The Pastor's Mountain Pass

I met a man at the foot of a mountain. His face was obscured by dark glasses, a colorful, knitted hat, and a scarf made of the same material. Only his flat, dark nose and the beginnings of his white scruff were left to the open air. He asked me which way I was going, “down to the valley or up the mountain through the pass?” His voice was dark, smooth, and bitter like blackstrap molasses.

“What if I said the valley?” I wondered aloud. The man told me that’d be just fine, even reasonable as long as I was “wary of the wolves.” I nodded that he was right. This was not my first time in this part of the country and the wolves knew me well, but I had never traveled the mountain pass. The man spoke with a smile in his voice, “as with the mountain pass and I. We’re the oldest of friends.”

I asked if the friendship served him well and he said “very.” He always found himself on that path, and he was going this day to deliver a locket to his granddaughter. She lived in the town on the other side with her parents. I then questioned if he would like some company on this fine day the Lord himself had made. We were going the same way, as I also had something to deliver to the small town. Of course, he was waiting for a remarkable young man like me, and we started on the long trail.

Our hefty packs sliding against our jackets was one of the few sounds of the trail. Gravel slid under foot from time to time and, at least in the first few hours of our walk, there was the occasional chitter, chatter, and chirp of wildlife. We stayed quiet those hours, letting nature fill the silence between us.

But as the temperature dropped and the sun began its grand descent, the conversation around us ceased. Though the newfound quiet was only a few minutes old, the man spoke to fill it. “What’s your name?” he asked, and I told him. I then asked him the same.

“They call me Pastor,” he said.

I hummed with understanding. “A pastor going through the mountain, how usual. What are you selling?”

Before he could answer, a light snow began to fall as we were getting rather high by then. “Oh no,” he croaked. “I haven’t been in the ministry for some time. I’ve been traveling.”

I nodded. “I often travel myself. It’s a wonderful thing to do.”

“Oh, it is. It is. The people, meeting new people has been the best part.”

“But not for the ministry?” I almost didn’t believe him, but he insisted. We went on the same way until late evening. I told him my concern of continuing. “How much longer?” It was almost nightfall, and the snow was coming down harder the longer we walked.

He stopped and glanced at the sky. “Oh, not too much longer. We’ll be at the rest stop soon.”

“The rest stop? As far as I know, this pass is only a day’s travel.” I looked around at the snow settling on the ground. There was no sign of the end of the trail or of any other travelers. “We should be able to see the lights of the town by now.”

He shook his head and clicked his tongue. “Oh no, this is a two-day journey. There! See to the left? We’ll take that short trail to the cabin and rest the night. We should be in the town by noon tomorrow. Worry not.”

“Do you expect anyone else will take shelter with us tonight?”

“No,” he answered. “Not a soul.” He had waited at the foot of the mountain since sunrise, and no one went before him. No man had passed us, and we had not heard other travelers behind us, meaning we were likely the only travelers that day. The idea that it was only the man and me made me wary, but we had spent the day together without harm coming to either of us. A few feet ahead was a path that snaked behind some thin trees and bushes. Though the path was not wide, it was well worn.

“Follow me,” he said. “It’s not but a short walk.”

I did as he said, not because I truly wanted to wait out the night, but because there was no other choice. The darkness of night and chill of the snow grew greatly in those two minutes it took to get to the cabin. On first look, I didn’t mind it. The cabin was old but sturdy, built to be one room with a fireplace and two windows. The man pushed open the heavy door.

Through the dark and the cold, I could not tell that the windows were boarded on the inside, but when the man lit the crumbling brick fireplace, the room was clear. I saw a thick, dusty, red rug and two old boards nailed over each window. Dry cobwebs dangled in the corners and strange damage marks had been beaten into the wooden walls. The table was nicked in many places while the legs of the chairs were dark with stains.

“What happened here?” I placed my pack on the table, relieved to get the weight off my shoulders. “The way looks so well walked, but this place looks forgotten.”

The man placed his own pack next to the fireplace and began to rifle through it. “You must know as well as anyone that many creatures live on this mountain: bears, lions, vandals. They all come to this place in search of food and shelter. Which is why I brought this.”

From his pack he pulled a lock. Before I could say anything, he sealed us inside. I asked him where the key was. “The key? I have it round my neck,” he told me. “You worry too much to be as young as you are.”

I kept my pack in my hands and stayed on my feet though they ached with cold and stress. “Only a fool doesn’t know the way out of the room he’s in,” I defended my stance.

“If you would like to freeze to death or get eaten by a bear, then I will be more than happy to unlock the door for you.” The man pulled a chair near the fireplace and removed his boots. He stuck his feet out to warm, something I would have liked to have done. “I have no right to keep any man from doing as he pleases.”

