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Sometimes The Mountain Buries You is a queer novella about the monster that threatens your attempt at a much-needed quiet life. Check out the about page here.
Sheppard is holding his guts in when you meet him. It's simultaneously the most impressive thing you've seen and the least. When you're done assisting the veterinarian in putting most of him back together, he asks you out for a drink. Without anesthetics, he genuinely soberly asks you out for a drink. You tell him it will be a while before he can drink, given the several layers of flesh stitched together that needs to heal. He smiles.
In two years someone will ask you a question that you don't expect to have an answer for, you realize that you know Sheppard.
It's a long walk off a dirt road, off a packed dirt road, off a winding paved road that is some 50km from the nearest two-lane road. You're not supposed to know where Sheppard lives—no one is supposed to know where Sheppard lives—but one time you made a very, very bad house call that involved much of a repeat of the first time you met Sheppard except then you were the veterinarian and you the veterinarian didn't have an assistant. It had been a tense situation for you but Sheppard was maybe too relaxed about it, too confident in your skills maybe, but just too relaxed about it.
Bringing people to Sheppard's place is right up there in the not supposed to next to knowing where Sheppard's place is. When you got to the outskirts of town, you had them strip down to nothing, you search their clothes then returned them. They had already given you everything that could be construed as a weapon—including actual weapons—that they had on them, but you had to think of Sheppard's safety. Sheppard needed safety and Sheppard had a difficult time keeping safety.
His cabin is intentionally hard to notice. Clad in scavenged wood from the shacks of a ghost town on the other side of the packed dirt road, it looks one part shack and one part collapsed against the bare rock face of the hillside. Next to it, the soft dirt of decades of decomposition slumped against the rock face hide much of the actual structure. The rock face, you know, is an important component in keeping the cabin warm in the colder months. You preemptively hope for its radiant heat, knowing that standing still the sweat of the hike will soon cool and multiply the chill that fogs your breath.
You call out with the full warning that someone is with you. Inside, Sheppard considers faking vacancy. He's well-acquainted with your determination—dozens of stitches putting him back together are reminder enough—so relents.
When he's made aware exactly what the question is he's the answer for, he smiles slyly at you. "You owe me." You shrug.
In two years, you've come to Sheppard's medical aid just shy of two dozen occasions. The handful of times he's shown up with venison, an axe to chop firewood, a helping hand do not begin to balance the ledger. You don't keep track. His timing for his times of need are comical, his bedside manner making up for your laconic nature, and he's never once asked why you moved out here. It's nice.
When the veterinarian retired she gave you a notebook. It was small, fitting in a breast pocket, and past halfway full with dates and notes for every time Sheppard needed her medical aid. "Hopefully nothing weirder than what's already in here happens while you're around." The first few pages reveal why Sheppard didn't go to the town's actual doctor or trail medic instead. The spines in particular were enough cause for concern but the venomous muscle fascia would throw any medical professional for a loop.
Far enough from the cabin to not draw any future attention to the area, Sheppard supervises the small fire being built while you stand next to him and watch. "And you really had to bring them all the way to my front door?"
"Honestly, I was hoping to come across you walking the road into town."
The way he smiles sounds like a laugh. "I probably wouldn't be much help then, would I?"
"Maybe you come into town when I'm not looking and you're not looking for me. I'm a busy person."
"You're a busy person when you have to do a fluid analysis on a possible bog spavin."
You ignore the jest at your—intentionally—quiet life. "I'm going to assume you pulled those words from my head."
He takes a long moment to reply, focusing on the orientation of objects being laid out on the soft forest floor. When the someone looks up over their shoulder to double check, he gestures at one that receives a quarter turn. "I know things, I could know that." He could've. He spent a lot of time with the town's last veterinarian.
Distracted by the thing you don't understand happening in front of you, you nod.
In ten minutes, Sheppard asks, "You're not colourblind are you?"
You're shaking your head still when you volley back "are you?" with your own jest. You're genuinely curious if he actually has more photoreceptors than humans. The retired veterinarian's notebook makes no mention of any possible UV or polarized light perception, you've looked. He does have remarkable, and perhaps independent, depth perception.
"So, when the edges of the fire goes magenta, you need to hold your breath."
The fire roars with an explosion into a massive fireball while you're taking in the instruction. Your reaction—a jump into ready for action—is that of someone whose spent time around bursting aerosol cans or at least one sizeable house fire. It could be both.
"It'll be a minute," Sheppard says, eyes intent on the someone slowly feeding their spread of objects to the flames.
You consider never bringing anyone else Sheppard's way again. The fire gives off no heat and burns nothing but its starting tinder and the objects sacrificed to it. Remaining cold, you second guess your desire for the warmth of Sheppard's cabin. When all is said and done, and the someone walking back through the brush to the dirt road assuring you they can find their way, Sheppard turns to you and—like the first time you met—offers you a drink, in that cabin.
