Back to the campfire…
It the shadows and glow of the flickering ruddy flames, he looks gaunt, grey, and emaciated as he approaches and sits down. His hair, what remains on his taut pate, is a dirty white and as withered as he — scraggly, sparse and I can see more skin than hair.
He is dressed in rags. In is certain that he could wear something more opulent, should he choose to do so, but this is how he has chosen to dress for the flames. I am equally convinced that he could assume a form more robust than what he wears but he has elected to choose this pathetic appearance. Perhaps it serves a purpose. Just as likely, it is pure whim that drives his choice.
We sit mostly in silence. There are the forest noises, night sounds, insects buzzing in and out of hearing. He begins to hum softly, a deep, resonating baritone, as he stares into the flames. I try not to stare at him, but find my eyes drawn by the flickering of the fire to where he sits, the flames dancing on the craggy surface of his body and ratty clothes.
And we wait.
”Ayep,” he says, interrupting his own hum. The sound reminds me of my great uncle Leo, the stoic patriarch of the cattle ranch in Montana where I spent my summers in youth. He might be Leo, for all I know — although in life Leo was not the kind of man likely to made choices in death that would bring him here, to me, to this place, this firepit out in the woods.
I nod. Leo was not much for conversation, and my guest seemed just as disinclined to talk unless he had something to say. He nods back. We return to sitting, with him humming and the world moving on as the world will move on.
Time seems to slip away between us and everything else. All other sounds fade away until there is only the humming and the crackling of the flames eating at the firewood. Nothing happens. Nothing at all.
Eventually, my guest looks up from the fire, looks me straight in the eyes. After a long pause, a goodly stare, he puts his ropey hands connected to his ropey arms on his withered thighs. “Ayep,” he says once again before slowly standing up. Hew turns away from the fire, shuffles out of the circle of light cast by my campfire and into the dark beyond.
The noise of the woods returns, furtive and cautious. I turn my eyes back to the flame and wait for the morning to come.
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