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by Bob Author IconMail Icon
Rated: E · Short Story · Fantasy · #2269812
When a sightless man saves a boy's life he realizes his life might have a purpose.



Stranger in a Frozen Land



An old man stumbles past me. I turn away from the sight his twisted hand and the great purple scar where his eyes should be.

I pull up the top edge of my too large, full-of-tatters, black bearskin coat, lower my head into the storm, and wander through the rubble.

***

A week later, I'm setting on the snow-choked bank of a small river south of the village I once called home. I've managed to spear a small carp. A twig snaps. I turn with a jolt, but see no one.

A second crack and the image of the frozen corpse I'd seen lying next to the riverbank that morning flashes through my brain. The woman's twisted mouth open in a last gasp of agony--a pointless victim of a marauding gang of mutants. One day I would end up like her.

I set my spear down, and sniff the sleet-filled air for the mutant's foul odor. Two more snaps in rapid succession sends me crawling up the slope away from the water. I glance back and curse my stupidity. The fish's flopping drags my weapon into the slow-moving current. It drifts farther from the bank with each passing second.

A crack, louder than the rest rents the air. I rotate into a seated position and slide toward my rapidly disappearing weapon. Rage at my foolishness thunders through me as it reaches water too frigid and deep for me to wade through.

A guttural shout makes my heart pound against my ribs. I turn to face my death. The mutant warrior waves his gnarled club above his head. A hank of blond hair bobs from one of the spikes. I throw my arms up in a futile attempt to keep my brains within my skull.

His dark pitiless eyes stare into my soul. They widen as a spear point explodes from his chest. A fountain of green blood gushes from the wound. He turns to see what's caused his death. Half way there, his massive body convulses and thunders to the gore-soaked snow.

I look past the corpse at the sightless man with the great purple scar and the twisted hand. "Come." He waves to me. "My fire is ready, and we shall share my rabbit."

I turn, step around an ice covered bolder and realize that life might have a purpose, and one doesn't need eyes to see.

1


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