The Deer Hunter
by Kira Robertson
The deer hunter sits on the treestand, cradling a warm beer. The treestand is handmade, a thick piece of plywood suspended between two oak trees, a ladder nailed to one of them. Next to him rests his bolt-action hunting rifle and a small cooler, leaking from one of the corners, staining the wood a dark brown. The ice melted long ago. He’s waiting, and he’s been waiting for a long time.
The sun shines feebly through dark gray clouds. He can taste the rain in the air, freshly fallen, turning the forest floor into a dark sludge. He can smell the sharpness of pine and hears the gentle creak of swaying trees. He breathes in the woods and exhales memories which run through the trees like spiderwebs. He can hear ghosts splashing in the creek, phantoms with strong hands ruffle soft hair tangled with twigs and leaves. Should he strain the edges of his memory, he can just see a man walking arm-in-arm with a boy holding an air rifle. He breathes in the scent of his father. He watches the places around the trees, looking for a disturbance in the leaves, a rustle in the bare bushes. He listens for the crack of a stick, or the sound of hoofbeats.
He lives on the edge of the woods in a house with a black front door. It’s a house with four rooms: a kitchen, a bathroom, a bedroom and a living room. There’s no electricity. He cooks all his meals on a black wood stove. On cold nights he sits by a stone fireplace in a recliner, reading a book or carving something out of wood. He’s kept company by the heads resting on polished wooden plaques over his couch on a dark green wall.
The white-tail deer sits above the right side of the couch; his coat is the shiniest and it glimmers in the summer when the light is strong and yellow.
The wapiti sits above the left side of the couch, almost touching the backrest. His antlers are spindled and long, forking out above him; in the dim light of the fireplace, they almost seem to sway in time to unheard music.
The caribou sits in the centre of the wall. His eyes are blank and unseeing; they stare out of the windows on cold nights, reflecting the moon.
The mule deer sits in the space below the caribou, his thin lips twisted in a permanent smirk, perhaps in defiance.
The deer hunter gives them new life. He pulls bullets out of hearts, from between rib cages and underneath joints. He takes them apart and puts them back together again, fusing their soul to a piece of his wall. That’s what his father told him.
You’re killing them, sure, but then you’re making them into something that will live on much longer than they would have in the first place. Sounds like a pretty good life to me.
It’s a sign of respect, he said. Eternal life on that dark green wall. His father was wise like that. The deer hunter watches them in the dim light of evening. He thinks about his first deer; the pride on his father’s face as he clapped him on the back. He kept a piece of an antler that sits in a box on his bedside table. That memory has faded, until all that is left is the warmth of his hands on his back, the coppery tang of blood resting thick on his tongue. A bright, warm happiness blooms in his chest.
First, cut through the joint on the front leg. Second, cut the back of the rear leg; cut through the joint. Third, peel the skin on the chest cavity back.
He can’t remember what colour his father’s hair was.
The deer hunter gazes up at the thin clouds above his head. The sun is sinking towards the west, turning the sky blood red.
Red sky at night, sailor’s delight!
If the deer hunter closes his eyes, he can smell his father’s chewing tobacco, earthy and sweet, as he sits next to him on the treestand watching the horizon.
That sky is good luck, my boy. Maybe we’ll catch something today.
He can’t remember now if they did catch anything; his memory is frayed, like the pages of an old book. The words are rubbing off, creating blank spaces in the story. He’s trying to hold onto someone who wants to be forgotten, pulling at the edges of his spirit for dear life.
If he forgets his father, he forgets the woods. He forgets the smell of leather and wood shavings that clung to him. He forgets how to shoot straight. He forgets the gap-tooth grin. He forgets how to skin a deer, forgets the dull rasp in his voice. He forgets what a hospital smells like, and how it feels to hold the hand of a dead man.
Fourth, cut through the tailbone. Fifth, pull the skin towards the head. Sixth, roll the skin over the legs like a sock.
He can’t remember what colour his father’s eyes were.
The hours tick by and still he waits. The darkness begins to close in on him, pushing through the bare branches. His eyes scan the woods beneath him, the moonlight glinting off the wet mud on the forest floor. His breath comes out in a mist that drifts up to the stars above him. He’ll go home soon, he thinks. He’ll pack up his things and go home, sit in his chair in front of the fire, and read his book. He’ll come back next week, like he’s done every Saturday for two years.
He picks up the two dry beer bottles on the wood beside him and starts to open his cooler when he hears a noise. A familiar noise: the sound of hooves on the ground, the sound of squelching leaves, a cracking twig. He picks up his gun and peers down the sight through the thick black night. The sound of footsteps draws nearer, until they feel as if they’re coming from right in front of him. Yet as he looks into the trees, he can see naught but silver light on the forest floor. He sees a flash of something next to an oak: a thin cloud of smoky breath rising from an unseen source.
Something is standing in the firm mud not twenty feet away from him. Something is breathing. Something is leaving shallow footprints in the ground. Something is casting a shadow, a shadow with long, curled horns reaching into the darkness: a deer. Yet where a deer should be is only air, an uninterrupted view of trees. An earthy, sweet scent wafts along a breeze to the deer hunter. His breath catches in his throat and a solitary tear runs down his cheek.
Watch out for me in the woods.
The deer hunter throws the strap of his gun over his shoulder and descends the ladder next to him. His steps are measured. He is quiet; he barely makes a noise as he approaches this creature. He can feel the deer’s head turn to look at him. He freezes. He dare not move a muscle. The smell is stronger now; his breath comes out in ragged gasps. Just to touch the thing, to feel it standing in front of him would be enough.
He takes another tentative step and the deer takes off like a shot into the thicket. The deer hunter runs after it at full speed. Hoofbeats pound and ring through the trees. The deer hunter’s rifle knocks against the back of his legs and his breath comes out in shallow gasps. He runs until he can’t hear the hoofbeats in the distance, and then he follows the tracks of the beast.
He searches for the deer for what feels like an hour, grabbing ahold of his gun at the slightest sound. Keeping his eyes low to the ground, he walks right to the edge of a clearing, painted silver from the moonlight. He hears the deep breath of an animal in front of him. He watches as a plume of breath rises up from the middle of the clearing. He swings the rifle around to his front and takes aim. He watches the breath, the shadow, the hoofprints, and points his scope to where its heart should be. He squeezes the trigger, and as the shot rings out, a burst of red springs forth in front of him. Something heavy falls to the ground with a thunderous crash.
He runs over to the beast and pushes his hands into its coarse fur. He feels this thing in front of him; the smell is stronger than ever, earthy yet sickly sweet, now tinged with the metallic scent of blood. He presses his cheek to the side of this great thing, feels it rise and fall with its last breaths. The blood matting its side trickles to the ground, steaming in the cold night air.
He holds this deer as tears stream down his face. He holds this deer in that silver clearing and mutters a promise into its side: “I’m gonna bring you home.”