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Black Kettle

This text is not a professional translation, but author’s original writing, which is not perectly correct English, unfortunately…

A man on snowshoes was threading his way up the slope of the mountain between short spruce trees. The snow on the ground was four feet deep, making those spruces look even shorter. He was carrying a heavy backpack, a carbine on a short sling was hanging on his neck in front of him. The man’s thick winter clothing has been hidden under a dirty white camouflage robe. The gun and other gear was wrapped into pieces of white cloth, also dirty and ragged. He had a single pole in his left hand and he was thrusting it vigorously into the snow with each heavy step.

The snowshoes did not help much, but without them he could not move at all carrying this load. It was snowing all day since early morning. Only a few hours left until the sundown and the snow stopped about forty minutes ago. At least, he should not have to bother hiding his tracks.

The skies suddenly cleared out and the man stared at the glowing ridge in front of him.

The Den - this is how all Prospectors called their outpost - was relatively close. It was a quite safe rat hole on the edge of the crash zone, but the man knew he would not make it there today. There was another ridge to cross, beside the one he was looking at right now. They go in parallel and are connected between each other by the pass that lies farther to the north from the man’s current position. Even though this territory is considered reasonably safe, hiking down the snowy slope in the dark seemed perilous to him. He stopped, unzipped the robe and a parka underneath and pulled out a navigation gauge. The receiver was working, his position was clear. The weather forecast promised high probability of snow during the night. Another overnighter in the mountains seemed to be inevitable.

The snow powder kept creaking and groaning under the snowshoes while the man pushed upward to the top of the ridge. The last couple of hundred feet was totally clear of any trees and bushes - just white dunes and crazy wind chilling to the bones. The man stopped falling through the snow crust every now and then and walking became easier a little.

Amidst the white void there was a group of small trees in the saddleback between two indistinctive mountain tops. The man stopped again, carefully observing the place. Then he slowly moved toward the trees. Massive snow deposits around the island of trees formed a cozy shelter inside the spruce circle. The traveller found a passage through the snowdrifts, walked in and stopped breathing heavily.

The winter evening sun was getting ready to dive behind the subsequent ridge that now has become visible in the light haze lingering in the distance despite the strong wind. The pass connecting two ridges was hidden by a higher ground on the right. Snow covered reality burned with all the undertones of red, white, pink and orange as the star unhesitatingly drifted toward a twilight spectrum.

A turbulence of winds up here has created a large pit inside of the tree circle with just a few inches of snow on the ground. The man crouched, released himself from the backpack and it slowly fell over to one side. Then he stood up and sharply looked around over the snow barrier through the spruce branches. Then he squatted again, reached underneath his robe and parka and pulled out a small plastic flask. The traveller took a sip and put the flask back to where it was.

The mountains were smooth and not high at all, yet they were treacherous and deadly with all those avalanches, insanely fast temperature drops and powerful winds. And all the abnormalities caused by the crash also had to be regarded with due respect, although in this peripheral area they were unlikely. Stopping here on the ridge did not promise anything good to a traveller. The pass was not visible, but the man knew it was absolutely bald as well and had no cover against the wind. He learned the rule very well: the lower the safer.

Taking the snowshoes off was extremely finicky in current conditions - the straps were frozen, so the man did not even bother trying. He trampled awkwardly all over the hideout until some place down below caught his eye. He pulled the carbine to his shoulder and flipped up the caps on its scope. Leaning onto a snow barricade the traveller looked at the dale between the ridges.

Down there he could see a narrow strip of relatively flat ground at the beginning of the dale stretching further away. Short trees and shrubs, some of which even were deciduous, grew here. Most likely, there also was some water source as it often happened in such places. Having an access to liquid water could make an overnighter easier. The man estimated the distance. The spot was easily reachable before the nightfall. The descend did not look steep or complicated. Also there is enough firewood, so he could have a fire if he decides it is safe. He was here not for the first time. And definitely he was not the first one too. But everyone else would turn right to the pass and go over the western ridge and down the river through the forest to the bridge and The Den.

