Brothers

John-Michael

I sat serenely in front of the fire, with it's flaming tongues winking in and out of sight, in the middle of the wilderness of northern Wisconsin. The mottled green and brown of the forest was unbroken except for the blue of the sky and the white of the clouds high above me. Smoke slithered between my teeth as I breathed out. The smoke swirled up past my sunglasses and dissipated quickly. I sucked in on my pipe, the sound of burning tobacco greeting my ears. The woods around me rustled from the movements of some unknown being. I smiled. He had come. Scratching absently at my thickening beard, I pulled my hatchet from the ground in front of me, and tucked it into my belt next to my large buck knife. The rustling intensified until out of the brush came a single painting fox. It came to the opposite side of the fire and sat, head lowered.
“John", he said in a low, husky, handsome voice, acknowledging me.
“Vincent," I said, taking my pipe out of my mouth and tucking it into my breast pocket.
“It is done, but many of our own are dead.”
“How many?”
“Too many,” Vincent said, the fur above his eyes crinkled in a strange expression for an animal.
Sensing the sadness in his voice, I said, “Such are the ways of war. Do not trouble yourself because of your deeds; they were necessary.”
He nodded his head slowly, looking at me with his gold-brown intelligent eyes. Suddenly with a terrible screech, an enormous black creature flung itself down from the trees at us. It froze in midair. Vincent looked at me curiously, with surprise. A bead of sweat ran down my forehead. My hand was outstretched towards the creature. I flung my hand across my side, away from me. The creature sped through the air and collided with a tree trunk. It crumpled on the ground on its stomach. It lay prone for several seconds. I strode over to it. White, puss looking blood oozed from its various cuts and scrapes. It rolled over, flying towards me screaming like death. It slammed into my side, scrapping and clawing at my body. I kicked it in the face with my steel-toed boots. I felt bones crack as it fell backwards gurgling on its own opaque blood. Vincent started forward to help. I held a hand out motioning that I wasn’t in need of aid. I pulled my hatchet from my belt. With one deft movement my arm rose and fell. Its head rolled away with a spurt of off-white blood. Vincent sniffed the severed head, his hackles raised. Vincent and I looked at each other, a knowing look in our eyes. They were coming.
I knew that my brother and I would end this face to face somehow. Sadly, I remembered better times. I remembered playing with the family dog in our front yard. We would laugh, as it would chase full speed after a ball. We would do everything together. But I suppose that growing up can separate even the closest of siblings. Our paths diverged at adulthood. His, a darker path than mine.