The Gray Hunt

Hey, all.  I tried to assemble a flash fiction piece this week, but I'm not too sure how successful it is.  Thanks for reading! 



The Gray Hunt



It was still dark when Luka and I reached the clearing. The hardwood canopy transitioned into a field of fledgeling shrubs scattered haphazardly throughout the area. I carried a battery-powered lantern that could have used a few new AAs. The lantern’s glow was fading, but it held up long enough to help me navigate through familiar trail. Maple, oak and hickory leaves crunched beneath the weight of my boot. With the tree stand in sight, I turned back to Luka.

“Are you okay?” I asked, watching Luka feel around the unsteady earth with his cane.

I could make out his grin in the light of my lantern. He answered, “Yes, and you don’t have to keep asking me that.”

We continued towards the northwest, following the tree line around the patchy understory of shrubs. I checked behind me to ensure that Luka was keeping up with my pace; I must have reeked of hesitation because Luka maintained the same reassuring grin throughout our trek into the woods.

“I’m good,” he added, moving easily over the uneven contours and buttressed roots along the outskirts of the clearing.

We reached my tree stand just before dawn. I rested my rifle and lantern on the trunk of the old hickory tree. Grabbing for the rope stairs, I gave them a strong tug to ensure that they hadn’t withered and would carry our weight.

“We’re going to have to climb now,” I said. “I’ll let you go up first.”

I held the rope out to Luka and he grabbed it tightly in his right hand. With his left, he felt around carefully for the wooden pegs that would allow him to traverse the rope, and, with confidence, he began ascending the hickory tree.

“Careful now,” I said as he moved several feet off the ground. “We’re not in a hurry.”

“I’m fine.”

Watching Luka climb the rope’s stairs with ease dispelled the reservations I had about bringing a blind man along on a hunting trip. I had been dating Lana, his sister, for several years and she thought this would be a great way for Luka and I to get to know each other better. I insisted that taking somebody who couldn’t see into the woods, especially with a hunting rifle involved, would be dangerous, but she ensured that he’d be more capable than I could imagine. Trust me, she said. And I did.

Once Luka was secure in the stand I began my ascent. I carefully scanned our surroundings with each step. This tract of land had been in my family for generations. It bordered a nature preserve to the north, so many game animals used the land as a travel corridor to access the nearby streams. Centuries before my ancestors came to own this land, the Niantic tribe would routinely burn down these hardwood trees and shrubs to make room for the deer to graze, amplifying their capacity to hunt on the land. Now, on paper, it was owned by my older brother. Although he has considered subdividing the 40 acres into residential lots, I like to imagine that there’s still some wild part of him that likes to keep this open for the animals to roam; that, or the wetlands posed a significant financial challenge.

Luka sat quietly in the tree stand. He appeared to be absorbing his surroundings, listening carefully as the land began to wake. Him and his sister immigrated to this part of New England in their childhood; Lana often recounted to me the transition from Croatia to the US with much animosity. Luka, on the other hand, was much more content to talk about their early years.

“The wind is stronger up here,” he said. “What kind of tree are we in?”

“Hickory,” I answered, resting my rifle against the hand-made rail of the stand.

“Feels sturdy.”

I nodded, oblivious to the mistake in my response.

The sun rose soon after our ascent. Songbirds began to populate the expanse of the shrubland, picking at the topsoil in search of worms and other insects.

I constructed this tree stand a few years prior out of some oak boards from my neighbor. His kids had grown and were off to college, and thus he had no use for their tree house. My neighbor was willing to part with the lumber for some venison steaks. I built this stand to overlook this farm field that was slowly transitioning into a shrubland. Game ranging from deer to cottontails graze here throughout the year.

“It’s nice up here,” Luka said. “There’s a cool mist and I like the sound of the birds.”

“The fog will lift soon, I said. “Hopefully. Then I’ll be able to scope out the whole clearing.”

We waited in silence, listening to the birds in the shrubs below. “What you hear,” I continued, “are a few black-capped chickadees poking their small beaks into the soil. Looking for worms under the gray fog.”