I stood at the table with a tight grip on my pack for some time. Why I felt like this was necessary, I do not know. Watching the flames lick the air and the man resting with his feet out was a sight in itself. He kept his hat, scarf, and glasses on. His shoes were within reach with the mouths left open wide. If he needed them on, they were ready.

“Come on. Rest a while. The nights here are long and cold.” The man spoke without moving. I took the stained chair in my other hand. I set it a little farther away from the brick fireplace and a good few feet from the man. The chair let out a creak as I sat down, stretching my legs toward the fire.

“Aren’t you going to take your shoes off?” he asked.

I cleared my throat. “Aren’t you going to take off your hat and scarf? Set your shoes by the door?”

He folded his hands over his stomach. “I know the mountain too well to do that. My shoes stay next to me, as you should keep your things near you. But, there is rarely a thing near as comfortable as warming your feet by a good fire. Might as well get in while it’s here.”

“What do you mean? Do we not have enough firewood to last the night?”

“Oh no.” Pastor waved his hand in front of his nose as if my questions were odorous. “This fire will last as long as it’s needed.”

I rolled my eyes. “Is that a belief of your ministry? That things last as long as they’re needed?”

He shook his head. “So young to be concerned. If it eases you, then I’ll put an extra log on the fire if needed. I never travel without an extra log though I have never used it for heat.”

I was skeptical. “How many times have you taken the mountain pass?”

“Too many to count.”

Outside, the wind howled. The cold pressed, making the walls of the cabin creak. I closed my eyes and listened until it relaxed. Left with the crackling of the fire, I realized I was hungry. I took a can of beans and a cooking pot from my pack. I squatted before the brick and let the flames heat my dinner. The man said nothing as I watched the flames curl around the bottom of my pan. I glanced at the door, thinking I heard the crunch of snow, but I was quick to write it off as a bear or some other animal walking by or circling the cabin, attracted by the smell of beans. I stirred my dinner and cooked it until I saw steam rise. By this time, I was convinced the man had fallen asleep. Resting back in the chair, I ate in peace.

I had nearly finished my meal when three solid knocks sounded from the door. I looked toward the sound then to Pastor. Had my mind played a trick on me? Holding my breath, I listened for as long as I believed reasonable, but there was no more knocking.

I scraped together the last bite of dinner when something or someone jostled the door. In surprise, I dropped my spoon on the dusty, red carpet. The man, just as startled as I, sat up in his chair. In a moment, his shoes were on his feet, but he did not look to the door or to the boarded-up windows. He stared at me.

“Did you hear that?” He hissed in a low whisper. “How many?”

My mouth gaped as I tried to understand his question. “How many what?” I picked up my spoon as something pounded at the door. The man flew from his seat and grabbed my shoulders. In the light of the fire, his hands looked like they were cooked leather.

“How many times? How many times did he knock?” Pastor was manic.

“Who is he?” I implored. “Who is he?”

Pastor shook me, gripping my shoulders harder. “How many?”

“Three!” I answered as the pounding stopped.

Pastor glanced at the windows. “There’s not much time. Take this.” From his pocket he drew a tarnished gold locket that appeared to be as old as him. He pulled open the front of my jacket and dropped the jewelry inside. It settled on the last bone of my sternum, sipping the heat from my skin through the layers like the coldest piece of unmelting ice. Instinctively, I pressed it to me.

“You must protect this with your life.” He instructed. “Promise me. Promise me you will not let him have it.”

I nodded. Under all my winter hiking layers, I sweated with fear.

“Please, take it to my granddaughter. Her name,” he was breathless as he spoke, “you’ll find her name on the locket.” He snatched his glasses from his face. Shivers raced down my spine as my gaze flickered between his eyes. His left eye was completely clouded by a cataract while his right eye was bright amber. Both were unreal, untrustworthy, and overwhelming. All I could do was hold the cold metal to my body and nod. Every other muscle was frozen with fear.

Whoever was outside took to beating the windows. Pastor tore open his pack. Before I knew it, he had a thick, stained log in his hands. Much like the chairs, the log was stained with dark red. With Pastor away from me, I put my spoon in my pocket and let the last bite of beans slide onto the floor. I put my pack on then hid on the far side of the fireplace. How did I get trapped with this stranger in a cabin in the middle of winter? My safety and escape came to mind, but there was no easy way out.

“Pastor, the key,” I called to him. “Toss me the key to the door!”

But it was too late. The glass shattered. Skeleton-thin fingers gripped the top board and pushed it inward. The board creaked under the stress. Pastor, in all his wisdom, beat the fingers with the log, cutting into the knuckles which kept their grip and bloodying the whole scene. The fingers refused to retract and pushed harder. With a great pop, the top two nails separated from the wall. Moments later, the bottom two nails were loose. The board fell to the floor.

“You best be prepared, young man. This is a fate you cannot escape.”

I let one shoulder of my pack free so it slung to my hip. From the side pocket, I drew my long hunting knife. After replacing my pack, I got a sure grip though my palm was cold and sweaty. The knuckles gripped the bottom board and pushed it loose in the same manner.

