Chapter 1, Post 4: The Man Who Does Not Exist

He watched the rippling feathers of a red-tail hawk as it played on the currents of the coming storm. A grove of white aspens fought against the wind only to surrender another handful of the golden leaves they prized above all else. Elk cut through the tall Indian grass, already turned from summer’s soft blue to amber in polite anticipation of fall’s arrival. And far in the distance, a pika zigzagged its way across the boulder field at the base of the remote peaks.

A brook frothed over a natural cairn before it merged with another rivulet, then vanished into a deep crevasse. Far below, a pristine lake fed by a hundred such runnels sat placid except for the leap of the silver, green and red of a single rainbow trout.

His eyes followed the lake until it spilled over a congregation of leaves, fallen trees, rocks, and grass, and departed the valley forever. Whatever prey he sought, it wasn’t down there.

Towering over the lake were the great mountains that ringed his world. His gaze fixed somewhere beyond, and as if bitten, he crouched, stepped back, and bared his teeth. A low growl rumbled up from his chest. Fear filled him. Only pain and evil resided in that world. They must never come here. Never find him. He did not know what he would do if they did. He did not want to kill. Not again. There were already so many.