The old man leaned into the belly of the stove and blew meekly upon a smoldering pile of scrap cloth garnished with a few shavings of wood that he'd managed to wittle off the door. This is the last of it, he thought as acrid smoke curled around his head adding to the fog. He looked around him. It was all so inviting. A knot here, a splinter there, what would it matter? He reached for the blade at his feet and ran its cold, dull edge across his palm and eyed the beams above him. The rain beat down upon them, hollow and incessant, and he thought of the long, sleepless nights spent cowering on the floor beneath the wet static praying for it to stop, if only for an instant.

The dreary, sun-bereft days had blended together into seamless gray mind-fuck and with each drop that fell he moved closer to the edge, closer to death. The wood along the path was wet, he knew. It would take a week or more to dry. He stared back into the belly of the stove, hoping to find a miracle log or fresh pile of dry kindling, but there was nothing. He clutched what remained of his blanket tightly to his body and shuddered knowing that soon he would have to venture into the forest to find something to burn.

He remembered his last journey on the day when the rains arrived and chose to remain. He had been wandering the woods looking for kindling, stopping occasionally to pick up a felled branch or tacky scale of bark that had managed to free itself from the trunk of a towering tree. He had seen a storm approaching the valley from the west, but paid no mind. When his sack was full with enough for the week he began heading back. Suddenly, it became dark and the wind picked up force. Tearing thunder echoed around him and hurt his ears. He made his way onward, leaning into the gale trying his best to ignore the dead leaves that became tangled in his hair, and the branches, torn loose by the wind, that careened off his body drawing blood. The rain came horizontally; it stung his eyes and blinded him. He trudged forward, slowly, under the intermittent pallor of lightening, sack of kindling digging into his shoulder, his bitter screams of spite lost in the wind. He arrived at the cabin soaked to the skin, frightened, bleeding. He placed the wet wood by the fallow stove, wrapped himself in the blanket. He hadn't left the cabin since.

And here he was, forced by the fear of a cold, demented death in a soggy cabin to do it again. The path had betrayed him then and he never forgave it. He had been so unobtrusive in his travels. He walked single-mindedly among the trees searching for wood and that was all. He avoided disturbing the stones that littered the path, and left the birds of spring to sing free of an audience. He never looked beyond the task at hand. Why had it treated him so?

Glaring at the rain, he placed the blanket over the chair by the stove and grabbed the oilcloth that hung listlessly from a nail on the door. For a minute he stood just outside his door, taking it all personally, trying to find the memory of courage that he knew had been left in the forest so long ago. It was coming down harder now; the path would be dark. He reached out an unsteady hand and caught a stream of water as it rolled off the roof. He straightened his back and stepped out from the door towards the head of the path, hoping.

He arrived at the barriers of pine that marked the edge of the forest. Their laden limbs bowed to the weather. It looked dark beyond. Evil. The trees swayed in the breezes and mocked him. Overhead darkness and thunder began to battle for control and rain fell from the carnage in sheets. He adjusted the sack that didn't need adjusting and entered.

Within the ring of trees the elements were more subtle. Rain, deflected by the high canopy, ran slowly down the broad trunks and collected in tiny streams on a quest for lower ground. He was cautious and began to gather wood with haste.

The sack was almost full when he found the throne. He had stopped at the point where he usually turned around to pick up a nice, thick log that would burn for an entire day and there it lay, hidden behind an overgrowth of ferns, left over from the days of his father when the forest was a place of worship. He had never noticed it before. Tired from hunger and exertion, he pushed the ferns aside and sat down upon it leaving the leather wrap of wet wood at his feet.

The muffled slap of stray drops falling on stiff leaves was all he heard. The static was gone. He looked at the burden by his feet. He had carried that same leather strap through these woods for as long as he could remember, but now it seemed so foreign, so pointless. The air was heavy with the musk of fauna though he thought the animals had all left long ago. The soft ground around his weary feet carried the marks of beasts that wandered through their forest, without destination or direction. An unwelcome tear emerged unannounced and, following the crevices of age, ran slowly downward coming to rest in the tangled salt and pepper scruff on his pointed chin. The tear hung motionless, dancing in the warm light of an elusive sun that had begun to sift through the trees enveloping the forest in a soft, milky haze. He sat, staring off into the distance, tranquil. Back in the days when the sun was more than just a pipe dream, he was a foreigner here, an obstruction. But now the boundary between him and the path that he had created over the long days and nights of rain had dissolved. He was part of it and it was part of him. There were no distinctions. It just was, and he was happy.

The old man lay down and fell asleep by his bundle of kindling surrounded by the forest that was his home. He slept in the sun as a part of all things. He slept in peace.