The Whispering Caves

He woke in the morning feeling so stiff because he had slept in the same position for the whole night. On the flip side, he had never gotten such a deep sleep as he had hoped for so many years. Perhaps it was being out here among the quiet of the cabin. Fover knew he should get up and take a shower, and eat some breakfast. He didn’t love eating the first meal of the day, but he believed at least, more than his distaste for breakfast, that he should take care of himself. Or at least he should try, even if it wasn’t exactly sufficient. Just getting the basics down was a significant struggle, he chuckled as he thought. Every year when he had a birthday, it reminded him of that. He felt like at least he should be reminded to go himself a treat instead. Perhaps self-care was the treat.

He crawled out of bed, and found his way to an old-fashioned bath, that did have accommodations to be a shower. He stepped in and enjoyed the feeling of hot water loosening up all the stiff muscles from the night before. The shower wrapped its arms around him...and he got to thinking, what should he do today? What would be good? He thought that he should go correct his animal-less situation.

He made himself busy making a large bowl of oatmeal and a big cup of coffee. There was not anything that coffee could not help mend or provide for. He poured himself a plain cup of black coffee, and made it Irish, hey I’m not going anywhere, and it’s been a while since I’ve enjoyed a lack of vigilance he thought to himself...He also took one of the pastry bites; the plastic container gave a tight Pop! as he opened it.

He thought the first thing he’d do was find a good dog; he felt he was going to end up kidnapping a friend’s dog after house sitting. Still, he’d seen a sign for an animal shelter, and he’d love to pick one up from there, rescues were best!

Finding a dog seemed like a good plan, but first it might be better to take some time getting aquatinted with the local...property? His property? It seemed a strange concept to him still. He hadn’t owned much in his life and had not so far felt the deep compulsion to lay down roots anywhere. In general, with no permanent partner it could feel difficult for him to find deeper purpose, or a drive to secure a future like that. He watched futures disappear every day in front of him, both because people intended them to, and because acts of the universe, of God, of whatever was out there influencing the events around them.

He committed to trying to make sure the outside of the cabin was in manageable shape, since it was already late October. Either way he couldn’t see selling this property until spring, how would anyone get through here with all the snow anyways? He figured he himself would have to...either settle in soon or make his way back to Maine. He still did not find himself so eager to get on a plane and return to where he came from.

He decided that a drive into town later to investigate the local shelter would be warranted, but perhaps just a morning stroll around the base of the cabin to see the current state of the outside, was a fantastic way to start. Coffee was in order, and he just grabbed a fast protein bar that he’d bought. While he did have the makings for a traditional woodsman’s breakfast, he preferred to get down to business studying the secrets that this place obviously had to share. How had his grandfather heard about it? Where had he picked up the journal? Had it been a random find or had he hunted it down through specific little bits of information? Or had it been something from…inside his family?

Either way it was in his hands now. He downed his breakfast with haste and made his way outside. He tossed on a thick jacket to keep out the windy winter weather knocking on fall’s door. All the windows looked to be in good shape. All the panes were uncracked. It looked like the shudders and roof were also in good condition. It looked like there was a small woodshed. There was your typical garden hose and axe for chopping, but then… he did notice something amiss.

The base of the cabin; there were scrapes. They looked like they weren’t from a field mouse, they were from something much larger. Large enough to nearly wrap around him, the size of the scratches suggested. Were they possibly from equipment used to maintain the area? They didn’t look accidently caused though, or like the teeth of any tool he recognized. They were in a mismatched pattern, something that randomly had hit the cabin. It almost looked like whatever made the marks had been testing the limits of the small permitter to determine any faults. Fover shivered; it had probably intended to get in. He somehow did not feel any more comforted that it wasn’t trying to get in for just food; there had not been any present at the time. Was he offending the creature perhaps? Maybe to this animal outside, I’ve moved in on land that they long ago inherited, and they’re here to remove me as their threat.

Fover ran his hands over the side of the cabin. Strange marks; indeed, how they had gotten there only piqued his curiosity more since he’d heard the creature or other wildlife outside his cabin the night prior. Was it what had been after the cabin as well, what was outside?

He decided that now that the cabin was good overall, he wanted to use what was left of the daylight to go scouting at least part of the perimeter. He made sure there was a stocked wood pile inside the fireplace so that it’d be ready when he got back tonight. Hopefully he would make it back tonight. If I make it out of the teeth of whatever is out there waiting to snack on me, thought Fover.

He packed a backpack with everything he might need if he ran into grizzly bears, big cats, or feral people. He was a large fan of conspiracy theories in the little spare time he had to read. Feral people seemed less likely than grizzlies out here, but who was he to say what it held?

He decided to take the journal as well. He had found a second entry this morning just after he’d woken up. Fover felt a compulsion to keep the book with him, even sleep by it. The second entry was still dated 1875, and this time the writer had also authored his own entry again. It looked like he was the primary writer of the front of the journal. When he had flipped to the back, there had been other notes from previous authors, whose names were now nearly faded into the first few pages of old parchment.