Sheppard is holding his guts in when you meet him. It's simultaneously the most impressive thing you've seen and the least. When you're done assisting the veterinarian in putting most of him back together, he asks you out for a drink. Without anesthetics, he genuinely soberly asks you out for a drink. You tell him it will be a while before he can drink, given the several layers of flesh stitched together that needs to heal. He smiles.
In two years someone will ask you a question that you don't expect to have an answer for, you realize that you know Sheppard.
It's a long walk off a dirt road, off a packed dirt road, off a winding paved road that is some 50km from the nearest two-lane road. You're not supposed to know where Sheppard lives—no one is supposed to know where Sheppard lives—but one time you made a very, very bad house call that involved much of a repeat of the first time you met Sheppard except then you were the veterinarian and you the veterinarian didn't have an assistant. It had been a tense situation for you but Sheppard was maybe too relaxed about it, too confident in your skills maybe, but just too relaxed about it.
Bringing people to Sheppard's place is right up there in the not supposed to next to knowing where Sheppard's place is. When you got to the outskirts of town, you had them strip down to nothing, you search their clothes then returned them. They had already given you everything that could be construed as a weapon—including actual weapons—that they had on them, but you had to think of Sheppard's safety. Sheppard needed safety and Sheppard had a difficult time keeping safety.
His cabin is intentionally hard to notice. Clad in scavenged wood from the shacks of a ghost town on the other side of the packed dirt road, it looks one part shack and one part collapsed against the bare rock face of the hillside. Next to it, the soft dirt of decades of decomposition slumped against the rock face hide much of the actual structure. The rock face, you know, is an important component in keeping the cabin warm in the colder months. You preemptively hope for its radiant heat, knowing that standing still the sweat of the hike will soon cool and multiply the chill that fogs your breath.
You call out with the full warning that someone is with you. Inside, Sheppard considers faking vacancy. He's well-acquainted with your determination—dozens of stitches putting him back together are reminder enough—so relents.
When he's made aware exactly what the question is he's the answer for, he smiles slyly at you. "You owe me." You shrug.
In two years, you've come to Sheppard's medical aid just shy of two dozen occasions. The handful of times he's shown up with venison, an axe to chop firewood, a helping hand do not begin to balance the ledger. You don't keep track. His timing for his times of need are comical, his bedside manner making up for your laconic nature, and he's never once asked why you moved out here. It's nice.
When the veterinarian retired she gave you a notebook. It was small, fitting in a breast pocket, and past halfway full with dates and notes for every time Sheppard needed her medical aid. "Hopefully nothing weirder than what's already in here happens while you're around." The first few pages reveal why Sheppard didn't go to the town's actual doctor or trail medic instead. The spines in particular were enough cause for concern but the venomous muscle fascia would throw any medical professional for a loop.
Far enough from the cabin to not draw any future attention to the area, Sheppard supervises the small fire being built while you stand next to him and watch. "And you really had to bring them all the way to my front door?"
"Honestly, I was hoping to come across you walking the road into town."
The way he smiles sounds like a laugh. "I probably wouldn't be much help then, would I?"
"Maybe you come into town when I'm not looking and you're not looking for me. I'm a busy person."
"You're a busy person when you have to do a fluid analysis on a possible bog spavin."
You ignore the jest at your—intentionally—quiet life. "I'm going to assume you pulled those words from my head."
He takes a long moment to reply, focusing on the orientation of objects being laid out on the soft forest floor. When the someone looks up over their shoulder to double check, he gestures at one that receives a quarter turn. "I know things, I could know that." He could've. He spent a lot of time with the town's last veterinarian.
Distracted by the thing you don't understand happening in front of you, you nod.
In ten minutes, Sheppard asks, "You're not colourblind are you?"
You're shaking your head still when you volley back "are you?" with your own jest. You're genuinely curious if he actually has more photoreceptors than humans. The retired veterinarian's notebook makes no mention of any possible UV or polarized light perception, you've looked. He does have remarkable, and perhaps independent, depth perception.
"So, when the edges of the fire goes magenta, you need to hold your breath."
The fire roars with an explosion into a massive fireball while you're taking in the instruction. Your reaction—a jump into ready for action—is that of someone whose spent time around bursting aerosol cans or at least one sizeable house fire. It could be both.
"It'll be a minute," Sheppard says, eyes intent on the someone slowly feeding their spread of objects to the flames.
You consider never bringing anyone else Sheppard's way again. The fire gives off no heat and burns nothing but its starting tinder and the objects sacrificed to it. Remaining cold, you second guess your desire for the warmth of Sheppard's cabin. When all is said and done, and the someone walking back through the brush to the dirt road assuring you they can find their way, Sheppard turns to you and—like the first time you met—offers you a drink, in that cabin.