Apart from a need to have a rest at some reliable place it was also a curiosity that affected the decisions of the Prospector. He put the backpack on and scrambled out of the natural shelter. There were some efforts to make before he could enjoy a cup of hot tea.

Going down was just as difficult as going up, but he was moving much faster. The man was quickly losing the altitude, sliding on the snowshoes almost like on skis. He found himself standing at the edge of the little deciduous grove substantially earlier than he expected. The layer of snow was a lot thinner here. Through the naked branches the man could see a tiny glade next to the ideally flat ground that definitely was a frozen pool of water just about a dozen feet across. On the other side he could see some dark spots of bare ground. The place looked promising. The traveller cautiously proceeded forward holding his right hand on the carbine. Standing next to the pool he heard a gentle gurgling of a spring somewhere near. Otherwise it was absolutely quiet.

He had to take the snowshoes off struggling with the frozen straps and buckles and attached them to the side of his backpack.

The sun went completely behind the mountains, but there was still enough of reddish ambient light in the grove. The man went a little bit deeper into the woods scouting. The pool has been formed by a little spring hidden in the brush under a thin crust of ice which the man broke easily with his pole. It then flowed into the forest and probably all the way down to a valley where there was a big river. There was a lot of dead shrubs and smaller dry trees, but no big logs suitable for firewood. He noticed no tracks, just a few birds were still here. Further down the stream an absolute thicket started, dark and impenetrable. He turned back and walked toward the glade. That should be a good spot for a bivuak. Just before entering the glade, he noticed an interesting clearing a little bit to the side, which he initially missed. It was an almost round flat patch of snow-covered land with a couple of shapeless silhouettes protruding here and there. He came closer to one of them and poked it with the pole. A snow powder fell off of the thing and revealed a dirty half-burnt rag. The traveller started digging the snow around. A couple of scorched, flattened and disintegrating tins, another burnt rag, pieces of plastic and some other garbage was all he could find. Long time ago, perhaps, in summer, someone has visited this place before. He also found a spot where the fire was. No ash or coals remained of course, but the soil under the snow was dark and several stones were set in a circle around the fire pit. Despite the obvious age of all those evidences the man felt a little bit concerned and puzzled.

The traveller decided to return to the glade and settle down there closer to the spring. He found a good place and took off his backpack. Then he carefully leant the carbine on one side of it. That was a great relief but it was still too early to relax. He took one snowshoe and used it to shove the snow and clear the spot to the bare ground. He also threw away a couple of small stones and branches. Then he opened the backpack and pulled out a long greenish tarp that was actually a raincoat at the same time, with a hole for a head and a hood. When the tarp shelter was done, the man unfastened a large side pocket of the backpack and produced a thick foam sleeping pad. It was highly compressed and started slowly gaining back its shape lying on the ground sheet of the shelter.

The traveller was craving for a campfire. But instead he sat down on the mat under the tarp and listened. There was nothing but the murmuring of the little stream under the ice. He tried to make a well-grounded decision whether setting a fire it is safe or not. Of course, it will be visible from the nearby mountains, but this is almost a home land and he will not keep it going the whole night. But the remains of an old camp had put a worm of doubt into his brain. Who was it and what he was doing here? The Prospector did not feel completely secure. He sighed and reached for his unsophisticated cookware and food reserve. The man had a compact stove running on low octane gasoline. There was just a little fuel in a pressure bottle but that should be enough for the last supper. It would be splendid to have some hot tea in the morning, but if not - he’ll survive with just water and dried meat before he reaches the outpost. Darkness was crawling cautiously into the woods. Warming up a meal did not take long, eating it was even faster. The man put a stainless steel mug full of water directly on the sizzling stove and watched it boiling. He made some tea and drank it greedily, impatiently blowing on the hot liquid. Before extinguishing the stove he lit a dim headlamp because the light has gone completely and here in the grove it was very dark now. The man was going to sleep in his large rectangular sleeping bag that could accommodate him fully dressed and even with the carbine by his side. He threw unnecessary things into the backpack, checked the gun, checked an alarm in his watch and crawled in, leaving the bag half-unzipped. Staying up all night was not the option. He needed some rest. It’s a well weighed risk every lonely Prospector shall take. He turned the headlamp off and pulled it down so it hang on his neck.

