The Red Line

by Brody Smithwick

As published in Red Planet Magazine

White blankets of fog billowed over the forest floor as Jake began his morning walk. His eight year-old Weimaraner, Mickey, disappeared into the haze and scouted ahead. He returned to Jake’s side every so often as if to encourage him to pick up the pace. Mickey’s gunmetal gray coat made it impossible for Jake to track him in the thick morning gloom. 

The woods still slumbered causing Jake’s breathing to sound like a freight train coming down the trail. This time last year, the trail was covered in Dogwood petals. But now, thanks to a lingering winter, Jake couldn’t spot a single one. They came to the first set of switchbacks. Jake gripped his walking stick tighter as he started the familiar ascent. 

The haze thickened as he climbed along the boot-worn trail that wrapped around Tray Mountain. In the valley to his right, charcoal boulders covered in seafoam lichen floated in a silver ocean of morning mist. Not once in five years of taking this hike could Jake recall trekking through such heavy fog. A good burn settled into his legs as he summited the mountain. Still catching his breath, he un-shouldered his rucksack and took out the blue Nalgene bottle Lilly bought him on their honeymoon. The first gulp of water made him shiver. It were as if someone dropped an ice cube in his stomach and commanded it to dissipate into his veins. Had it been a warmer morning, he would have welcomed the sensation. 

Mickey, nose jammed to the earth, busied himself with inspecting the perimeter. Jake whistled for him to come get a drink of water. Mickey obliged, but didn’t pull his nose from the ground. Cupping his hand, and resting it against the wide mouth of the Nalgene, Jake formed a makeshift bowl for Mickey. As the dog drank his fill, Jake surveyed the sky to the east. On most days, he made it here just in time to see the sun break like an overeasy egg across the horizon; its golden light pouring across pines and oaks. He sometimes envied the rolling hills—wishing the landscape of his own life could be illuminated so easily. Today, the relentless fog swallowed up the vista. 

A limb snapped somewhere in the mist. Mickey’s hackles went up and he let out a deep-chested growl. 

“Easy, boy.” Jake scratched his ear.

 Mickey huffed and returned to his water. Once they were both hydrated, Jake readied himself for the descent. He shed his down jacket, capped the Nalgene, and shouldered the rucksack. Just like every other morning, he would drop into Addis Gap, take a left at Little Wildcat trail, and be back at the truck by 9:00 am. Jake concentrated on the jingling of Mickey’s collar, and the whispering of the pines as the wind rushed through their needles—sounds he craved during the monotonous hours of his workday.

The steep decline leveled out, and Mickey took the gradient change as a cue to run ahead—getting out of Jake’s line of sight. He strained his eyes to see if he could make out Mickey’s silhouette in the fog. Instead, what he saw made him lock his knees and come to a halt. 

On the edge of the trail, someone had painted a thick red line on the ground. He approached it with caution. Without taking his eyes off the line, he whistled for Mickey. The Weimaraner materialized out of the fog to the left and hurried to Jake’s side. Jake squatted down beside the red mark and determined it had not been made with spray paint, ruling out surveyors or loggers as the culprits. It was as if someone applied the paint with a brush the size of a man’s hand. The deep red gash glowed in the darkness of the early morning. The perfect straightness of the three foot line captivated Jake. Someone obviously took great care in painting the mark. As he began to stand up, he noticed another line on the ground twenty feet from the trail. His curiosity now piqued, he left his path with Mickey in tow to examine the second mark. 

This line looked identical to the last one. However, it ran three times as long. The laser-precision of the paint stood out all the more with the added length. Jake stooped down again and now noticed that not one spec of dirt or piece of a pine needle went uncovered if it fell within the trajectory of the line. Before Jake could stop him, Mickey began sniffing the red streak. 

“Hey, cut it out Mick!” Jake grabbed his collar and pulled his nose up from the paint. But he released the collar like hot iron when he saw the red paint all over Mickey’s nose. 

“What the hell?” Jake could not imagine how the paint was still wet. As he went to touch it for himself, Mickey bolted off further into the woods. 

“Mickey! Here boy! Here pup!” Jake used his two pointer fingers to create an ear- splitting whistle, but Mickey plunged further into the forest. Realizing he was not going to heel, Jake took off after him. The fog only allowed a four foot window of clear visibility, but Jake could still hear Mickey clambering through the pine thicket. He called several more times, but the stubborn dog ignored him. 

The pines knotted together as Jake trailed Mickey further into the heart of the forest, making it nearly impossible to take a direct line towards him. Just when Jake thought he lost him all together, a clearing in the thicket of evergreens parted. Mickey sat in the middle of it staring up at a massive, lone oak tree. Twigs snapped beneath Jake’s feet as he entered the clearing. Mickey looked at Jake over his shoulder as if he were arriving late to an important dinner party. 

