The
Writings
of
Lord Wynd

Welcome to my writings. Since I'm constantly writing, I'll probably update this page quite a bit. I'm currently writing a book, so I may or may not put a couple of chapters from it on here. You never know...

A
Final
Few Hours

A Story on Meriwether Lewis

On October 11, 1809 Governor Meriwether Lewis stopped in front of Grinder's Stand, a small bed and breakfast about seventy miles south of Nashville, Tennessee. It was an old Victorian house with six bedrooms (five of which were rented to weary travelers), each being a different color or design. It had a large, open kitchen with a fireplace, a walk-in pantry, and cabinets everywhere. The house sat on fifteen acres of wooded land complete with a babbling brook winding it's way through the trees. Upon the land sat a stable painted white to match the house, a barn, a decorative yet useful well, and a vegetable garden surrounded by a crude wire fence. This was the place he stopped for the very last time.

As he pulled up to the little house, he was met by an elderly man trailed by a pack of idle looking dogs. It was with this old man he made his arrangements to stay, but Meriwether would not see him again, fore he went out hunting with his dogs at night.

It was with this man's wife with whom he would last speak, and it was she who would hear Meriwether Lewis's last words to anyone in particular.

At precisely 8:49 P.M. Meriwether started his climb up the stairs to his second-story room, mumbling a troubled goodnight to the man's wife who was quilting away in her chair by the fireplace. As he reached the top of the stairs, he caught a glimpse of the moon rising above the trees.

He came to his door and opened it, his thoughts clouded and confused. As the door closed behind him with a muffled thud, he looked about the room, aware of the ever present shadows dancing in the candlelight. He stood transfixed that way for several moments, his eyes roving. Then, at last, his gaze came to rest upon the pistols laying atop the desk.

It was then he made his decision. As he walked purposefully toward the desk, his mind was clouded with images of his friends, his family, and the places he had journeyed to. He then picked up the pistols and, after checking to see that each was loaded, pointed them toward himself. Then he fired.

A split second after the terrible discharge, he felt the bullets tearing through his flesh and into his lungs. He could feel the air rushing out of him as if there was a tremendous weight bearing down upon his chest. He could also feel the warmth of the blood filling his lungs as he sank to the ground.

And yet, he lived! Realizing that the wounds he had inflicted upon himself were not fatal as he had hoped, he remembered the knife sheathed in a case on his belt. He reached for it, and upon drawing it, he slit the vein in his wrist. Knowing that he would bleed to death within a few minutes, he said his final farewell to the world as his vision blurred and the blood pooled around him.

And with that, Meriwether Lewis, one of the most renowned and respected men of his time, perished.

The blue and yellow lights flashing atop his truck were the only ones to be seen. He was alone on the part of I-70 that stretched from East Vail to the Eisenhower tunnel. Suddenly, as he rounded the bend, he heard a tremendous noise. It sounded as if a bomb had exploded right in front of him.

He stopped his truck and just sat there, listening while the noise came closer and closer. As the noise rose to an unbearable level, he felt the ground start to shake underneath him. It shook so violently that the truck started to roll and bounce along with the ground. He was thrown forward, his face pressed up against the cold glass. He could see the dark, looming bulk of the mountain in front of him, the snow reflecting the last rays of the moon. His first thought was that they were having an earthquake until he saw it surging down the mountainside, an enormous wave of snow, burying everything in its path. As it came nearer, snapping trees as if they were twigs, his mind was clouded with ideas of what he should do.

And then, it was to late. The rolling snow overtook his truck, causing the windows to instantly shatter. He felt the freezing cold of the snow as it threw his truck on its side. That was the last thing he remembered before he was knocked unconscious.

He awoke cold and hungry. At first he couldn't remember where he was or what he was doing there, but then it all came flooding back to him. He groaned as he tried to move. He could faintly taste blood in his mouth, and he couldn't feel his right leg. The only light was that from the cab of his truck, which gave off an eerie orange glow in contrast to the surrounding snow.

At first, he figured all he had to do was wait there until somebody came along and found him. Someone would have to notice that the highway was buried in snow. He was satisfied with that until a thought struck him. What if he ran out of air before they came? What if he froze? He couldn't take that risk that, so he'd just have to start digging.

He looked around for some thing to dig with. His eyes came to rest upon the little ice chipper stuck between the seats. That will have to work, he thought as he slowly reached a gloved hand toward it.

He'd been digging for what seemed like ages, and he had had to painfully drag his leg up the steep slope of the tunnel he'd dug. The tunnel itself was only large enough for him to squeeze through, and it had collapsed several times. He could no longer feel his hands forcing the snow away from him. His reflexes had become sluggish. His mind cried out in pain with every move he made in the cold, dark passageway. And yet, he dug on, hoping that at any moment he would break through the surface to freedom.

He tried and tried, but his hands would not respond. He could feel nothing. He tried again... nothing. He longed for the warmth of the sun, shinning down upon his face. If only he could rest for a moment. Yes, that was it! All he had to do was rest and let his energy flow back into his frozen body. That was all he had to do, rest. As he wearily closed his eyes, he felt almost warm, as if someone had covered him in a warm blanket. It was funny that feeling.

At that, he felt nothing more. All he could see was the darkness enveloping him. He was confused, yet satisfied. And with that feeling, he drifted away from the land of the living, away from the snow, away from everything he had ever known.

�1998