes, hot coals blinked like fireflies.
Posted over at d'Verse Poet's Pub OLN