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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.
You are out of town at one of the ranches on the backside of the hill checking on calves and pregnant ewes when Sheppard comes round town for you. He returns one morning not many days later while you're opening the clinic, with his 'sprained ankle he just wants to check isn't a compound fracture'. "And you walked six hours on it?"
"I've walked dozens of hours on it." Your sigh is identifiably aggrieved. He hops up on the examination table with the usual spring.
You go about the twenty minute routine of opening the clinic before returning to rotate his ankle around and reminding him he has to say when things hurt. You could do an x-ray, which you'd shortly after have to remove from the face of the Earth, but Sheppard and broken bones has always been set it and forget it, with an extra helping of forget it because it's not evident when his bones mend themselves together. The little notebook has estimates that are considerably shorter than human expectations.
"It's not already healed?"
"Still hurts." He doesn't physically shrug his shoulders, but his voice does. He probably has a better idea of how long his bones take to heal than the little notebook. It either doesn't occur to him to mention or he doesn't want you to know. You'd respect the latter. You did just do a whole lab workup on him with little resistance.
When you look up, he shifts quickly away from leaning over you. When you do the same after standing to toss your gloves, he does the same having followed you. "Sheppard, I just started work."
His voice is a little more mellow than usual. "It's not that." He frowns in thought, now that you've jarred him from whatever apparent reverie he had been sinking into. You stand still when he peers closely at not just you. "What..."
You swear you feel nettle sting from just his breath. It triggers a physical reaction you hope isn't generalized to actual nettle sting.
"Your... sweater?"
"Ah," you laugh. "It's local." From Grace of the weavers and spinners guild, with wool from sheep of one of the ranches on the backside of the hill. You remember the sheepskin amongst the assortment of Sheppard's bedding and make a mental note to accept the next one offered to you.
"Ah," he nods. You pull him into a swaying hug, he melts in your arms. It occurs to you that you could ask him now, but that's not the type of person you are.
You ask him when it's evident the morning will be slow and you both have a coffee in hand. If he weren't here, you'd be reading. Since he is, you say, "If I got a cat, do I have to worry about you eating it?"
"Uhhh, no."
"'Uhhh, no'?"
The corner of Sheppard's mouth tugs down like a dog being scratched in the shoulder but the expression means something different on a human face.
"Sheppard, have you been eating people's cats?"
"Have I been eating people's cats? No. Has something been eating people's cats?"
"Yeah." Your coffee is going to get cold.
"Even the indoor ones?"
That was the weird bit. "Yeah." He's thinking, you wait but he's still thinking. "It's not what you saw after I brought that person to your cabin, is it?"
He doesn't smile but it still sounds like a laugh. "No." He notices his coffee, lifts it to his lips, and begins drinking the entire mug.
You understand that part of Sheppard's existence is dealing with those things that you operate day-to-day as though certain they aren't there. You don't know if he's here because of them, or if they're here because of him, or if it's all happenstance, or if secretly those things are everywhere. "Can you handle whatever it is?"
Setting down his mug, he nods. He has. He pauses a moment and purses his lips. You know you're not going to like what he's about to say next. He knows you're not going to like what he's about to say next. "Did Dr. Lacey tell you about spring maybe six years back?"
It takes no time at all to remember that page of the notebook. Your eyes lock on the jagged contracture scar on Sheppard's throat that pulls his skin when he moves. You do not want to sew together a shredded carotid artery, even with grafts on hand. "You cannot handle whatever it is."
It's tangible how he instinctively goes to refute you. But he doesn't refute you, he looks at the bottom of his empty mug.
You don't want to die. You're pretty sure Sheppard doesn't work like a vampire—not that he's been biting you without a dam—given Darren—of course it was Darren who started a bar fight—didn't stop bleeding after his altercation with Sheppard. You do want to help. You ask if it has blood and a brain.
Sheppard kind of squints.
You ask if it is corporeal. "Oh yeah," he says, reaching for your coffee. You pull it away from him and take a sip before asking how large and strong it is.
"How strong?" he repeats. He doesn't gesture at the scar on his throat, nor the other scars on his body that match its shape and texture, but you become hyperaware of the half dozen of them. He explains that it's kind of "bobcat-ish" in size.
You finish your coffee before showing him traps.
