A/N Yeah...bet you can't guess what was the inspriation for this piece. It started off as a thing for English class, and then Snape jumped up in my head. Don't own em, a little bit different from usual fare.
One generation passeth away, and another generation cometh: but the earth abideth for ever. The sun also ariseth, and the sun goeth down, and hasteth to his place where he arose...All the rivers run into the sea; yet the sea is not full: unto the place from whence the rivers come, thither they return again. All things are full of labor; man cannot utter it: the eye is not satisfied with seeing, nor the ear filled with hearing. The thing that hath been, it is that which shall be; and that which is done is that which shall be done: and there is no new thing under the sun.Is there any thing whereof it may be said, See, this is new? it hath been already of old time, which was before us. There is no remembrance of former things; neither shall there be any remembrance of things that are to come with those that shall come after. -Ecclesiastes 1:4-10
He walked along the path. It was a familiar path. He had travelled it many times as a boy. Down the tracks, to the swamp, veering right into the woods. This was untouched land. It had barely seen civilizations hand. The only people who had come here were the loggers, who had long since left. They hadn't been here in years, since before he was a boy. There was better wood, outside of here.
He had a pack slung over one shoulder. It was very heavy and he lilted to one side from the weight, but he barely noticed. It had everything he needed. He had few fond memories of his father, but nearly all of them included this place. It had been his father, once, who carried the pack over one shoulder, trekking ahead down the path, sweeping the pine branches out of the way. Now it was he, alone, doing so.
It felt good to be away from everything. It made him feel happy. He hadn't felt happy in a long time. It took the stress away. Stress that had built and built and built until it had nearly reached a breaking point. It was then that he dug the pack out, finding everything to go inside it, and headed off. It was nice being in the woods, the tall trees blocking out the sun. The darkness was comforting.
He reached the clearing, sitting, resting, on a tree stump, setting the pack down and pulling from it the tent cloth. He could see the river from here, the ruins of the old logging mill sitting alongside of it. Once, it had been a grand building, cutting the timber down to usable size, but now all that remained was a brick foundation, and even the brick was overrun with moss, giving the whole thing a green velvet sheen.
He took his time assembling the tent, remembering the motions that his father had taught him so many years ago. The timber for the tent-pegs was easily split, and he hammered them into the ground. He had searched for the tent-peg holes of his youth, but they were long gone, the scars in the earth had healed, the soil filling in, creating a seamless transition, all covered in green grass. He was creating new scars that would heal in time.
As a boy, he hadn't understood why his father loved doing this so. He didn't understand the pleasure his father derived from coming out here, so far away from civilization, into this clearing with only a tent and a fishing rod, and his son. As a boy, he had thought it boring to have to pitch a tent. But now, as a man, he could see what pleasure his father had derived from the ritual. He could see what his father enjoyed in the calm peace of nature, shaded from the harsh sun outside.
He finished with the tent, and gathered twigs together for a fire. Old, dried up logs, dead branches that would soon become moist with decomposition. He looked at it for a moment, contemplating, before pulling out a match book and cigarette case. He lit a scrap of grass carefully, and then a twig, making sure to spread the fire evenly, before lighting the cigarette.
It tasted good. Sweeter somehow, the smoke wasn't as harsh as it should be, but softer, sweetly caressing his throat and down into his lungs. It hadn't tasted this good in a long time. He held the smoke in, before softly exhaling it with a hiss. It hadn't tasted this good since he first picked up the habit. But being here made everything better, somehow, in some way that he did not know.
He looked at the fire, now blazing. He could have lit it an easier way. He could have set up the tent with nothing more than a flick of a wand. But he chose not to. It would not have been as rewarding. It wouldn't have been as relaxing, had he chosen the easy way out. He enjoyed this. The same way his father had enjoyed it. This was about leaving that world behind, if only for a little while.
He was here because it was a place of solitude. It was him, the woods, and the river, nothing else. He had come out here to forget about the world. He didn't have to think out here. He didn't have to worry out here. He didn't have to worry about what was going on outside. He didn't have to think that he had blood on his hands. He didn't have to think about coming out of here. He didn't have to think about the war going on around him. He was at peace here, and he wanted to stay here.
He watched the sun starting to dip, making the shadows of the trees long and thin. There would still be hours until the sun set, still, but it was starting it's travel around the earth, slowly and surely. He looked over at the fishing rod he had brought with him. That was what he had come out here to do. He had come out here to do everything he had done with his father. He had gotten the first part done, he had pitched his tent, the same way they always had.
He was repeating a moment in time from his boyhood, and enjoying it. It was one of the few enjoyable memories of his youth. His father deciding that they should get away, packing some bags, saying goodbye to his mother, and heading here, to stay for a weekend, a week, one year they had even stayed the entire summer. It was nice here, peaceful. He enjoyed it.
He shook his head, clearing the thoughts of his past away, reaching for the fishing rod. He hadn't brought much food. He'd intended on catching fish to eat. That was what he had done with his father. He had to think to remember how to put the rod together, how to slide the one end onto the other, how to clip the reel on, how to string the line. But it all came back to him. It took a minute, but it all came back to him.
He kicked over a dead log by the river, revealing all sorts of insect life to use as bait. He plucked a cricket out, tying it behind the hook, just as his father had shown him. He took off his boots, wading into the water. The water was cold, but comforting. It didn't take him long to adjust, and ignore the cold water rushing past him.
He flicked his arm out and back, casting, mimicking motions he hadn't performed in years. But they still seemed natural to him. His body moved without his thought, it went through the motions without him having to think about it. It just happened. He instinctively pulled the line through the water, watching the shadows of the fish.
He watched as one fish swam right by his line, and he tugged slightly, trying to interest the animal, who followed for a second, before turning away. He pulled back, and threw the line out again, and this time the fish bit. He felt the hook catch, and he tugged gently, pulling the fish with him. He tugged, pulling in the line, careful, slowly, he wasn't going to let the fish get away because the line snapped.
The world faded away around him. It was him, and the fish. Nothing else. It was a long battle. He'd give up ground to the fish to pull it into the shallows, and the fish would take it and run. He'd start to reel it in, and the fish would dart the other way. Back and forth, a slow, steady battle until finally the fish was in the shallows at his feet. He could see the striping down it's back, glinting in the setting sun.
He pulled it out of the water, watching it twitch as it struggled to breathe without water running over it. It was large, but not the largest he had seen swim by. There were bigger. It would make a decent dinner. But he had beans, he could make those instead. He didn't have to kill this fish. He lowered it slightly, so that the water would run over it's gills.
He could kill it. It was only a fish. But it had done nothing to him. It had fought with him. It had battled him. And he had won. To the victor go the spoils. He reached into the water, and undid the hook from the fishes mouth, watching as it darted away, out of the shallows downstream. He didn't need to take an innocent life. There were some deaths that were necessary, but that was not one. He had killed too much already.
He untied the hook and the bait. He didn't need fish. He didn't want the fish now. He had no taste for it. He couldn't take an innocent life. He had come here to escape the death that was haunting him. He had come here to forget about the war that was going on outside. He didn't need to kill, to be reminded of the world outside.
He retreated back to his tent, sitting hard on the stump, pulling the beans out and sticking the can over the fire to heat. He was going to escape from this. He was. He was going to forget all about the world. This was his retreat. Nature would always be here for him. Others, people, they wouldn't, but this place would be here, untainted, unscarred, remaining. And he would escape from the war.