The Valley that Knows No God

Brady sat on the ridge, the rim of his hat tugged low against the burn of the wind. The pines bent and shifted, whispering a low hymn for the dead.

Cat tracks traced the dirt below, lines too perfect, too clean. He didn’t trust them.

Stories like this were not to be trusted. They were to soothe, to quiet restless towns and calm nervous eyes.

A mountain lion–lean and hungry. A ranger caught unawares.

Blood scattered across the leaves, dark and metallic. A story that’s anything but tidy–but as straightforward as the crack of a rifle shot.

But Brady had seen the body. He’d crouched there in the dirt, the smell of it filling his nose.

Flesh tore open, throat ruined, split like a dried creek bed. He didn’t need God whispering in his ear to know the difference between the ragged work of claws and the smooth, deliberate line of the blade.

God had nothing to say about this, anyway. He hadn’t spoken to Brady since he was a boy. Maybe not even then.

Maybe it had gone quiet when his old man quit waking up before dawn, pouring his mornings from a bottle. Or when the lights in the house went out for the last time, and the doors stayed shut.

There are no prayers for boys left in empty houses. The gods of the desert and the forest, the ones Brady had clung to later—fierce gods with soft hands and warm, laughing mouths—had never been gods.

Only women who lingered for a moment, just long enough for him to convince himself it was real. Then they left, too.

Brady forgave them for leaving. He didn’t forgive God.

God was dead, or maybe He’d never been, and it didn’t matter much either way. The world was just what it was.

Dirt, sweat, and harsh realities–ignored. It was blood soaking into the ground and stars scattered cold and sharp over the peaks at night.

Now, the valley whispered lies like the pines whispered above him. Lies to bury the blame, bury the truth.

Pin it all on the cat. Lock it away with the scent of death and the copper tang of blood.

But Brady had been around too long and seen too much. He’d seen enough killing to know when the lie was the worst and meant to last.

Since God was not there to sort it, someone else would have to. Someone who knew what steel in a man’s hand could do, who could see the difference between teeth and knives and would remember it when the sun rose. Someone who wouldn’t let the dead go without a reckoning.

His fingers brushed the revolver on his hip, and he leaned back against the rough bark of a pine. The air tasted of sap, dust, and something older and meaner.

He’d wait. He’d listen.

The valley would speak its truth soon enough. And when it did, Brady would be ready.