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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.
The librarian who is very excited about the poet is very excited you appear to be making friends with said poet. She's not entirely wrong, but if feels like lying not to tell her your proximity to Murre is a matter of practicality. Murre, who is now well enough known by most of town, shows up dusty from the riding the dirt road into town in one of the ranch pickups that certainly doesn't have a cab filter. They're eating a muffin when you let them in. "The librarian lady is nice."
There isn't a lot of cabin to tour, though Murre's well past finished their muffin by the end. It's an A-frame with just about equal parts living room and kitchen, and a ladder masquerading as stairs to a second floor bedroom, a second floor would also be a bedroom, and what's a bathroom only because it contained a bathtub and nothing else. Downstairs, the bathroom—a sink and toilet—is awkwardly carved between the living room and kitchen retroactively since the outhouse in the back of the yard had been the sole facilities for some years some decades before you took up residence. The second floor not a second bedroom is a sort of awkward paradox of guest room, office, and child's bedroom—though the nearest schools are nearer the nearest hospital and it's been a while since a kid lived here. "If that's weird, the couch downstairs is pretty comfortable."
Murre shrugs and says something about seeing how they'd sleep tonight, they set their dusty backpack next to the couch though.
Along with bussing tables and pouring coffee, Murre has worked in a couple kitchens and helped share meals in a handful of cities—they make quick work of everything you hand them to do for dinner and divide the scraps between future soup stock and chicken feed. You ask if they grew up like this—like you did—but they laugh and say "mostly suburbia".
Over dinner they explain that the bus, as much as it's multiple buses and thousands of kilometres, would tank everything they've saved up but at the end of picking season there will be plenty rides back to the place they're not calling home. "And probably some folks I know." "Right."
When you ask if they were going to go back at the end of last year's picking season, you watch them silently beat themself up over silently staring too long at their plate. "I uh had acquired a problem that I didn't want to bring back." You wonder if they spent the whole fall and winter trying to solve their problem before finding Sheppard. "Right."
"It's a nice set up he's got. A veterinarian for medical care. How long has that been a thing?"
Dr. Lacey had told you what she knew, what Sheppard had told her. The vet before her, who had passed away past retirement age having not retired and therein didn't prepare Dr. Lacey the way she had you, had near-disastrously helped Sheppard some sparse occasions. This is why Sheppard had introduced himself to Dr. Lacey with a less-than-life-threatening injury and had been able to warn her about the more fatal issues of performing light surgery on him. "Some decades, before me."
Murre sputters, barely saves knocking their glass of water over, and stares harder than before at their plate. When they move to speak you stop them.
You figure they don't know everything one could know about what Sheppard is—you're pretty sure the level of medical detail you've acquired is more than anyone will ever know—but whatever they do know is something you don't. Why else would they hike up a mountain with a stranger when you said you have an answer, why else did they take everything Sheppard was and knew in stride, took his instruction in however that fire solved their problem.
The whole time Murre's been assisting you, you haven't asked them anything about Sheppard, and they've not said a word—admittedly in places someone might overhear.
"I don't want to know."
"...Okay."
"Anything."
You finish off your plate.
"Unless he tells me himself."
"Yeah that makes sense."
You reach for their plate. They wind up washing all the dishes while you pack the leftovers and explain how working full-time at the clinic will differ from the shifts they did during the artist residency.
Sometime in the night you don't remember half-waking up as they move downstairs. In the morning you find them sleeping on the couch and quick to wake to the sound of you climbing down the not-stairs.
The librarian who is very excited about the poet is very excited you appear to be making friends with said poet. She's not entirely wrong, but if feels like lying not to tell her your proximity to Murre is a matter of practicality. Murre, who is now well enough known by most of town, shows up dusty from the riding the dirt road into town in one of the ranch pickups that certainly doesn't have a cab filter. They're eating a muffin when you let them in. "The librarian lady is nice."
There isn't a lot of cabin to tour, though Murre's well past finished their muffin by the end. It's an A-frame with just about equal parts living room and kitchen, and a ladder masquerading as stairs to a second floor bedroom, a second floor would also be a bedroom, and what's a bathroom only because it contained a bathtub and nothing else. Downstairs, the bathroom—a sink and toilet—is awkwardly carved between the living room and kitchen retroactively since the outhouse in the back of the yard had been the sole facilities for some years some decades before you took up residence. The second floor not a second bedroom is a sort of awkward paradox of guest room, office, and child's bedroom—though the nearest schools are nearer the nearest hospital and it's been a while since a kid lived here. "If that's weird, the couch downstairs is pretty comfortable."
Murre shrugs and says something about seeing how they'd sleep tonight, they set their dusty backpack next to the couch though.
Along with bussing tables and pouring coffee, Murre has worked in a couple kitchens and helped share meals in a handful of cities—they make quick work of everything you hand them to do for dinner and divide the scraps between future soup stock and chicken feed. You ask if they grew up like this—like you did—but they laugh and say "mostly suburbia".
Over dinner they explain that the bus, as much as it's multiple buses and thousands of kilometres, would tank everything they've saved up but at the end of picking season there will be plenty rides back to the place they're not calling home. "And probably some folks I know." "Right."
When you ask if they were going to go back at the end of last year's picking season, you watch them silently beat themself up over silently staring too long at their plate. "I uh had acquired a problem that I didn't want to bring back." You wonder if they spent the whole fall and winter trying to solve their problem before finding Sheppard. "Right."
"It's a nice set up he's got. A veterinarian for medical care. How long has that been a thing?"
Dr. Lacey had told you what she knew, what Sheppard had told her. The vet before her, who had passed away past retirement age having not retired and therein didn't prepare Dr. Lacey the way she had you, had near-disastrously helped Sheppard some sparse occasions. This is why Sheppard had introduced himself to Dr. Lacey with a less-than-life-threatening injury and had been able to warn her about the more fatal issues of performing light surgery on him. "Some decades, before me."
Murre sputters, barely saves knocking their glass of water over, and stares harder than before at their plate. When they move to speak you stop them.
You figure they don't know everything one could know about what Sheppard is—you're pretty sure the level of medical detail you've acquired is more than anyone will ever know—but whatever they do know is something you don't. Why else would they hike up a mountain with a stranger when you said you have an answer, why else did they take everything Sheppard was and knew in stride, took his instruction in however that fire solved their problem.
The whole time Murre's been assisting you, you haven't asked them anything about Sheppard, and they've not said a word—admittedly in places someone might overhear.
"I don't want to know."
"...Okay."
"Anything."
You finish off your plate.
"Unless he tells me himself."
"Yeah that makes sense."
You reach for their plate. They wind up washing all the dishes while you pack the leftovers and explain how working full-time at the clinic will differ from the shifts they did during the artist residency.
Sometime in the night you don't remember half-waking up as they move downstairs. In the morning you find them sleeping on the couch and quick to wake to the sound of you climbing down the not-stairs.
