The Beard

© 2000 Iain Stoen

Meandering through the dense, thorny bush, the regiment made its way up the steep, undulating peek in organized processions, a vanguard of thousands bound for the frontline. Only theirs was a battle of survival against the elements. Negotiating their way by route and ritual, cracking tundra beneath their collective step, the troupe trudged upward, around the larger pockets of glaciated ice that threatened to cut them off at the pass. Theirs was an oblique, whitened world, seemingly lacking in dimension, a tangled maze of dead-ends that would bemuse even the most proficient of scouts. Yet instinctively, they knew where they were going. Occasionally, when the wind shifted its haphazard course, the cold drifts of ice air would force the scurrying band into several simultaneous detours, but even in this calamity there was order. Their stride remained ever unchanged, their instinctive determination, all the more hurried by the untimely passing of their mountain.

It had been a wretched winter. Fierce polar squalls came often, killing indiscriminately, eliminating the weaker elements, to feed the stronger. Such was nature's way, this circle of life. For when one of their comrades died in the bush, the soldiers were not beyond cannibalism - consuming their fallen comrade with efficiency and zeal, leaving no part of his useful corpse to the elements. Not a thing was ever wasted. Their predicament would not allow for it.

The frozen gusts of ice-air shifted their chaotic course again, as was known to happen this time of year. Their ascent would be slowed as a result. Those approaching from the east were paralysed by the arctic whirlwind that seemed to envelop them as suddenly as it had arrived. Solidified in their tracks, the landscape was besieged by thousands of half-dead carcases encased in the timeless white blanket of winter's spoils. Eventually, they would be eaten like the rest, but for now, they simply became part of the crystallized whole. Too cold to stop, the weather-hardened drones approaching from the west, plodded ever onward, toward the peak, toward the anticipated salvation of shelter. There was a large orifice at the top of the mountain, and this was where they planned to wait out the storm.

The foul reek of death lagged never too far behind the determined marchers. As they honed in on the apex, odours began overlapping, at first punctuated by the pungent stench of spat-out chewing tobacco. The ground was littered with the stuff. Yellowy brown pockets of frozen spit and dried leaves marked the wretched smell of bacteria-laden innards. This was the true battleground. Those bacteria were tough sons of bitches, for even as they froze into the winterized tresses, they knew their lives were not lost. A sudden burst of warmth would revive them by the billions, making the rest of their ascent all the more perilous.

There was even more ice nearing the zenith, and they were once again forced to slow, coming to a temporary halt at a crystallized waterfall of saliva and rejected gin. Such was the nature of the terrain before them: Shelter, and by extension their survival, was just beyond this ninety-degree ice slope. Many would not survive the mount, but none could endure the elements if they chose to remain inert. With no less than a moment's hesitation, the regiment proceeded up the icy incline.

One misplaced footfall was all it took to inadvertently trigger the tumbling avalanche of bodies that happened next; at first, one, then another, then another, until nearly all had fallen victim to the treacherous mountain. Thousands were lost this way. Loyalists by the dozens clung aimlessly to the frigid air as they fell hopelessly to their dooms. But a few of the more stealthy, defying the odds, crept their way determinedly to the crest to be confronted with an altogether new terror: The cave was blocked! Closed sufficiently so as not to allow the warm steam its usual escape, barring the weather-hardened warriors from their anticipated shelter.

Then came the tremors. The ground beneath them began to quake; the mountain seemed to be moving, but not with its usual equilibrium, not under its own volition. Thunderous clashing and crimson bolts of lightening flickered in every direction, siren-like, reverberating through the troop like a daunting epiphany. They were in motion, somehow being hurled through the air while still affixed to their mountaintop! The air around them was changing, getting denser and warmer by the second; their environment was somehow being manipulated.

A sudden bridge of warmth seemed to appear out of nowhere - a heaven- sent pathway connecting to another mountain, this one fresh, warm and seemingly uninhabited. The few resilient survivors made their dash toward freedom and salvation, thankful for the mystical timing of this mountainous saviour. Their old mountain was dead after all, and it was time to move their operations base to more hospitable terrain.

-"Give me the tube, we'll try the old fashioned mouth to mouth resuscitative approach!" The commanding voice ordered in alarm.

-"What the hell for Jack? He's been dead for a while, plus he's homeless, I mean look at him, he's infested!" The younger voice pointed in the direction of the old man's overgrown beard in apparent disgust.

-"Our job is to provide reasonable treatment whenever possible! We still might be able to save this guy, homeless or not!" The older voice resounded, his years of wisdom and experience seemingly negating the cavalier attitude of his younger counterpart.

-"Geez, I'm getting itchy just looking at him, you want me to touch that son of a bitch?" the younger paramedic whined on in protest. "Look at his beard, it's infested with lice!"

-"He's a human being for Christ's sake, Domenic! I'm surprised at your attitude!" The older man seemed to be lecturing his partner.

-"Yeah, well, you get yourself infested with ticks and lice while trying to revive a dead drunk! I'll just watch from over here. God he stinks!" The younger man recoiled toward the back of the ambulance compartment. A moment of contemplative silence was marked by total inaction on both men's part.

-"It's ok Devon..." The older paramedic motioned the driver onward. "It's another DOA, we can take him to Saint Francis, no need to hurry." The seasoned technician decided almost on impulse, not to resuscitate the drunken corpse before him.

Seconds later, as if by divine expedient, his retribution came: Itchiness like he had never before experienced. Overcome with a primal impulse to scratch - at first his arms, and then his brow and finally his scalp, the older paramedic seemed possessed in his preoccupation with his now infested self. He imagined the legions of lice and ticks honing in on his body heat, jumping from the homeless corpse to his exposed and inviting epidermis like a team of parasitic Olympian vaulters. The troops were transferring mountains at a relentless pace; a steady stream of invisible battalions slowing jumping atop the tropical mountain of plenty, mating, and laying their eggs almost instantly, much to the discomfort and disdain of their new host. The sirens echoed through the city streets, like a heaven sent wail, but alas, not a soul heard them. Not one soul.

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Iain Stoen is a 30-year old journalist, fiction writer, essayist, editor, poet, and screenwriter currently splitting his time between Calgary, Alberta and Santa Barbara, California. With a major book deal in the works, and several television and motion picture scripts pending sale, plan on seeing and hearing a lot more from this up-and-coming Canadian writer.

Iain Stoen has had his short pieces, commentaries and editorial comments published in a large number of Canadian and International journals and newspapers.

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