Pastor yelled, “you make this hard for yourself. Time and time again, you lose this battle. Give up the ghost!”

All the blood drained from my face. The man I saw beating the flesh away from the knuckles had not said a word. It was the man outside, the owner of the knuckles, who spoke those words of warning. I would have fallen limp if not for the bitter cold air pouring through the broken window. I stood stiff in the corner, scared for my life but ready to defend myself.

“Give in and your quest will be complete,” the man outside urged.

But Pastor was persistent. “Never, you fiend! Leave me be one night.”

The bottom board fell. With nothing but melting snowflakes to conceal his face, the man from outside gripped the sides of the window and climbed through. Brutal white and pink wounds on his head and neck contrasted against his dark skin. Only a few moments passed before I saw how he got so beaten. The instant the back of his head passed through the window, Pastor slammed the log on the back of the man’s neck. He fell, barely missing the nails of the boards, onto the floor of the cabin. Again and again, Pastor beat his doppelganger with the log. The interloper, despite the log cracking his skull and spine, grabbed one of the boards and swung it at Pastor’s leg. The nails pierced his skin, making him fall to one knee and holler out in pain. Quickly, the interloper took the log from Pastor and cast into the fireplace. Sparks flew as the log knocked against the burning fuel, but it did not catch.

Pastor, now unarmed and injured, slammed his head into the stranger’s stomach. The man from outside took it well but stumbled back into the table. As Pastor used the wall to get to his feet, the man grabbed the nearest chair, the very same chair Pastor had rested on. I winced as the man swung the legs of the chair at Pastor’s head, making his knit cap fly off, exposing similar wounds and scars. Both men had the same injured scalp and damaged skin. Blood ran down his face from the hit. Pastor ducked the next attack.

Again and again, the interloper stabbed Pastor with the legs of the chair until he fell. The scarf came off on the leg of the chair on the final stab. The attacker lifted the chair above his head to bring it down on his opponents back, but Pastor crawled under the man’s legs and hid underneath the table. Sweat and blood dripped from his face onto the red carpet. I had not noticed before, but I saw now that the carpet had what appeared to be years of these same blood drop stains.

The man from outside, beaten and bruised himself, flipped the table. It rattled against the wall. But Pastor was not about to be bested. He leaped up, tackling the man and taking him to the floor. They wrestled together. A man struggling against himself was a nightmare come to life. I tried to keep track of the man I traveled with, but they rolled one too many times. Which man was the trespasser was undistinguishable.

I thought my heart stopped as one tired the other out. He pinned down the man’s arms with his knees and leaned down until their faces were close.

“This has never been so easy,” the man whispered to his fallen opponent. I shivered as he pulled a small dagger from the bottom of his pant leg. Not a second later, the deed was done.

The living man stood, out of breath and filthy. He dug in the pockets of the fallen, but only found supplies. The jacket popped open as he furthered his search. The firelight showed his boney knuckles. This was the trespasser.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” The man asked, looking up at me from the body.

My throat was tight, and my voice shook in the cold air. “What do you mean?” I pointed my knife at him with shaking hands. “I don’t want any trouble. Let me go.”

“Oh no,” the man shook his head and clicked his tongue. He stared through me with his haunted eyes. “Not without the locket.”

I stood straight and pulled my jacket away from my body. The locket, still as cold as ice, dropped into my knifed hand. I examined the name engraved on the front.

To Sassy,

Love Grandpapa

“Do you know how many men have refused to give me that locket for a man they just met? A man who led them to this place without warning, though he knew what would happen. They die for him. I promise to let you go if you hand that to me,” he told me in the same deep, bitter voice. “Tell me, is that worth your life?”

“No,” I said as I put the locket into his outstretched palm. “It’s not worth my life.”

“Thank you. You’re a good man.” The man’s hand closed slowly around the old locket. Tears streamed down his face. I watched, silent and still, as he walked to the door. With a gentle push, it opened to a clear sky. He looked to the right and then to the left before going straight into the dark winter night.

I kept my knife in hand as I crept to the door. Looking at it, I saw the lock was still in place. Either Pastor had never really locked it, which made no sense as the aggressor had pushed and pulled on the door, or he had taken the key without me seeing and unlocked it without my knowledge only to lock it again. Unwilling to dwell on the strangeness of that event any longer, I left the cabin. The path back to the main trail was easy to find despite the snow that had fallen. Only a few minutes later, I saw the lights of the town.

I never said a word to any man about that night. When it came time to depart that town, I took the longer journey around the mountain to avoid the pass. Many years later when I found myself in the same area, I looked toward the mouth of the pass. Though I had aged a lifetime, haunted by dreams of Pastor and his doppelganger, the man stood there looking no different than the day I had met him. Though I had business with an old friend in the town, I went down to the valley and took the longer journey.