Let the morning come.

Ringy-dingy-ding… Suppressed and distant, a metallic rattling sound rang again. The man was lying with his eyes wide open staring into an absolute darkness, his hands were on the gun. He did not know how long he slept and he was not sure why exactly he awaked. But he definitely could hear this quiet noise repeating every once in a while.

Then there was a long silence. The man could not hear any distinctive crisp sound. It was now the silence that rang in his ears. He squirmed a little. A brief rustling turned down the white noise but not for long. He almost fell asleep when the short rattling repeated from the same direction. Suddenly the silence exploded with a loud clang followed by a light thud. The man nervously and automatically sat, with his upper body released from the sleeping bag, pointing the carbine into the black woods. Nothing happened. Within minutes the white noise of emptiness has returned as a tidal wave. The traveller was sitting like this for about half an hour. Then he forced himself back into the unzipped cocoon. He was now exhausted both physically and mentally, so finally he gave up to another tidal wave - this time it was his slumber.

The man was woken again by a vibrating watch on his wrist. It was early in the morning and no substantial light has reached the grove yet. But he could see a tiny stripe of somewhat lighter sky through the branches over the tarp. It was also obvious that all surroundings were covered by a thin layer of fresh snow.

The traveller waited until the sky has become even brighter and he could see the details of the glade. The sun was setting up slowly but surely.

Except for the snow nothing really changed. It wasn’t snowing. Some calm breeze was blowing down the dale, occasionally sweeping bursts of white powder from tree limbs. The man waited for about half an hour, then left his shelter and stalked down the stream into the side where, in accordance with his impression, he heard that weird noise during the night. Just as he expected, his senses led him to the old camp only a hundred feet away from his shelter.

At the first glance nothing changed there too. As the traveller has entered the clearing he could only see signs of his own activity last evening, salted down by the new powder. But after looking around more thoroughly he noticed a small dark object sticking in the snow. It looked like an empty shotgun shell. He walked closer and crouched. The thing appeared to be a large rusty bolt, covered in some sort of mud or oil. The man was dead sure it was not here before. The bolt stuck in the layer of older and tighter snow. The Prospector stood up and examined the place one more time. No other tracks, no other things, no nothing. He must have been overlooking. The man turned his head and stood still for a moment. Farther in the shrubs there was an object bigger than just a bolt lying on the ground. The man rushed to the edge of the clearing but suddenly froze startled. He picked something from the snow and turned toward the sunlight breaking through the cloudy winter sky. On his glove, on the palm of man’s hand there was a piece of rock of a deep oily black color, shining like obsidian. The Prospector smiled as a madman.

The other thing appeared to be an old large stainless steel kettle, a little bit crumpled and dirty. It was standing on the flat rock under the tree trunk. A small chain was attached to the handle. On the other end of the chain there was the lid, also dirty and crumpled. The lid was lying on the rock near the kettle. A spout of the kettle was completely flattened at the end. The man came closer and looked into the kettle. It was about three quarters full of some dark liquid that surprisingly does not seem to be frozen. The traveller ducked down and the kettle produced familiar rattling sound: ringy-dingy ding. He pulled back instantly. He just noticed that the black surface of the substance inside responded with a smooth ripple, like in a slow motion movie. It was viscous and resilient. The rattle repeated soon enough and then the kettle spat out something from its bowels. The thing went flying high in the air and fell on the snow somewhere near the man. He turned around and found the object almost under his feet. It was a rusty nut. Snow melted in the place of impact and the nut was steaming a little.

