The Introvert of Thunder Falls

The sunlight was blindingly bright; pure. The dirt road stretched on under the boy's feet, which stepped firmly down into the street and sent up puffs of brown dust with every step. The dust was sucked in through his parched lips and coated his throat in a thick, mucus-like dryness. He had taken to pulling up his shirt and tucking his nose into the neckline, so that only his eyes were visible as he walked. Eyes, and hair. His curly brown-black locks fell in tight curls, coming down almost to his shoulders in some places. It was clean, but ragged - as though it had been cut by the edge of a knife. It had.

Despite the heat of the sun beating down on him, the waves of fiery sunlight which had slowly baked his skin to the colour of copper and made it difficult for him to breathe, he smoked. He had a cigarette pinched between his lips, unlit - and he rolled it between his teeth as he walked. He didn't actually smoke. It was just something that passed the time - from one incisor to the other, back and forth, back and forth. Breathing deeply, he smelled something he hadn't for days - people. They smelled like smoke and sweat, their stench burning his nostrils. It was not that he didn't like people - he did. He just preferred to stay away if he could; far away.

The boy walks slightly hunched; though his step is strong and even, practised. His head doesn't move, but his eyes swivel constantly. They are the colour of the sky, a blue so bright they seem to glow from the curtains of his matted black hair and sun-darkened skin. He wears a white flannel shirt, which he had picked up at a second-hand store and washed thoroughly, unbuttoned halfway down his muscular chest, a pair of hole-eaten jeans, and no shoes. A heavy backpack was slung over his shoulders, weighing against his shoulder blades like a rock. The bottoms of his feet are hard and calloused, almost the consistency of the dirt road he had been walking on. The flannel shirt, despite the heat, was only rolled to his elbows. His arms were thick, and lightly shaded in dark hair. He has a proud face; with high cheekbones and round features, a soft chin, small ears and nose, and thin dusty-pink lips that looked constantly pressed together as though in disapproval. His eyes were his most striking feature; thin and brilliant blue, they were like frosty daggers slicing through his dark complexion.

There is something odd about the boy. Some men can be pictured as hunters; silent figures moving through the shadows of a bush, silent and invisible. There is some of this in the boy, but he is different, also. Instead of being a hunter, he is a predator. A dark shape that you didn't see until it was leaping from the darkness with its shining jaws snapping around your throat.

That was why he avoided people. Not because he didn't like them, but because they didn't understand him - and people always fear what they cannot understand. And so he turned off of the road and began to make his way into the forest. There was a footpath, choked and almost overgrown, which he had spotted from a long way off. He took this, and it led him further into the forest than he had been in awhile. After the brightness of the road, it took his eyes a moment to adjust. As the blackness became shadows and the shadows became shapes, he blinked slowly and tread gently through the woods. Around him, the trunks of the pine trees towered like enormous sentinels; some of them too large for him to wrap his arms around fully.

A sound caught his attention; a dull, throaty roar. Like that of a wild animal. He stopped immediately, tilting his head and listening. He recognized that sound from somewhere... He remembered something about the name Hoover, a tickle in the back of his head like a bug burrowing into his hair and making a nest there. It itched at him, pulling him slowly toward the sound like a dog on a leash. A dam! That was what this loud, pounding, wild sound was - water, rushing through concrete. There would be people there, the boy knew, and for a moment he flinched away from the idea. Then, setting his shoulders and taking a determined step forward, he continued his journey. That dam had been magnificent, and he would see such a thing again. If nothing else - he would see that.

For many moments, he followed the sound. The quiet rushing turned to a deep thrum, which in turn grew to a steady roar. It sounded like the world was collapsing around him, and the boy became hesitant again. His adrenaline-fuelled courage wavered at this. Still, he continued.

And suddenly he was walking free of the trees and staring up at one of the most breathtaking things he had ever seen. His thirst was suddenly washed away, spray beating against the brown skin of his cheeks and the curved bridge of his nose. Those blue eyes, wide and staring, seemed to drink in the water and grow even brighter. They shone in the sunlight like sapphires. Breathing out slightly, he felt his breath sucked away by the raw power of the water. This was no dam. This was the clear blood of a god. It poured from the face of a mountain and crashed into a small, deep lake. It buried itself in foam and beat the waters below to a thin white froth. The roaring was impossibly loud in his ears; crushing, consuming.

He didn't know why - but suddenly he was moving toward the falling water. Yes, he thought. A waterfall. That was a good name for this falling water. Walking to the edge, he could feel the pressure beneath the surface. It pulled at him with an unbreakable tension, threatening to pull him into the deeps and devour him. But it would not, he knew. Reaching out one hand, he firmly grasped the wet rock of the mountain and began to climb. It was a gruelling effort, and in seconds he was soaked through by spray and sweat. Swallowing hard, he felt with one hand and was surprised to feel it touch only empty air. For a brief moment, he clung desperately with one hand as his body threatened to fall away from the rock face. Then his other hand caught the lip of the opening, and he pulled himself up into the mouth of the cave. What a cave it was! Deep and dark, almost completely covered by the roaring waterfall. As he pulled himself into it, the boy blinked his bright blue eyes twice and glanced around.

It seemed to be uninhabited - and no wonder. It was cut into the side of the mountain, impossibly. Like a yawning fissure in the rock surface. The ground was flat, the walls sharp and curved into a rough triangle. Standing, the boy had just enough room that his head did not touch the rock above him.

Dropping his backpack onto the rocky floor, he inhaled deeply the spray-stained air of the cave. It was old-smelling; like moss and dampness, but clean. The water did not come into the cave, and it was warmed by the sun which spilled through the sparkling waters. Kneeling beside the pack, the boy quickly pulled open the zipper and reached inside. The pack was large; it had to be, for it contained all of his possessions. Drawing forth his warm blanket, the boy laid it on the rock and crawled onto it, dragging his pack after him. The bag was full of books; novels and paperbacks, biographies and childrens' stories. The boy ignored them, instead pulling free an empty water canteen - and filling it from the waterfall - a loaf of rye bread and a stick of meat, a knife, a box of matches, and a sling. He could scour the cave for rocks later, he knew. He could hunt the woods. He was safe behind the waterfall. This was a good place.

Before he fully realized what he was doing, the boy had lain down on the blanket. His body, fit and lean as it was - nearly collapsing from days on the road without rest. His breathing slowed, one hand still wrapped tightly about the leather strap of the sling.

And then, he was asleep.