The Lake at the Peak of the Mountain
by Miranda Chen
My cousin came to visit me on the day I regained consciousness in the hospital. My
head was bandaged and I couldn’t see her, but she sounded concerned and her
voice was as clear and pretty as I had remembered. I was a bit numb and certain
that I was drooling a lot, but other than that, I felt okay. She pressed her
hand against mine. It was soft and smelled like the apple lotion she had taken
to using. We sat there like that for a while, and then I felt bored and I asked
her what had happened and she told me that Barry Fillet had shot me in the back
of the head up near the old hunting lodge and that I had been out for nearly two
weeks. I laughed a little and said that Barry Fillet was always shooting people
and I told her that I was feeling all right. I heard paper crinkling and felt
her press a wrinkled page caked in crumbly dried blood. I guessed what it must
have been. She said my Catholic mother wouldn’t see me. Then we sat in silence again.
I remembered driving up the mountain with my cousin-in-law’s shotgun in the
backseat. It was a dense mountain with a lake full of fish and a forest full of
hunters and game. I didn’t expect to meet anyone, though it was the beginning of
spring after a cold and gray winter and a group of enthusiasts liked to fire
their guns at nothing in warm weather. I drove as far as I could on the narrow
road until I reached the lodge where the paved road ended and the dirt trails
began. It was early morning and I was alone in the parking lot. Lights were on
in the lodge and I saw Barry Fillet moving around inside. I took my
cousin-in-law’s shotgun and walked across the parking lot toward the dirt trail
with my head down and walking heel to toe, heel to toe to minimize
noise.
I didn’t know Barry Fillet personally, but all the accounts of his character
portrayed him as a friendly man who liked guns and men who liked guns and
women who liked men who liked guns. The core hunting group that congregated
at the bar on Wednesday nights told stories about old Barry Fillet. They liked him.
Most people liked him. When he shot a young professional from San Francisco
looking for a rural vacation in the foot, the witnesses told investigators that the gun
went off accidentally and the professional in hundred dollar flannel stepped
into range. Barry seemed like a great person, but I didn’t want to see him or
have him see me.
He vanished from the window and I walked down the thin trail with my
cousin-in-law’s shotgun slung over my shoulder. The trail passed under a
translucent ceiling created by thin branches and small green leaves. It was
mostly straight with a few turns. The morning sun created a dotted pattern on
the soft and damp dirt.
My father hadn’t been much of a hunting enthusiast, but he used to take my sisters
and me on long walks through the forest on temperate winter days. We made
adventures of the hikes and imagined that the trails stretched out into some
juvenile paradise and we only had to run fast enough to find the otherworldly
end.
Near the peak, the trail ended. As children, we were forbidden to progress any
further, but during one of our hikes, I ran ahead and when I reached the end, I
pushed through the thick bushes and branches. I forged a path into a clearing
elevated above the rest of the mountain where a small stream ran into a lake
underneath a jutting piece of land that made up a cliff. It was silent except
for my steps and the water was clear and the grass was green and the small cliff
extended into a cloudless sky like a victorious fist.
The door opened and broke through my thoughts. A soft voice greeted my cousin
and footsteps came near me and it said, “How are we doing, Mr.
Anderson?”
“Good,” I said.“When can I go home?”
“In a few days. I’ll just remove your bandages.”
I felt tugging around my head and cloth falling down and landing on my chest
before a thick hand removed them. I opened my eyes and saw nothing. I closed
them and opened them again. There was no change. Distantly, I heard the soft
voice say, “I’ll just leave you with him,” and my cousin’s pretty voice
replying, “Okay.” I opened and closed my eyes again and again against a constant
and stubborn darkness. Then I stopped. My cousin didn’t speak and neither did I.
I remembered bending over and squinting at the trees and seeing what I had missed
as a boy. There was a trail continuing up the mountain, but it was
ill-maintained and narrow. I lifted my cousin-in-law’s shotgun and carried it
with both hands like a New World explorer through the forest. I crashed through
and stepped onto the soft grass in the clearing. The sky was overcast and the
stream and lake and cliff were smaller and dirtier than I had remembered, but it
was silent and when I closed my eyes, I saw the brilliant colors I remembered
and the clear water and the scales of small fish. I saw the peaceful and green
and blue and clear and silent vision I had found as a boy filled with
possibility. With my eyes still closed, I lied down on the soft and damp grass
and felt the cold spread like a puddle against my pants and shirt and skin. When
I opened my eyes again, I saw a patch of perfect pale blue illuminated by the
morning sun, peeking through a frame of white clouds. I remembered smiling to
myself and feeling peaceful.
