The Moonhawker

The minute the sled went down the bank and out onto the open ice, the north wind made its presence fully known; it was bitter cold. The night was clear; above the full moon shined cold and white. To the south, dark and hazy against the moonlit sky, lay Bondins Rock. As they moved away from shore Atticus tried to snuggle as deep into his coat as possible. Frank’s ridged body, head raised precariously up off the sled, bounced and jiggled as they slid and thumped across the ice. The east side ice was different than anyplace else around the island; exposed and unprotected from the open lake, evidence of numerous fractures left the surface rough and scared with upended pieces of slab ice of every size and configuration scattered throughout the entire area. Then there was the snow; steadily on the move, it swept across the endless expanse hiding the true surface beneath its powdery veil. Except for the huge slabs, translucent in the moonlight, standing like sentinels against a naked horizon, it was as though they were traveling across a mystical windswept wasteland, cold and colorless; like death itself. Atticus glanced back; the silhouette of a single rider on an unlit snowmobile came down off the bank and started to follow about a mile behind. Every little while Tom would look back at Atticus, but between glances, Atticus retrieved the knife and cut the rope around his ankles. It took several tries, but the rope finally severed. Making sure it appeared as though he was still bound hand and foot, Atticus attempted to find something in the sled beneath him that would serve as an equalizer. Franks unyielding presence made the effort most difficult, but then, he touched something very hard and very cold; it was the steel head of a double bladed ax. As Atticus felt the blade a second time, and then the handle, his cold calculating sense of purpose flooded over him again as though it had never left. Approaching a huge ice shove, Hepper slowed down. “There’s open water!!” he shouted back to Tom as he pointed ahead. Along the outlying edge of the rift, was a ten by hundred foot slice of open water. Hepper drove slowly around a big piece of upended slab ice and through a small opening in the shove, then finally in and along the open water he stopped the snowmobile and shut the engine down; only the forlorn moan of the howling wind broke the deathly silence. The two men dismounted. Hepper made his way carefully over to the edge of the open water and looked into the ink-black liquid. Tom turned towards Atticus. “Now,” he said to Atticus as he approached, “the moment I’ve been waiting for.” Atticus drew his legs up. “What’s the matter asshole; afraid to die?” Tom said with a big grin as he reached for Atticus. Without warning, Atticus struck; kicking out with all his might, he caught Tom smack in the middle of his face with both feet. The impact sent Tom stumbling back; he fell into the snowmobile and tumbled down to the ice. Hepper turned, but it was too late. As Tom struggled back to his feet, Atticus sprang from the sled and swung the ax with all his might. Tom never made a sound as the full impact of the blade slammed deep into the very top of his skull. He staggered back with the ax buried deep into his head; his brain had been seriously severed. Blood spurted from the grizzly wound and began to flow from his mouth. As his clothing becoming drenched in crimson red, a gurgling sound came from his open mouth, Tom turned partially towards Hepper as though he were dismayed by the experience of his own death; he dropped to his knees, then tipped backward with a thud; he was dead.