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He looked like Ernest Hemingway, but that couldn't be. Obviously. Hemingway was dead; had
been for years.
This was one of those days that come now and again to Idaho in the spring. The winds gusted and howled, blustering and buffeting and seeming to come from all directions at once, or nearly. Grey clouds, darker on their undersides, streamed across the sky, low over the peaks. Caught by trees or other prominences, tatters and thin streamers of cloud looking like pale gauze clung and were left behind, settling into eddies in the land's hollows. And the rains came, thundering down now and again in sheets, driven by the wind, dwindling to a fitful drizzle and starting up again. The chilling cold, though, remained the whole time.
I'd arrived at the cabin the day before, late, and tried to clean up the place a little. It needed it; it hadn't been used for a long time. One of the advantages of free-lancing is being able to take off when the mood strikes and the bills are paid, so when I was offered the use of the cabin I jumped at it. It was a place Hemingway was supposed to have stayed and done some writing sometime or other, even if not for very long.
It was the thought of Hemingway that did it. He'd always fascinated me, ever since I'd read some of his stuff in high school, and more after. He'd done what I'd like to think I could do someday. Not yet, though. I wasn't ready, I knew. But spending some time here, in a place he'd stayed and maybe written some, that was too good a chance to pass up. There wasn't any sign of him left around the place when I'd arrived, but the idea stayed with me.
I'd gotten up early and fixed coffee. Then I decided to take a walk around, look over the land. The rain had tapered off but the wind was continuing, gusting, blustery, rising and falling away, first from one direction and then another. The mackinaw felt good around my shoulders, across my chest. Wind whipped at my face, cold and sharp, making my eyes water.
I hadn't much more than gotten outside when I saw the figure of a man coming across the meadow below the cabin, swinging along through the high green of wild oats, barley and grasses. His was a bulky figure in some kind of heavy coat and a flat-crowned Western hat. He wasn't just out for a walk, from the look of him. He appeared on his way somewhere, striding along as though intent on reaching a destination. Seemed, too, he might be headed
here.
He came closer as I watched. The coat was a soft brown, the leather reversed, fleece lined. His jeans were stuffed into the tops of laced, calf-length boots. From under the brim of the hat fierce blue eyes stared at me. Hard, determined eyes, without any doubts in them. His face was covered by a short, white beard that looked fuzzy and uneven, as though it needed trimming. He was a big, bulky man, his shoulders broad, looking a little paunchy although that might have been the coat. He continued walking until he was very close, his eyes still holding mine. The man looked so much like Hemingway it was scary.
"You John Shannon?" The voice was gravelly but not as deep as I would have expected.
I nodded. "How'd you know I was here?"
He shrugged, apparently unwilling to say. "I wanted to talk to you."
"About what? Who are you?"
"Jesus Christ! Who do I look like? You know me."
"You look like Ernest Hemingway, but you can't be. He's dead." I was startled and shocked. I could feel it; I knew my face had paled, my lips thinned and my eyes widened.
"So?" He looked past me to the door of the cabin. "Got any coffee in there? Or anything stronger?"
It is, after all, sparsely settled country, and out here you don't turn away a neighbor, or a passerby. Even if he looks like someone you know is dead. "You want some? Come on in." I turned and walked back up the steps, holding the door open for him.
He walked past me and into the single room, speaking as he moved by me. "I don't want coffee or anything else. I thought you'd better have some. You look like you need something."
"It isn't coffee I need. I'll ask you again; who are you and what do you want with me? Surely it's not just to look at me, so tell me what it is."
"Sure. That's who I am. Hemingway. Little Ernie. Or I was. And yes, I'm dead; you got that right. But now something's come up that's important, at least to me. There's a thing that needs doing, and I can't do it myself."
I jumped. Not from what he said. But there was a blue-white flash of lightning just outside the window, whitening the room to brightness with harsh, glaring light. It was close; the sharp, slamming crack of the thunder immediate and deafening, followed by the tiny crackle and hiss you only hear if you're close enough. Too close. And there was the pungency of ozone. The whole thing, flash and thunderclap, was like an exclamation point to his words. Not that they needed one -- the words themselves had been shock enough.
I moved to the left rear corner of the room where the kitchen area was, picked up the coffee pot from the wood stove, got two cups, and moved to the adjoining corner where there was a round wooden table and four straight chairs. I poured the two cups full, anyway, and took the pot back to the stove. Just common hospitality, whether either of us wanted coffee or not.
Behind me the man spoke again without a sign of concern for the lightning. "Yeah. I expected that. Now the rain'll start again. Harder than ever."
That went by me without notice. "What do you mean, you're Hemingway? You look like him, enough to scare me, but you don't talk like him. Not the way I'd expect Hemingway to talk, anyway." I slid into the chair in front of one of the cups.
"Don't be a damn' fool," he retorted, and had to raise his voice as the rain began again, the heaviest yet. It hammered loudly on the roof, making it hard to hear inside. "Nobody speaks the way they write. Writing's like the hundredth draft; speaking isn't even like the first. You should know that, you've written enough." As he spoke he crossed the room toward me, dropping into the chair opposite with the other cup of coffee in front of it.
I gave him what was intended to be a sharp glance but he didn't seem to notice. "How do you know I write?"
"I know a lot. And you don't write any of that artsy-fartsy stuff I can't stand." There was a tight grin, and he added, "Every time I used that phrase, 'artsy-fartsy,' to Max, he looked pained. Four letter words, as far as he was concerned, and the publishers didn't approve of any of them." Then, "Now, can we get on with this? I may not have a lot of time."
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