Fover used the oversized keys to lock up the cabin; they didn’t seem very convenient to keep on his hip. He convinced himself that no one was going to go looking for the keys to his new home, instead he hid them underneath the stairs, underneath a rock there. Typical right? Well, the journal was with him either way, so as far as he could tell the most important item was on his person.

As Fover had woke up and rolled over, before he could even get himself to put a shirt on, he knew he had had to read what was in the second entry. He started to feel like the writer had experienced a similar journey of getting to know the land as he found himself now experiencing.

“Dear Reader,

I see that you have been as curious as I have since arriving here. The sunsets and sunrises are splendid; they take my breath away. Instead I find I cannot catch my breath trying to keep up with this place. Today I find myself eager to traverse the ground, learn its curves, say hello to the pines, and be hushed by the wind. What will I find? I hope to find natures of good report ahead; perhaps my journey will be blessed and I will find what I seek. I am keen to fill in these pages with drawings of the topography and geography as well, perhaps I will be the first guide. Will you be the next? Do walk with caution, the land does not have reason to keep us well, as we wish to be held. It is wild and should be loved carefully as such.

Until my next progress to you,

Your Seeker”

Again, Fover felt just even more invested in meeting his writer. He felt almost as though if he got dressed this very moment, and went outside and stood on the porch to the sound of morning birds, he would surely meet this neighbor. The one who had come before him, who had even come before Felix. Yet he knew he would meet silence.

Fover snapped back to the moment. Clasping the journal shut, and the keys hidden, he decided to press on into the foliage. The day was a crisp outside, and the leaves rustled a bustling hello to Fover. Fover’s very name was autumn in Irish Gaelic (true facts Fover, that’s why I picked it for you, I learned it while I was out doing falconry in Ireland). He did feel at home more and more as the minutes passed. Or perhaps he felt relieved that he still only heard birds where he otherwise heard endless phone calls, and endless days coming to tragic ends.

The forest was thick around the cabin. Only the land immediately by cabin, and then the area right around the small abode was free of the beautiful pine trees and needles they dropped everywhere. Otherwise, the wild land had been permitted to kiss the boundaries of civilization right up onto the mildly tame portions. He loved it. He was ready to see somewhere there were no humans, and where the wildness of the world was more present than the wildness of humans. Humans could be barbarians no matter how civilized an environment they were found in. He shifted his pack ever so slightly to keep the weight from wearing on his shoulders too much.

The light dissipated underneath the thick overgrowth of the trees. They themselves seemed determined not to give up their secrets. He felt tenacious enough to press on. He looked at his watch, and it was just after 1 pm, so he should be turning around in a couple of hours. He enjoyed pushing on into the undergrowth. He enjoyed the challenge of the unknown and demonstrating to himself what he was capable of.

He stopped in a clearing for a drink of Gatorade and a snack. Fover pulled out an apple, peanut butter, and half of a ham sandwich. He noticed that the map inside the book didn’t match the contours of his nature walk so far. No bother, this land could have evolved...right? Then again, a hundred and something years was of no consequence to the wild woods here. He noticed now that he had gotten deeper, the birds had grown quieter, it had grown stiller. But in its stead, he felt or heard...was that water?

It sounded somewhat like a lake shore, but it also sounded like there was movement of some kind as well. It also sounded like there was a hollow being filled, like an emptiness that was taking on a fullness.

The silencing of the wildlife around him should have indicated that something was amiss, but the human nature in him propelled him further towards whatever madness may drive it instead. Humans, Fover chided himself. How often he found himself behaving like one, despite constantly trying to evade his own nature. It was an endless game of cat and mouse.

The branches crisply crunched underneath his feet. He felt the earth almost yield tiredly underneath his boots. As he pushed the undergrowth aside, he came to a second clearing. This second one was much larger though, and beside it was a dark shrouded mass, he squinted and put his hand up to block the sun, and then he could make out that it was a cave. The lake was no lake at all really, but rather a very large and deep pond. He opened his book. This time, there seemed to be a note jotted down next to a body of water.

It wasn’t filled with pretty things; it was not filled with fish or sparkling rays of sunshine. In fact, the water did not hardly give any shine at all. These were some of the items that the journal detailed.

“Dear Reader,

Today I found a small pool. It was mysterious upon our meeting, because it didn’t babble to me like a brook, and it didn’t chirp to me like the disagreement of an eddy. It gave no musical notes, and no small creatures reside here. I cannot report any matter of sustenance or production here, but the strange signs are promising. Note that next to the water, that is what’s greater interest to me. More is to be held within.

Eagerly walking away to learn more,

Keenly Your Seeker”

Fover, aside from this beautiful mysterious moment, couldn’t tell now entirely if the journal, or report, was detailed to someone wholly formal, like a paid employer, or if it was also connected to an intimate friend of some kind. If there was an intimate friend on the other end of the journal, what kind of friend were they?

Fover startled for a second as his watch reminded him that it was stretching on well past 2 pm; his time was wearing this until he needed to turn back. The night always fell sooner in the trees, and even sooner still with the time change falling back in the coming weeks.