“Tell me about it,” he responded. “The color of the fog.”

I paused for a moment, focusing on the thick layer of gray that coated the world both above and below us. “Tell you about gray? Well, it’s a color that refuses to be either black or white. But it’s like a mix of both.”

“So it’s a rebel?”

“Yes,” I answered. “A gray like this, well, there’s nothing quite like it. It covers the world in a thick haze that absorbs other colors. What’s left is this ghostly film that’s somewhere between light and dark.”

Luka nodded.

“Imagine something soundless,” I added, looking out to the field. “A color with a presence, but no rhythm or noise. A gray like this isn’t man-made like the concrete of a sidewalk or the hard surface of iron. Out here the color is subtle, less an amalgamation than a discrete mass in and of itself.”

“It has a smell to it,” Luka added. “It makes me feel wet and tired, but it's just cool enough to keep you awake. In another world, I bet coffee would be gray like this.”

I let out a muffled laugh and listened to the sound of the birds beneath us. Normally I have brought either my brother or Jesse from the work crew up here. Neither of my regular hunting partners would have mused about the fog in such a way. “A thick fog like this,” I continued, “well, it gives me the same feeling that I suspect people get from church. It reminds you that, when the sun rises, the morning fog covers everything: trees, birds, frogs, deer, and even the hunter. Nothing supersedes the fog.”

“I understand,” Luka said and he let out a smile. “Togetherness.”

His quiet words resonated with me as we sat motionless, carefully listening to the sounds of the world below. A red-tailed hawk flew by overhead. The hawk made a few passes over the brush and then continued on north towards the preserve. The fog was beginning to lift.

“Luka,” I interrupted. “I’m going to ask your sister to marry me.”

“I know.”

After a long pause, he added, “Did you hear that?”

“No, what is it?”

“Something moving on the ground. Something large.”

We hushed our voices and turned our attention to the dogwood shrubs to the east of the stand. The fog was beginning to lift, and with it came the images of the songbirds and, several yards to the east, a white-tailed deer--a buck plucking the leaves off of a blueberry bush. Its body was still partially concealed by the fog, but I could make out its torso and the distinct shape of its antlers.

“Luka,” I whispered. “It’s a deer.”

“It sounds heavy. Is she eating?”

“It’s a buck,” I responded. “Yes, he’s eating.”

I lifted my rifle and clicked the off the safety. Luka turned his attention toward me, as did the deer, when the click of the safety echoed into the open land below.

“He heard us,” I said.

“I can’t hear him anymore,” Luka added. Our muffled voices were no louder than a whisper. “It’s invisible when he’s still like that.”

“Do you want to try the shot?” I asked, holding the rifle out to him.

Luka grabbed the rifle awkwardly and whispered, “I can’t see.”

I positioned the barrel on top of the oak railing and placed Luka’s hand on the hilt of the gun.

“Feel around for the trigger,” I said. “I’ll help you aim.”

“Okay,” he said. After much careful fidgeting, I helped Luka position his right hand near the trigger of the rifle and situated the butt against his shoulder.

“Now, the buck is spooked, but he’s not running yet,” I whispered. “The barrel is aimed too high, so you have to bring it down a bit. If you move too far to the left, you’ll miss and hit the pine trees just beyond the fog. Too far to the right, the bullet will graze the blueberry bushes.”

Luka took careful breaths as he attempted to aim the rifle in accordance with my words.

“Don’t worry,” I continued. “The fog is clearing up. So long as you don’t move the gun too much, you’re safe. If you miss, you’ll probably just hit a dogwood sapling. Take it easy. Plenty of time.”

Luka took another breath and asked, “When do I fire?”

“Whenever you’re ready.”

I watched as the buck became alarmed at the sound of voices. Luka pulled the trigger and fired into a muddy patch of topsoil beneath a blueberry bush. I watched the buck disappear into the gray mass of the fog.

Luka covered his ears after pulling the trigger. The shock of the blast had clearly disturbed him. I put my hand on his back and felt him shiver. After a few moments he began to calm down.

“Did I hit it?” he asked.