He retreated to his shelter, ate some remaining food, packed his stuff and returned back to the old camp spot. Here he sat on the foam pad again, set up his stove that still had some fuel, made a good hot brew and watched the kettle from a distance. But the eruption did not repeat. The man approached the kettle again. The black substance inside was motionless. He returned to the clearing and went into the thickets to cut down some sturdy long stick with his knife.

The traveller carefully tried to poke the kettle with his stick but it did not move. He tried to lift the kettle by shoving the stick under the handle but he couldn’t. It was obviously too heavy. Finally, he decided to immerse one end of the stick directly into the black liquid. The stick went down absolutely without resistance, surrounded by a gentle mensural ripple. And then it went even deeper. He felt a slight pull sucking the stick inside which amplified quickly as the stick kept going. At some point he did not expect such strength and lost a grip on the stick. It rapidly went inside completely and disappeared in the black mirror of the liquid like it was not a kettle but a deep well. That was the craziest thing the Prospector has ever seen. He probably lost his mind for a brief moment, because he reached for the handle and tried to lift the kettle. It did not work again but the man suddenly felt it is doable, like the damn thing succumbed to his attempt just a tiny bit and actually moved. It was a hefty object for sure, but not astronomically heavy.

The traveller returned back to his place. He had a horde of difficult decisions to make. This thing is definitely an interesting and valuable artifact, but he couldn’t take it with him now. Neither he had enough resources to stay for another night and observe this abnormality in more details. It is remarkable that he has never heard about it. This is so close to the outpost and this is why it’s completely irrational to descend and scout on this narrow dale. But the remains of an old camp… Was the kettle in its place when this visitor came here? Was he aware of it? This was a complete mystery. But the man assumed he has his best chances. All of a sudden he realized that he came to terms with circumstances and he’s got a plan. The next thing that happened was another eruption of the kettle. This time it was not preceded by any ratling - it just clanged and two objects in a row were airborne: the traveller’s stick and some smaller shapeless lump. The stick went flying vertically like a spear and fell down after hitting some limbs of a nearby tree. The man went to take a look. The stick was intact and clean - nothing to consider. The second object was harder to find, but eventually he did it. And again, it was a beautiful black shining rock with sharp edges that used to be the most desirable thing to acquire in these rugged lands.

The man made an attempt to shoot a video with his navigator repeating the flying stick experiment. The stick went down the kettle, but didn’t come back although the man waited long enough. He reviewed what he recorded. The disappearance of the stick looked like a silly magic trick. On the other hand, the black mud inside the kettle was quite impressive. He could not wait any longer, so he covered the kettle with a pile of brushwood, packed quickly and went down the dale.

Getting through the thicket was becoming harder and harder. Finally the stream bed transformed into a confined ravine piled up with deadwood and overgrown with all sorts of bushes. He stopped. There was no time to go back all the way to the pass, so he returned just enough to exit the ravine to the point where he could see a relatively walkable slope of the western ridge. Soon he stalked out of the woods facing uphill, with his pole in his hand, the gun on his neck and his snowshoes on, because they had spikes on the platform under the feet and that helped a lot scrambling up the crusty deep snow deposits. The man kept climbing.

When it was just a couple of hours before the sundown, the skies suddenly cleared out and the man stared at the glowing ridge in front of him.

The western ridge was just a little bit higher than the one he crossed yesterday. With the final push through the icy snowdrifts the man set his foot on the crest and stood there, looking into the distance. In a minute the Prospector sagged on his knees.

On the other side of the ridge, spreading out from its base and all the way to the horizon, there was an endless pool of dark viscous liquid. Large smooth waves were moving graciously across the surface, sparkling in the evening winter sun and hitting the rock without a single splash and without any sound. The blackness was shining.

Prague, 27.11.2018