Red Mountain Man: Or, The Mighty Lessons in Hasty Exaltation

By Jack CJ Stark

He came from over the red mountain. A man torn to within an inch of his life. A man without a face. A strange, enchanted man.

A Ma Shen folk tale told to and via Jack CJ Stark.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jack CJ Stark
• Release date: Nov 26, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005303709

Jack CJ Stark

Jack CJ Stark is a storyteller. Jack CJ Stark is a storyteller. Jack CJ Stark is a storyteller. Jack CJ Stark is a storyteller. Jack CJ Stark is a storyteller.

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Red Mountain Man

Or, The Mighty Lessons in Hasty Exaltation

A Ma Shen story, told via

Jack CJ Stark

Red Mountain Man; Or, The Mighty Lessons in Hasty Exaltation

By Jack CJ Stark

Copyright ©2021 Jack CJ Stark

License Notes

This story is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living, or dead, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. This book remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be redistributed to others for commercial or non-commercial purposes without the permission of the author. 

Honest ratings and reviews are wholeheartedly appreciated. Thank you for your support.

Contents

1 THEN

1.1 Or, The Stranger Cometh

1.2 Or, What’s in a Name

1.3 Or, Sonder

1.4 Or, Tell Me a Story

2 NOW

2.1 Or, The Ninth Mayor of Ash-Holme

2.2 Or, The Funny

2.3 Or, The Healer

2.4 Or, The Greatest Thing to Learn

2.5 Or, A Different Approach

2.6 Or, A Goodbye to a Fool’s Wish

2.7 Or, The Dance of Fools

2.8 Or, A Secret to be Told

2.9 Or, A Swift Judgement

2.10 Or, See, Saw

2.11 Or, Two Moons to Go

3 NEXT

3.1 Or, A Lovable Old Git

3.2 Or, A Game of Chicken

3.3 Or, Immovable

3.4 Or, How to Stop the Unstoppable

3.5 Or, Fogged

3.6 Or, That Which Remained

About the Author

1.1

THEN

Or, The Stranger Cometh

She wasn’t sure if he had a face. With each glance Buddug made she saw only a brief impression of one. She never got to see the lips with which he winced, the flush of his cheeks, the prominence of his brow, or whether he had a strong jawline.

What she did see, she wished she hadn’t. His body lay on the table, his skin wet to the touch, his fingers twitching. The flesh across his body had been shredded. His throat leaked thick congealing blood. His trunk tenderised. A hole torn through one leg.

He’s alive, barely, Mrs Dallinware said, her eyes full of worry. Where did he come from?

Over the red mountain way, Markus replied sheepishly, brushing his matted red hair from his face. Looked like he crawled a long way, must have. He was lying at the river’s bank when we seen him.

D’ya know him? Have you seen him around here before?

The young fishermen, three in total, all shook their heads in unison.

Okay, go clean yaselves up, leave us with space to work, Mrs Dallinware instructed, shooing them towards the door. They did as they were told. Be sure to drop in on an ealdorman on your way, make them aware.

It would be a stretch to have considered Mrs Dallinware a friend to anyone or ever popular in town. She was respected, though none were brave enough to speak such words. The folk relied on the elder woman’s skills with plants and herbs to heal the sick, but they remained wary of women with knowledge. They were a superstitious bunch that failed to understand the ways of the natural world. They tolerated her as long as she desired no husband, kept out of festivities, and spoke only when approached.

Buddug, a daughter of a thatcher and seamstress, had been assigned to work with the elder woman a little over a dozen moons ago following her eighteenth winter. It was assumed Mrs Dallinware’s time was coming to a close, and someone needed to take up her mantle after she was gone.

Most of the time the pair helped to patch up a wound here and there, to settle an upset stomach, to guide the women in birthing their children, or to purge the body of a problematic one so it never came. Buddug took on the role with trepidation. She knew it would alienate her if she stayed with the trade, but she liked to help. She saw the need for that kind of wisdom to remain in a small town such as Ash-Holme.

Buddug cared for others by the virtue of her nature. She was kind and loving, and patient with those who needed extra care and attention; a skill she had learnt and mastered through her life.

Gather some linen, Mrs Dallinware said.

Buddug rushed to tear strips of varying length and width. Mrs Dallinware stood by the supplies cabinet and smashed and mixed a concoction of leaves and oils together to form a balm. Together they stripped the stranger’s body of his mud caked torn rags.

Help me wash him down. Remember, the dirt is where the disease hides. Make sure you get it all.

Mrs Dallinware had a mind considered bizarre to most, but Buddug had seen her do things others couldn’t and had learnt to follow directions without question. If she said the disease was in the dirt, then it was so.

What do you think did this to him? Buddug asked as they worked.

A wild beast, no doubt. A bear, wolves, wild hogs maybe. I’ve seen similar wounds before, but none this bad, and not as many as this.

