The Ranger and The Smoke

Sep 23, 08:38 PM John McKay

The ranger settled against the stony outcropping where he had made his camp. His fire was low and small, the weather wasn’t cool enough to warrant larger. It was sufficient only for warming a cup of water for tea and for lighting his pipe. He kept his pouch tucked in an inside pocket of his jerkin, and he brought it out now. He opened the pouch and breathed the bold and slightly sweet aroma of the black leaf within. His pipe, a long-stemmed type he favored in the warmer months, was likewise drawn forth and he began the exacting motions of filling the bowl with black leaf, a pinch at a time and tamping the tobacco carefully at each stage. Tobacco, especially fine black leaf such as this, was a rarity in this part of the world and it was a luxury he afforded himself only occasionally. On clear nights such as this, with the weather fine and the silvery moon high in the night sky, broad-faced and ethereal, he felt calm and longed for the taste of his pipe as he wound down his evening.

With all the care in the world, he brought a burning stick from the fire and dipped it to touch the black leaf in the bowl of his pipe. He puffed, gently, sucking the flame into the tobacco and only once his pipe was well lit did he bring the smoke fully into his mouth, at first only to taste it. Only to feel the sweetness on his tongue, and exhale it slowly through his nose. Another puff and he brought the smoke fully into his lungs and he sighed feeling the magic of the tobacco inside.

He was no great artist with the smoke. He knew of sorcerous wise men who could puff the smoke out into varied shapes and make them dance around the head as they told their tales and stories, the smoke taking shape and lives of their own as the tales unfold. He did none of that. His smoke billowed and and simply floated upwards, over the stones he was sitting under and over the trees beyond. Perhaps as high as the moon and stars but invisible to the ranger’s keen eyes well before then.

The silver light of the moon glinted from the smoke, though, and made it iridescent and somewhat entertaining to the ranger as he smoked and puffed. His smile barely visible beneath a month’s growth of beard. He had been on this trail at least that long. He had traveled from the coast, well inland and hadn’t the gear or the inclination to see to his grooming out here alone.

He studied the stars and constellations and judged the autumnal equinox soon at hand. He could feel it in the air, too, of course, and saw it in the trees. He saw it in the subtle changes of leaf and bark, the trees still green but the green duller and soon the oranges and yellow of fall would over take the green of summer. His eyes saw this and his ears, too, heard the changing ways of animals. The smallest ones, noisiest when the evening was quiet, but nothing was ever completely silent to the ranger, and the sounds of things reached his ears when other, more civilized men, might hear nothing at all.

There sat the ranger, his pipe warm in his hand, the breeze in his hair, and the small fire burning to embers beside him as he closed his eyes and slept on the trail because he was tired, and the road was long.

Yank Our Chains

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