Posted: Nov 8, 07 6:59am

It's easy to comment on someone elses work. Much harder to listen to comments about your own. I wrote this yesterday, and edited it again last night. I have about 2 1/2 hours invested. It's an idea for a short story. I'm thinking of expanding some areas, to go deeper into certain places and explain more about what's happening. But who knows? Here it is, feel free to chop me up . . .

The Deer

The deer lay where it fell, steam rising from the blood, eyes, and mouth. It's vacant milky eyes stared at nothing. An eerie stillness filled the woods. Behind me, dad's footsteps crackled across the frozen leaves, and I pointed to where the deer lay. "That's a monster" he said, and I felt his hand on my shoulder. He'd call my uncle as soon as we got home. Uncle Fred would probably race right over to see it. Mother would shout like she'd just hit at Bingo, and everyone would rush into the yard to see my deer. "Looks big enough for a couple of family dinners huh Dad?" My voice was a little shaky. "I'll say it is. Your momma will have her work cut out for her with this one." I could already picture those big hams on the table. Everyone would know that I shot this deer. They would know I brought this meat to our table. Just like Dad and Grandpa.

"Guess you'll have some help with the huntin' from now on" I said.

He patted me on the back, "Sure looks that way."

"Can we stop and call mom on the way home? So she can get ready?"

"Well I suppose -- if you think we need to."

"She'll probably want to get the camera out. Maybe we can call Uncle Fred too?"

"Why don't we have your mother call Fred. We'll get it home quicker that way. We need to get him bled and cooled, so we can skin it."

The "we" bothered me. I'd helped clean quite a few deer already. But I was always the "helper" as dad put it. I wondered if he'd make me help him on this one. It was my deer, so I should rightfully be the one in charge, with him helping me. Hesitating I said; "Think you'll be able to help me skin him dad?" "Of course I will. You'll probably need me to hand you stuff, and to handle the water hose." Perfect. The stage was set. When Uncle Fred showed up, he'd see it was me skinning out that deer, and how safely I handled his old knife.

Dad would tell this story to the men at the Thanksgiving Day hunt. "One shot" he'd say, and point to his rib, just under his armpit. "Straight through the heart and lungs. That buck dropped in his tracks and never flinched." The other men would just nod, because that was the way it should be. The first time I hunted squirrels by myself, dad only gave me three cartridges. "Come home with one squirrel for each one of these shells." He said. "When you can do that I'll let you take five." He looked surprised when I did it too. All that practicing out back of the house paid off. "I saw two more dad, and if I'd a had five shells I'd a brought them home too." The law said you could only shoot seven squirrels a day, so I never took more than seven shells.

Later on, I missed a few here and there. Dad would count the squirrels and the shells, and ask me about the shots I missed. We'd talk about what might have gone wrong. "You never know when you might need those shells son. It's the mark of a true hunter. Only city boys go into the woods with a pocket full of shells. Real hunters don't need them." His saying was "Never pull that trigger till you have hair in your sights and you know you'll put him down."

Today I lived up to all of his expectations. This scene had played out many times in my head. Lying awake at night, or daydreaming in school, I'd imagined how I'd kill a deer, and what Dad would say about it. While he told the story to the men at the camp, I'd be outside telling my friends. I'd be careful not to boast the way some of them did, and try to be more considerate of the little boys who hadn't killed one yet.

"Don't worry. Back when I was your age I asked all the same questions. Just make sure you've got hair in your sights and you can drop him with one shot." I'd say. Then I'd saunter inside and stand around with the men some, warm my hands over the pot bellied stove, and listen to their stories. Now I had a story to tell.

"He came right out where you said he would. He stopped twice and looked around but that tree was in my way." I said, pointing at the white oak that had blocked my shot.

"I think he smelled me, because when he moved again he took two steps and stopped suddenly, looking right at my tree. I thought he was going to run but I slowly took up the slack in the trigger, let my breath halfway out, and squeezed again till the gun went off."

"Good job. See how easy it was? That's all there is to it son. Just get upwind of him. When they're real close like that they can smell you anyway, no matter which way that wind is blowing. The wind blows tiny bits of your hair and dead skin around and scatters it. A deer can smell that in the air or lying on the ground. The same way Scarlett does." Scarlett was my Black & Tan. She was named after some girl in an old movie that my mom watched a lot. Scarlett could track a catfish downstream through muddy water.

"Check him to make sure he's dead son, I think we've waited long enough." I carefully stepped forward and nudged him with the barrel of my rifle. "Touch his eye." If the deer was still alive, he would blink or flinch when he saw something coming at his eye. It seemed a little creepy, but I did it and the deer didn't move. "He's dead." The words sounded odd coming out like that. Something about it was different than it was in my dream. The woods were different. The air felt different. The deer was different.