The two worked fast to cleanse and wrap the wounds they found. Buddug looked over his body with pity, the blood seeping through the dressings still, his muscular chest rapidly rising and falling. Short, shallow breaths. His wounds ran deep revealing the bright red tissue that was usually unseen by the light of the day. What stories did this young man have to tell? Was he a warrior, running from a lost battle? A hero, seeking assistance to conquer a dark unknown? His body looked young and supple, around the same age of Buddug, a handful of years older maybe.

Poor fella, Buddug said in a voice she intended to keep to herself. The lad’s lucky to have survived.

He hasn’t yet. And probably won’t, so don’t go expecting a miracle here. He’ll probably be dead an’ in the ground this time tomorrow. He’ll be a blip, in memory only, a mystery lost to time. A story we’ll speak of in when an unknown man crawled over the red mountain, for what, we never found out. D’ya hear?

‘Yeah, of course." Buddug forced a smile, failing to convince either of them.

1.2

THEN

Or, What’s In A Name

Death paid no immediate visit to the stranger, and the town’s mayor ordered his frail body moved to an empty shack on the edge of the village, to be given space and quiet to die in peace. Mrs Dallinware, ever the compassionate and relentless, tended to the man without break in those first few days, working herself far beyond what her ageing body should have been able to handle. Buddug asked about the stranger daily and was told he slept most often, waking briefly to sip on water only. ‘He won’t make it through the night,’ Mrs Dallinware had said, five nights in a row.

Buddug, keen to not only check on the stranger, but to also give Mrs Dallinware a half day of rest, requested she check in on him one morning which Mrs Dallinware, weary and most likely lacking in clear thought, granted permission.

With a basket of provisions grasped tightly in front of her, Buddug stood at the shack door. There was a very real possibility she would find the dead body of a man in there. She’d seen them before, the dead. No matter how good Mrs Dallinware was, she couldn’t save them all. It never got easy, though, and Buddug secretly hoped it never would.

She took a full breath, tapped gently on the shack door, and walked in. The stranger was not dead, but instead was sat up in the makeshift straw bed.

Good morning. It’s a nice surprise to see you up. Buddug closed the door behind her. Light streamed in through the small window on the far side of the room. Dust glistened in the air.

Yeah, ah’m startin’ to feel more with it. The stranger’s voice was deep and husky, and filled the room with a gentle hum. Where am I, exactly?

Ash-Holme, a village about a day and half ride south west of the red mountain.

West?

Yeah. Buddug tried to glance at the stranger’s face, to get a glimpse of an emotion. It remained unseen. I’m Buddug, what’s your name?

The stranger offered no quick answer. How did I get ‘ere? he asked as if Buddug’s words had not been heard.

Well, we don’t really know. We were hoping you’d tell us, Buddug prompted. The stranger gave no response again. Buddug placed the basket of provisions on the bedside cabinet and sat on the stool by the bed.

How long ‘ave I been ‘ere? the stranger asked, breaking the silence.

Oh, five nights, I think. Six, maybe. You were found by the river and brought to Mrs Dallinware. I’m apprenticed to her. She’s the one who has been looking after you, tending to your wounds, making sure you rest.

Ah’m in her debt, then.

Buddug chuckled. Listen here, mysterious red mountain man, she’ll have none of that. It’s what she does, and she does it without praise and rejects all reverence, so a simple thank you will more than suffice.

Buddug knew the red mountain man naively putting himself into the servitude of such a woman would not do him well with the others in the town. Buddug had reluctantly accepted her duty and all that would come with it in time, but she would save anyone else from such a lonely existence if she could.

You should try and have something to eat, Buddug advised. You’ve not eaten in a few days, at least. God knows how long it took you to get here. The red mountain man yet again offered no response. Buddug decided subtlety was not going to work with him. What happened to you? How did you get like this?

The red mountain man turned his unseen face from Buddug. His breathing grew heavy and he shifted in the bed. I don’t remember, he said with a broken voice.

That’s okay, Buddug reassured. The ealdormen council just want to make sure nothing else will follow you here. They need to know you’re not gonna bring trouble with you.

Nah, ain’t nothin’… he caught his words. Ah’m in a lotta pain right now.

I’m not surprised, you’ve got some nasty wounds on you, Buddug said, raising to her feet. I need to change these dressings anyway, so let’s have a look.

No, not the wounds.

There’s nothing to hide, I’ve already seen them. I helped clean you up when you first arrived.

The wounds don’t hurt. It’s me chest.

You have wounds on your chest, and stomach, and neck, and arms, and legs… Buddug trailed off, trying to lighten the mood. She thought she caught the tail end of a sigh.

With gentle care she crept her fingers into the top of the dressing around the red mountain man’s chest. His skin was hot to the touch. His chest hair scratched at the back of her fingers. Underneath, where just a few days ago there had been a gaping wound cut deep into the muscle, was a tender fresh light pink scar crusted with the residue of a healing balm.

That’s remarkable, Buddug whispered to herself.

What is?

Your chest, it’s, healed over already. She moved down to his stomach, finding the same thing under those dressings, as she did on his throat and over his arms. The leg wound, the one that had gone straight through, barely leaving the lower half attached, gave the greatest surprise; it too had healed, leaving