He just wanted to peek inside the dark cave there, but first he took a second to sit on one of the few moss-covered rocks that sat nearby. The book detailed the illustrator and author tracing over the edge of the pool many times, evident with thick grooves where the pen had been. As if perhaps circling it that much more made it make sense faster. The cave was dark in the book too, even though it seemed like light was attempting from the sunshine to break through the dreary entry way. He also had the blue stone in his pocket, he had just remembered. He had not realized that he had been holding onto it this whole time.

Now it felt like it was the only thing that was warm. Was it producing the heat? Or was he producing it because it he was rubbing it?

Fover felt the gravel and sticks break and the general mess of the forest floor near the edge of the deep pool as he wandered closer to the cave. He could feel some sort of air pulling him in, or some sort of breeze that was being pulled into the cave. The cave itself did not have a feeling of dread upon it, but that rather no natural light could coax the deeper details of the cave to come forth. He felt his hand close the book and reach out almost. What was in there? He had never been in a cave before, but he had read about so many. He had read about enough to know that they involved tight squeezes and places where others got stuck. He knew he didn’t necessarily want to die in a coffin of stone and silence, but the mystery inside was possibly worth that risk.

Fover placed his hand on the very edge of the cave; it was also covered in moss. It was pleasantly cool; the day outside was cool enough to warrant a jacket but here it felt just perfect. Fover felt the watch on his left wrist chime that it was 3, it was time to go back.

Fover felt he had an outstanding amount of evidence he needed to warrant returning to the spot and investigate more. But he valued getting back even more. He touched the soft mound on the outside of his backpack to reassure him that he had a buck knife tucked away if something happened. Like a fallen tree. That’s what he was worried about right? Sure. Sure, it was. He thought. Only that it was not his only concern; in the back of his mind, he knew he still could not be sure what that sound last night outside of the cabin had been.

As he turned to go, he swore that the light was failing faster than it should before his eyes. His heart started to race, now he was eager to get out of all the thick foliage to go find that canine companion. He reminded himself it wouldn’t hurt himself to just sit inside the cabin and eat and pet a good dog. Instead, he had to come investigate the freaky phenomenon by himself.

He had a feeling that he was being watched suddenly. He couldn’t explain it, he could only tell that even the stillness before had sounded much louder than this. Fover picked up his pack and started to almost jog on the rough outline of the pathway back to the cabin. Now his sights felt set on the forward motion. His footfalls nearly matched his heart beats. Fover whipped his head around and felt sweat starting to bead on the top of his forehead. He knew these signs, he walked people through these signs every day. That’s why it freaked him out. He knew better than to give into what his body demonstrated so heavily as anxiety. He refused to give in. Yet his knees felt like bending where he ran. He wouldn’t let them.

He noticed and heard a great creaking in the trees to his left; he was almost to the cabin. With one great last stride, he absolutely gave it everything he had. With a full sprint, he stopped only for two or so heartbeats to grab the keys that were stored underneath the porch. With a slam he felt the board sink into place behind him and the solid comfort of security, or at least what the four walls could offer him.

He took to going straight over to the fireplace to build himself a small heating pile; he needed something to wear off the chill of whatever he had found out there. But he had also felt invigorated. Like he had felt something powerful out there, but that something else had found him. They felt like two separate entities.

He got the fire built up; even driving into town briefly it would be nice to have the cabin warm and at least a smoke coming from the beautiful stone chimney. He felt himself drawn by the arms of the house, it felt wonderful to be welcomed, Fover had not been welcomed in some time, by any arms. He went over and picked up his phone, he was ready to find a small shelter. He did not figure he was going back there alone.

But he did figure he was going back. Fover looked up and met his own gaze in a nearby mirror. He felt like he could look at himself in the mirror better finally. He had not felt disappointed in himself, but he had wondered if there was anything left in him anymore. He had recently felt like everything that could give in him had yielded, that he had submitted as well as he would be able to, to all the numbness that was everyday trying to get through this. He had.... had no one to care for. Many people automatically assumed he meant as a partner or wife; indeed, he only meant even as brief a touch on his soul as friendship.

Anyone who cared if he came home at night. Anyone who was missing his body weight in bed or on the couch. A dog was a start, a person would be a better plan. All the self-help advice in the world now felt of no use to him because he had been groomed to deliver it to everyone else. He comforted others every day with the words he himself wished someone would return freely back to him. Instead, he stitched himself up, just as someone with self-survival paramedic skills was, as he was not only a 911 operator, but was also at least basically trained in outdoor survival and self-medicine. He did not rely on anyone; he didn’t need to. But it would not be so bad to have someone to depend on, for some basic choice, like, what to have for dinner that night.

Instead, he found only empty silence outside himself. Whether it was because he would not let anyone in, or because he could not find the right person who spoke his language, he could not tell.

He took out his phone and was determined to find a rescue. After Googling a few options; he finally came to Apollo’s Cosmic Companions. An odd name he thought to himself, but the website advertised that they catered to odd friendships that bloomed into some of the best. What did he have to lose, a dark dank creepy cave?

Fover shut his phone and stood up ready to go get in his car and go get his friend. It was time Fover stopped being alone, even if it was four paws next to his handprint. Together they could make a heart print.