Tomahawk

“Few instances shake us so deeply that we recognize our inability to save ourselves. Do not dismiss them. Hold on to them. Wrestle with them.”

The Great Plains are a lonely place to die.

I had imagined them differently.

I had imagined them a wolf’s hunting ground; a place where the earth shakes beneath the hooves of the American Bison.

But the only howling I can hear is that of the wind.

The only trembling, in my heart.

Indeed, the Great Plains are a lonely place to die.

I once heard someone say, beware an old man in a land where men die young. I’m sure that is true, and he might be out there, that old outlaw, still killing, still taking. But I am not him.

What of all those men who die young; those who still wanted to live, those yet unaware of the foolishness of their ways? I was one of the fortunate few to receive a second chance – and in its cruelty, the world does not hand those out cheaply. It is rewarded only to those who die slowly. Our first chance is that of life, and with it, the choice to live well. The second comes when the first bleeds from us. It can end in minutes, hours, days, but what is certain is that it will end. And it will do so soon.

The beginning of my second chance was marked by a tomahawk. My remaining time is uncertain – not that it matters – I cannot even remember how long I have been here. All I know is that the pool of blood where I kneel grows with each drop. It starts at my chest and trickles down a short blade to the hickory handle. It dances along intricate carvings and notches before finally dripping into the puddle. And that is how my seconds pass; head low, breath short, heart trembling. I bow at the footstool of death.

What am I to do with this time?

I cannot be angry. The Plains never show mercy, but here I am, undeserving of these final moments alone. The ground surrounding me is desolate. Every inch of dead grass has been churned up. Footprints of unshod horse hooves mark the barren earth – battle scars, one could say. It was not by accident that the war party crossed my path. I am a victim of vengeance, the casualty of my own atrocities. Yes, listening to the howling of the wind and the trembling of my heart was mercy.

Do bad men go to heaven?

I hear my mother’s voice cussing in my memory. It’ll be Hell for you, she would always say when I told her of my days and dreams. Back then, I had always felt the anger in her voice; now, all I hear is worry - the sort of worry that arises when a mother knows she will lose her son.

‘Look at me now, Ma,’ I whisper, ‘I guess it is Hell for me.’

God’s special place for those who reject Him - that is where I’m headed. I remember the times my mother tried to read me the Bible. She would tell of God speaking light into the darkness and bringing order to chaos. She would read about the seven days of creation and how Adam was formed. I would roll my eyes and yawn. I shared no love for these tales, neither back then nor now. I would rather write my own story; have people remember me in hundreds of years instead of me hearing about them. Every morning, Ma would read the same lines again. I would not listen, so she kept repeating. We never even got to the part about sin. How many worlds had she created with her words on those mornings when there were no ears to listen?

But as waters subsided, plants flourished, and seven days passed, one thing was missing… where would I end up? My mother did not say that after making trees and birds, He created Hell. Perhaps there is uncreated matter, darkness that is untouched by God’s light. That must be Hell – the place God never spoke to.

My body grows weaker. My throat is dry.

‘Ma,’ I try to whisper. I hear only my breath. I feel a tear roll down my cheek and drop into my blood – water and blood.

‘Ma,’ I repeat, ‘I’m no religious man, but I am a dying man, and if Hell is a place God left untouched, then I don’t want no part of it.’

Silence sets in. Even the wind stops its horrid wailing. A wolf pack only howls when it prepares for the hunt. Once its victim is weak and dying, the chase is over. ‘If Hell is God’s absence, Ma, then I’ve been living it - and I don’t know how repentance works, I’m sorry.’

I observe the weapon of war buried in my chest. Three feathers reach for the horizon.

My vision blurs. I don’t know if that is because of the tears or…

I know it’s not the tears.

Running my fingers across the wooden handle, I count the notches.

17.

17 lives taken.

I pull my Bowie from its sheath on my belt.

It’s heavy.

I bring it up to my chest and rest the blade on the tomahawk’s throat. Carefully, I carve one more notch.

Now, it is 18.

'Second Chance' - only few will seize it