And then, in the hospital bed, with my cousin silently watching me, I began to cry,
realizing that my last vision of the world had been so beautiful.
by Miranda Chen
My cousin came to visit me on the day I regained consciousness in the hospital. My
head was bandaged and I couldn’t see her, but she sounded concerned and her
voice was as clear and pretty as I had remembered. I was a bit numb and certain
that I was drooling a lot, but other than that, I felt okay. She pressed her
hand against mine. It was soft and smelled like the apple lotion she had taken
to using. We sat there like that for a while, and then I felt bored and I asked
her what had happened and she told me that Barry Fillet had shot me in the back
of the head up near the old hunting lodge and that I had been out for nearly two
weeks. I laughed a little and said that Barry Fillet was always shooting people
and I told her that I was feeling all right. I heard paper crinkling and felt
her press a wrinkled page caked in crumbly dried blood. I guessed what it must
have been. She said my Catholic mother wouldn’t see me. Then we sat in silence again.
I remembered driving up the mountain with my cousin-in-law’s shotgun in the
backseat. It was a dense mountain with a lake full of fish and a forest full of
hunters and game. I didn’t expect to meet anyone, though it was the beginning of
spring after a cold and gray winter and a group of enthusiasts liked to fire
their guns at nothing in warm weather. I drove as far as I could on the narrow
road until I reached the lodge where the paved road ended and the dirt trails
began. It was early morning and I was alone in the parking lot. Lights were on
in the lodge and I saw Barry Fillet moving around inside. I took my
cousin-in-law’s shotgun and walked across the parking lot toward the dirt trail
with my head down and walking heel to toe, heel to toe to minimize
noise.
I didn’t know Barry Fillet personally, but all the accounts of his character
portrayed him as a friendly man who liked guns and men who liked guns and
women who liked men who liked guns. The core hunting group that congregated
at the bar on Wednesday nights told stories about old Barry Fillet. They liked him.
Most people liked him. When he shot a young professional from San Francisco
looking for a rural vacation in the foot, the witnesses told investigators that the gun
went off accidentally and the professional in hundred dollar flannel stepped
into range. Barry seemed like a great person, but I didn’t want to see him or
have him see me.
He vanished from the window and I walked down the thin trail with my
cousin-in-law’s shotgun slung over my shoulder. The trail passed under a
translucent ceiling created by thin branches and small green leaves. It was
mostly straight with a few turns. The morning sun created a dotted pattern on
the soft and damp dirt.
My father hadn’t been much of a hunting enthusiast, but he used to take my sisters
and me on long walks through the forest on temperate winter days. We made
adventures of the hikes and imagined that the trails stretched out into some
juvenile paradise and we only had to run fast enough to find the otherworldly
end.
Near the peak, the trail ended. As children, we were forbidden to progress any
further, but during one of our hikes, I ran ahead and when I reached the end, I
pushed through the thick bushes and branches. I forged a path into a clearing
elevated above the rest of the mountain where a small stream ran into a lake
underneath a jutting piece of land that made up a cliff. It was silent except
for my steps and the water was clear and the grass was green and the small cliff
extended into a cloudless sky like a victorious fist.
The door opened and broke through my thoughts. A soft voice greeted my cousin
and footsteps came near me and it said, “How are we doing, Mr.
Anderson?”
“Good,” I said.“When can I go home?”
“In a few days. I’ll just remove your bandages.”
I felt tugging around my head and cloth falling down and landing on my chest
before a thick hand removed them. I opened my eyes and saw nothing. I closed
them and opened them again. There was no change. Distantly, I heard the soft
voice say, “I’ll just leave you with him,” and my cousin’s pretty voice
replying, “Okay.” I opened and closed my eyes again and again against a constant
and stubborn darkness. Then I stopped. My cousin didn’t speak and neither did I.
I remembered bending over and squinting at the trees and seeing what I had missed
as a boy. There was a trail continuing up the mountain, but it was
ill-maintained and narrow. I lifted my cousin-in-law’s shotgun and carried it
with both hands like a New World explorer through the forest. I crashed through
and stepped onto the soft grass in the clearing. The sky was overcast and the
stream and lake and cliff were smaller and dirtier than I had remembered, but it
was silent and when I closed my eyes, I saw the brilliant colors I remembered
and the clear water and the scales of small fish. I saw the peaceful and green
and blue and clear and silent vision I had found as a boy filled with
possibility. With my eyes still closed, I lied down on the soft and damp grass
and felt the cold spread like a puddle against my pants and shirt and skin. When
I opened my eyes again, I saw a patch of perfect pale blue illuminated by the
morning sun, peeking through a frame of white clouds. I remembered smiling to
myself and feeling peaceful.
And then, in the hospital bed, with my cousin silently watching me, I began to cry,
realizing that my last vision of the world had been so beautiful.