You are out of town at one of the ranches on the backside of the hill checking on calves and pregnant ewes when Sheppard comes round town for you. He returns one morning not many days later while you're opening the clinic, with his 'sprained ankle he just wants to check isn't a compound fracture'. "And you walked six hours on it?"
"I've walked dozens of hours on it." Your sigh is identifiably aggrieved. He hops up on the examination table with the usual spring.
You go about the twenty minute routine of opening the clinic before returning to rotate his ankle around and reminding him he has to say when things hurt. You could do an x-ray, which you'd shortly after have to remove from the face of the Earth, but Sheppard and broken bones has always been set it and forget it, with an extra helping of forget it because it's not evident when his bones mend themselves together. The little notebook has estimates that are considerably shorter than human expectations.
"It's not already healed?"
"Still hurts." He doesn't physically shrug his shoulders, but his voice does. He probably has a better idea of how long his bones take to heal than the little notebook. It either doesn't occur to him to mention or he doesn't want you to know. You'd respect the latter. You did just do a whole lab workup on him with little resistance.
When you look up, he shifts quickly away from leaning over you. When you do the same after standing to toss your gloves, he does the same having followed you. "Sheppard, I just started work."
His voice is a little more mellow than usual. "It's not that." He frowns in thought, now that you've jarred him from whatever apparent reverie he had been sinking into. You stand still when he peers closely at not just you. "What..."
You swear you feel nettle sting from just his breath. It triggers a physical reaction you hope isn't generalized to actual nettle sting.
"Your... sweater?"
"Ah," you laugh. "It's local." From Grace of the weavers and spinners guild, with wool from sheep of one of the ranches on the backside of the hill. You remember the sheepskin amongst the assortment of Sheppard's bedding and make a mental note to accept the next one offered to you.
"Ah," he nods. You pull him into a swaying hug, he melts in your arms. It occurs to you that you could ask him now, but that's not the type of person you are.
You ask him when it's evident the morning will be slow and you both have a coffee in hand. If he weren't here, you'd be reading. Since he is, you say, "If I got a cat, do I have to worry about you eating it?"
"Uhhh, no."
"'Uhhh, no'?"
The corner of Sheppard's mouth tugs down like a dog being scratched in the shoulder but the expression means something different on a human face.
"Sheppard, have you been eating people's cats?"
"Have I been eating people's cats? No. Has something been eating people's cats?"
"Yeah." Your coffee is going to get cold.
"Even the indoor ones?"
That was the weird bit. "Yeah." He's thinking, you wait but he's still thinking. "It's not what you saw after I brought that person to your cabin, is it?"
He doesn't smile but it still sounds like a laugh. "No." He notices his coffee, lifts it to his lips, and begins drinking the entire mug.
You understand that part of Sheppard's existence is dealing with those things that you operate day-to-day as though certain they aren't there. You don't know if he's here because of them, or if they're here because of him, or if it's all happenstance, or if secretly those things are everywhere. "Can you handle whatever it is?"
Setting down his mug, he nods. He has. He pauses a moment and purses his lips. You know you're not going to like what he's about to say next. He knows you're not going to like what he's about to say next. "Did Dr. Lacey tell you about spring maybe six years back?"
It takes no time at all to remember that page of the notebook. Your eyes lock on the jagged contracture scar on Sheppard's throat that pulls his skin when he moves. You do not want to sew together a shredded carotid artery, even with grafts on hand. "You cannot handle whatever it is."
It's tangible how he instinctively goes to refute you. But he doesn't refute you, he looks at the bottom of his empty mug.
You don't want to die. You're pretty sure Sheppard doesn't work like a vampire—not that he's been biting you without a dam—given Darren—of course it was Darren who started a bar fight—didn't stop bleeding after his altercation with Sheppard. You do want to help. You ask if it has blood and a brain.
Sheppard kind of squints.
You ask if it is corporeal. "Oh yeah," he says, reaching for your coffee. You pull it away from him and take a sip before asking how large and strong it is.
"How strong?" he repeats. He doesn't gesture at the scar on his throat, nor the other scars on his body that match its shape and texture, but you become hyperaware of the half dozen of them. He explains that it's kind of "bobcat-ish" in size.
You finish your coffee before showing him traps.