“You...bullheaded...mu—” His sentence died when he saw the red line running up the towering oak as far as he could see. 

The line and the tree both became lost in eternal white fog. He traced its path back down the trunk and onto the ground. He saw that it entered the glade from the North end of the clearing. Mickey stared at the marked tree as if it were the most natural thing in the world while a knot began to form in Jake’s stomach. He tried to whistle, hoping to snap Mickey out of his trance, but his mouth was cotton. 

He inched closer to the tree, calling to Mickey in a hoarse whisper.

“Mick...Mickey....” Nothing. 

The red line appeared to be ablaze amidst the dark backdrop of the tree’s bark. Jake didn’t take his eyes off it as he sidled up to Mickey. As he closed the gap, a warm wave of air rushed over his body. The sudden change in temperature was accompanied by a strong floral aroma that Jake could only liken to Wisteria, only much sweeter without being offensive to the nose. The unique smell, more delightful than anything he could ever remember smelling before, somehow conjured up a million childhood memories in an instant. 

Jake’s mind immediately attempted to rationalize these sensations. A warm downdraft from the ridge must have carried the scent of the first spring blossoms down to where Mick and I are standing. Yet, even as this plausible thought ran through his mind, he knew it was a lie. Somewhere beyond his reason, deep in the intangible parts of his being, he knew. This entire experience and exchange of thought happened in an instant. And when he regained his composure, he saw Mickey with what he could only describe as a smile stretched across his painted face. 

Without warning, Mickey reared up and put both of his front paws on Jake’s chest and licked his face as if Jake’s head were his water bowl. Slobber dripped of Jake’s chin as he pushed Mickey back onto all fours.

“Down boy! What’s gotten into you?” 

Mickey sat back on his haunches for a moment, let out a cheerful bark, and then began trotting around the edge of the clearing with his head tilted back just enough to give him a regal air. Jake called to him a few times, but Mickey ignored him and kept circling the clearing as if he were marching to a beat only he could hear. 

A sheen of sweat formed on Jake’s brow. The red line, Mickey’s bewildering behavior, and the scent were all connected somehow; he was sure of it. Jake started to suspect that the delightful experience functioned as a sweet lure into something sinister. He wiped his brow and turned back to the tree. His eyes locked on the line as a strong urge to flee the clearing came over him—dragging Mickey by the scruff of his neck if need be. 

Then, just like a wave retreating after it has rushed upon a shoreline, the feeling subsided and began to gradually be replaced by another impulse. Before he realized his feet had carried him there, Jake stood within an arm's length of the glowing red line. Its dimensional perfection and precision hypnotized him. The rich red tone and silk-like texture of what he took to be paint, beckoned him to reach out. In a moment of surrender, with fingers trembling, he reached for the line. 

The red liquid rubbed off onto his fingers. The spell of the line only increased as he again puzzled over how it could still be wet. He rolled his fingers back and forth and deduced that it could be oil based. This explanation satisfied him until he went to smear the paint on an uncovered piece of bark. It would not come off his fingers. He rubbed harder trying to rid himself of the red stain. In his haste and panic, he nicked a piece of bark from the line. 

The cut into the tree did not reveal a fresh, brown piece of bark. Instead, it revealed another layer of glimmering red. He began tearing at the red bark only to find more and more red. Mickey circled the clearing, keeping cadence with the unheard tune as Jake dropped onto all fours and tore at the red line on the ground. He pulled out chunk after chunk of the red earth—dying his entire body. As his sweat stung his eyes, and his heart thundered in his ears, he became aware of how desperately he wanted there to be no end to the red. Surprised by his own desire, he dug deeper and harder. Everything in his life was familiar, routine, and reasonable. It wasn’t until he stood there digging a shallow grave with his own two bare hands that he realized how he yearned for there to be something more, something beyond. He wanted familiarity to be shattered into a million irreparable slivers. 

Jake finally stopped digging, satisfied that he could go on for as long as he liked and never come to an end of the red line. He crawled out of the fresh hole in the earth and lay on his back—chest heaving. A warm, wet nose nuzzled his stained hand. He raised himself off the forest floor, threw his arm around Mickey, and took in the glade through new eyes. He knew he should be exhausted. But as he sat on the edge of the shallow grave, covered in the glistening substance from another realm—he only felt light and free. Golden beams of sunlight began to pierce the white fog. 

Jake started as one particular column of light broke through the cloud covering and shone directly on the arm that clutched Mickey. Every inch of his skin seemed to drink in the sunlight and then cast it back out; any portion of exposed flesh radiated a brilliant hue of crimson. The air inside the glade thrummed. He splayed his fingers outward and then formed them into a fist; wisp of red lightning crackled in the air around his clenched hand. New life and power coursed through his veins. In the shadow of the ancient oak, the old Jake and all that was familiar—died.