Chapter 5 – Chapter 5

Bran sensed more than heard Jeremiah return in the late afternoon of the second day. The falling of the snow made a sound, which surprised him. Only being on the silent mountainside as he now was brought home to him that snow—in conjunction to the whistling of the wind—could make a distinctive sound. But so too did the clop of the horses and the jangle of their straps and bridles and of Jeremiah's spurs.

The horses. More than one.

Bran went out on the porch of the cabin to welcome Jeremiah and saw that he had an extra horse. It wasn't the painted pony, however.

"Another horse?" he asked as Jeremiah dismounted.

"I came back by way of my ranch. The horse is packing extra food supplies. And you'll need a horse if you're going across the mountain."

"But I have no way of paying."

"Yes you do," Jeremiah said, giving Bran an intense look, a bit of a smile on his lips.

Ah, yes, I guess I do, Bran thought—on my back, with my legs open. There's always that. Jeremiah led the horses into the barn, which was not easy—there now was more than eight inches of snow on the ground. While he was doing this, Bran went back into the cabin and walked over and sat down by the fireplace. He felt a little deflated that he'd still be thought of as just a hole to relieve Jeremiah's needs. He'd been euphoric when they'd fucked in the cabin—even if it had been on the floor. It's like he was being let into the man's world. It's what had led him to do all of the decorating and . . .

Jeremiah had moved into the cabin and just stood there, his jaw dropped and his eyes wide open.

Bran smiled, waiting for Jeremiah to compliment him on what he'd done to brighten the place up and make it feel more Christmassy.

But Jeremiah's reaction came in a bombastic explosion. "What the fuck? What's all this for? And, you, get out of that chair. That's Seth's chair."

Confused and wounded, Bran sprang from the chair. "What's wrong?" He also wanted to yell, "Who the fuck's Seth," but he didn't.

"What the fuck have you been doing while I was gone? Moving in on me? Trying to be Seth? Well, you're not Seth, dammit. Get the fuck out of here."

"No, I'm not Seth. I'm not trying to be anybody but me. I'm Bran. Bran." It hit him then that they had never, even in their most intimate moments, referred to each other by name. He didn't know this man's name, and this man had never asked him for his name. "My name is Bran. I'm a person. I'm not just a fuck toy. My name is Bran. Not Seth, whoever the hell that is."

"What the fuck? Get that tree out of here. Get out now. NOW!"

Close to sobs, Bran grabbed for the tree and pulled it out of the cabin, past Jeremiah. He dragged it through the snow, to the barn, and propped it up in a corner there. He collapsed into a sitting position leaning up against the side of the stall not occupied by a horse, and cried and rocked himself back and forth, staring at the tree, trying his damnedest to try to pull some sense of Christmas out of it.

He heard the shutters in the house slam shut and went to the barn door. The holly branches had been tossed out into the snow as well. He went back into a fetal position, facing the tree, and rocked back and forth, back and forth. Well after dark he pulled some hardtack out of his saddlebag and made a dinner of that. He went to the door and scooped up some snow to quench his thirst. The cabin was dark, buttoned up tight. But there was smoke coming out of the chimney. He hadn't thought to look up there before, but he did so now.

At least the man had some warmth.

It was cold in the barn, and it was still snowing. It must have been more than a foot deep out there by now. Even with the snow falling, the moon was peeking through from somewhere and reflecting off the snow. The landscape was ethereal even if Bran had no reason to appreciate that.

Then he calculated. It was Christmas Eve. He went back into the barn and sat, cross-legged, in front of the Christmas tree, his teeth nearly chattering from the cold despite the blanket he'd wrapped around himself.

"Silent night, holy night." He found he was humming the tune. Then he started to sing it to himself, in low, hesitant Pennsylvania Dutch, almost the original German, phrases, his Omar—his grandmother—had taught him, the notes coming between slight sobs.

He felt so alone, so utterly alone. And rejected. He had no idea what he'd done wrong. And now what? What was he supposed to do? What did the man want him to do? He could saddle that horse and leave now, tonight. But how far would be get in this snow? And in what direction? And would the man come after him as a horse thief? He hadn't earned the horse yet. The man had made clear he had to earn it on his back. Was what he had already let the man do enough? Probably not. He could go out on foot. He wouldn't make it far in this snow. But did it really matter anymore? Was there anyone who cared?

At length he drifted off into a fitful sleep, resolved from moment to moment to rise and trudge out into the snow, but much too cold to start doing it.