Mountain Life

I am Brigit Markz, a member of Hill Life. A settlement secluded in the mountains dedicated to friendship, fellowship, community, and survival. I am journaling this information so you will know about me, my existence, and, most likely, my demise. I enjoy telling a story, so I will journal this as a story about a part of my life that I consider essential. This has a twofold purpose. The first is to tell the story, and the second is to conceal the truth within the story. This year, or less than one year, of my life created in me a unique urging. An explorer emerged. In the following pages, you will find a revelation of existence in our community. Our life is hard, but not difficult, in the hills. We do live comfortably, and we know each and every person in the community. There are, and have always been, less than 500 of us in our settlement. We grow our own vegetables, gather wild berries and plants for food and medicines, or hunt wildlife for our food, including fish and meat. Everyone in the colony understands the importance of each role in the community and can fill in as needed, where needed, and when necessary. Like a massive puzzle, each piece fits, and each member has a spot. Today, though, I am returning to the milking room. My last session milking the girls as it will be someone else’s duty for a week beginning this afternoon. Admittedly, this is not one of my favorite places to labor, but my friend Serena Roland is ill, and someone needs to take her place. So, I volunteered for her week, and today is my last morning. The job runs twice a day for a week, starting this evening, and another volunteer in the community will take over during the evening milking. This morning, I have a meeting with the elders. It is rare to be called before the elders. Because it is a scheduled meeting, I can only assume I did nothing wrong. Still, it could also mean they have a new job or duty for me to perform in the community. Perhaps they will ask me to be a teacher or instruct a group of youth interested in apprenticing? I love teaching and helping others understand things they do not know. Even more, I enjoy a puzzle. Finding the various facets of a problem and resolving them. That is fun to me. Milking is one of the most demanding chores in the settlement, but it is vital and essential; it is done twice daily. It is not as physically demanding as tending to the fields or as strenuous as feeding the animals. Still, the hours you spend while milking tend to make you physically exhausted by the time for sleep, and napping is a rare gift, although not unheard of. When the younger and less experienced perform the milking task, I, or another who knows the process, assist for a few days until the new person can perform the task independently. Because for the week you do it at least 14 times, you learn to understand, and it becomes second nature. You fall into your groove, as they used to say. I live alone at the moment, but I thankfully have many friends. Once I enter my home, the home my husband and I built, I have no contact with anyone else. My husband, Brad, was killed a few months ago in the hills. He was attacked by a bear. We were unaware of bears in our area, but now we are at least aware of that fact and travel in groups because of it. He hunted for meat in the hills and said he enjoyed being alone. Brad and I had drifted apart over the past few years. We were married for 17 years. We committed just after my 21st birthday in mid-October. At first, we were so in love that we were blind to each other. But as the years passed, we realized we were no longer that innocent-looking boy and girl infatuated with each other and blinded to our difficulties and troubles. So we put on a good air for the others, as neither of us wanted to be the council’s focus. We had no children. Not for lack of trying, but it was never written in the fates. The doctors tell me I cannot bear children, which is fine. I have come to grips with it and accept the fact. The children in the community have become my children, and Serena’s daughter, Ramona, holds a very special place in my heart. I was there when she was born. Brad had his bow with him, but it was still slung over his shoulder as he usually carried it, and his pistol was still attached to his belt. He never had the chance to use either weapon. The attack appears random, unexpected, and without warning. The bow was returned to me and placed over the fireplace in the living room, and his pistol is in its place. I keep it in the kitchen drawer, where he liked to keep it. I have not touched either since Mark and Serena came over a few nights after he was interred. Mark found him a week after he left for the hunt, which was scheduled for no more than two days. Mark is Serena’s husband; he brought him home, and we had the service and put him in the ground. I shed a tear, but evidently not what was expected of a woman who lost a husband of 17 years. A few made comments, but they quickly passed. In my way, I do miss him. We may not have been in love, but we did love each other. Although our intimate times were few and random, we both enjoyed them and tried to ensure it was good for each of us. I miss his presence in the house, but at the same time, I am relieved the situation resolved itself. I know how that sounds, but he would feel the same if reversed. A few days before he left for the hunt, he told me he planned to move out of our home and into his own place. I told him I would be happy to assist him in building his new home. We had not been intimate for a while. I do not believe there was someone else. The size of the community makes it difficult to hide anything. In the community, separation has happened. Divorce is simply the action of publicly stating you are no longer married. There are very few legalities in the community; everyone enjoys simplicity. Having no children of my own, most of the families I know call on me to sit for them, and their children call me Aunt Brigit. I must admit, I really do enjoy that title the best. I am on my way to the barn, and as I walk the path, I walk past where Serena lives with her husband and daughter, and I see the light on in the kitchen. It was a bit early unless you were on the early milking shift or heading to the stream for a morning of fishing. I could see Mark, her husband, in the window and waved; the sun was barely bright enough for him to see me on the path. He waved back and held up a finger in a wait-a-minute motion. I stopped and waited for him.