There was a feeling of sadness. The buck was beautiful when I first saw him. He looked different now, laying on the ground in a pool of blood. He was perfectly still. He wasn't ever going to come out of that bottom again. He'd never cross the creek up where I'd first seen his tracks the week before. He'd eaten all the acorns he was ever going to eat now. I felt something like tears all of a sudden and looked away towards the creek. Dad read my thoughts.

"What you're feeling now is guilt" he said. "This is what we talked about. You know what you have to do." I had taken an animal for food. An animal that God put here for us, and I had to thank him in two ways. Mom's way and then the old way, Dad's way. I must explain why I did this, and ask God's forgiveness. I must thank him for this blessing. Dad said "Never forget to do this, or God won't help you. Without him the animals are mighty hard to see and hear."

I remembered Grandpa's story of Little Deer. Whenever our people killed a deer, Little Deer would appear somewhere close by to watch and listen. If I failed to make the proper prayers, he would follow me home and during the night would spoil my meat. Every time I left for a hunt, Little Deer would warn the others that I was about, and they would run away. This was how it was in my grandfathers time. My father said that Little Deer was just another name for God in the story. God was everywhere in everything. It was God I must pray to, God that blessed all things. But after, I could still sing my hunter song.

My father stepped up beside me and we unloaded our rifles. "We'd best get started, we'll be awhile dragging this one out of here" he said. I crouched down and lifted the antlers up to count the points. They were massive. He had four big ones on each side, plus a couple of little ones. "This an eight-point dad?" I asked. "Eight easy. When you add in those little ones he's an honest ten, maybe a twelve. I don't really know since I never studied such things. Your uncle Fred knows how to do it." I'd heard others refer to deer antlers as trophies. A couple of the boys at school had boasted of eight-points, but I'd never actually seen their antlers.

We didn't set store by such things in our family. A deer was food. To hunt was in our blood. It was our way, the old way. We never killed an animal or caught a fish we didn't eat. If a fish was too small, I'd let him go so I could catch him next year. "Slit his throat son, just in case." My hunting knife was one of my most prized possessions. Uncle Fred carried it on Okinawa fighting the Japanese. It was a USMC Ka-Bar knife, the real McCoy. Honed to a razors edge, it wouldn't slip or slide when you started it. It cut right through where you wanted it to. It slit the bucks throat easily, and more blood ran onto the ground.

My father pointed to the fresh blood. "Here, take that for your prayer, just like we talked about." I dipped my fingers into the warm sticky blood and smeared it over my forehead and cheeks. I thought of my ancestors as I followed their way. Making the sign of the cross, I closed my eyes and prayed.

"I'm sorry God, for killing your deer. My family needs this. It will feed my little brother and sister. We don't have hogs, and hams are expensive at the store. Please forgive me God. I promise to pay you back. I'll take good care of these woods, my dog, and my little brother and sister. I'm burying this blood so you can grow another deer next spring -amen."

I drew my knife and slit open the belly of the deer. Working from the incision at his throat, I slit him all the way back to his tail. Dad helped me pull him open and roll his insides onto the ground. The smell was strong. Steam rose up into the cold air. Blood covered my hands. Using our feet, we swept leaves over the gut pile. The coyotes would find it tonight, and the buzzards tomorrow or the next day. My deer would feed many others right here in this woods. In the old tradition, this is where another deer would be born next spring.

"Have your song ready?" He asked. I looked at my father and nodded. This was the moment I'd waited for. I'd said the words many times in my head. I knew exactly what I'd say. I'd never sung this song before, not out loud, but I'd been working on it since the previous winter.

Facing north towards the land of the cold wind I raised my rifle and cried out; "I am nunagahi nunehi! I am a great hunter! I am Ahniwaya tsalagi! Wind carry my song! Let all who feel the wind hear of my skills! I am nunagahi nunehi!" Circling to the left, like uncoiling a snake, I repeated the song to the west, the land of darkness, to the east, the land where the sun rose, and to the south, the land where life began. Tears ran down my face and I trembled with an excitement I'd never felt. I was no longer a child shooting rabbits and squirrels with a .22 or bow.

From now on I would carry a rifle and be known as a great hunter and warrior. My family would be proud of me. God would watch over me. All of the girls at school would know that I was a man who could feed a family. A breeze stirred up from nowhere, and rustled the leaves overhead. . Moments later, from a distance, I heard a crow call my name -- the wind had carried my song.

My father watched in silence and I wondered what he thought about my deer song. He smiled and said nothing. Did he approve? My embarrassment quickly left me as we labored to get the deer back to the truck. We sat on the tailgate and ate the crackers and sandwiches mother packed for us. On the way home Dad said nothing, and I stared out the window, lost in thought about what I'd done. As we turned down the road to our house my father said "Don't forget to clean your rifle as soon as we get your deer hung." "Yes sir" I said.

Copyright 2007 "Shining Path"