The Deep Wood's Business
As the day fades,
See the cold mountain.
Suppose we were those
lone travellers -
We'd never know
The deep wood's business,
Only the trace
of a stag or doe
Pei Di (8th Century)
The hunter froze in position. Even he couldn't say what subtle change had alerted his heightened senses. Only his eyes moved, slowly scanning the snow bound forest below him.
Then the doe appeared, safely upwind and seeming at ease. Its first concern was to pry at some vegetation, freshly exposed by a random snowfall from an overladen pine. Finally as it paused to chew the tough stems, it scented the air quietly and flicked its head.
Reassured, the hunter started to breathe again, slow and controlled, to reduce the condensation formed in the knife cold air. He couldn't believe his luck. Now for the hard part. He had to estimate the path the grazing creature would take over the next two or three minutes. Picking a spot, he organised his actions in advance to create as little movement and sound as possible, despite the thud of his heartbeat slightly shaking his tense arms.
Patience paid off as he found himself in an excellent position as the doe reached the slight clearing he was counting on. Almost naturally, she fell into his rifle's sights.
* * *
The hunter had left his buddies snoring two hours before. Their weekend hunting trip across the border was less about taking down game and more about sinking beers away from the kids. For him it had always been different.
Ever since Discharge he'd missed the kick of action, even that the tense boredom of a fruitless sweep. The others blundered through the woods raising enough noise for a bulldozer between them. They fought it. The secret was to drift through the undergrowth, slow and easy, barely leaving a trace. They could never stop talking and lie still either. A bit of extra kit – a thick woollen ski mask, a cut down sleeping mat, let him lie concealed for 20 or 30 minutes in this weather before he activated a couple of charcoal pocket warmers to replace the heat the mountain sucked out of him.
It was all worth it when he could take a doe like this one. He eased off the safety and placed the crosshairs carefully over it's brain case. Allow a little for range, back a touch for the slight drop elevation…. an even, steady pressure….
The breath slammed out of him. A crushing weight, then arms circling him like striking snakes. He pushed up and back by reflex, but he was already held fast. A few flecks of light swam in his vision.
Someone had jumped him and slapped a Full Nelson on him before he could even draw breath to yell. He could see the guys forearms. Hell, who was out here running round at minus five in his shirt sleeves?
He wrenched his whole body to turn them both over, but the guy just flexed once and forced him flat.
"Easy".
The whisper was a calm threat.
The rifle. He realised he still held the stock in his left hand. He could use it as a club….his left shoulder screamed as a sharp motion locked him down. He heard the rifle hit the snow. He hadn't felt it slip from his grip.
"Guns."
It was a curse.
"It got you into this, it sure won't get you out. Guess you're just out for some fun. Eh, Bub?"
He could manage a grunt.
"Not so much fun when the wood bites back a little, huh?"
Who was this nut? How did he just drop out of nowhere?
"Tracked you. Thought you was someone else. Should have known: you left the trail like Highway 401 through here."
Damn it.
"Thing is, while you're getting your jollies picking off Bambi, you have no idea what else is out here. Worse than me. You have no idea.
So why don't you quit scaring the wildlife and go play cowboy at some rifle range, where it's safe. Before you run into something that ain't so friendly."
The pressure increased smoothly, easily. Couldn't breathe. And there wasn't a thing he could do about it.
As the world receded, he noticed the doe, still unspooked, making its way back into the woods, and safety.
* * *
He was coughing. Something in his back – he'd fallen on his rifle. He grabbed it up and work at the bolt automatically, losing his cartridge, still unfired, looking around wildly for his attacker.
Nothing.
He got shakily to his feet and cast about for tracks.
Not had damned thing. Surely that bruiser had to leave tracks in snow. He couldn't see any sign.
He sank onto a log to catch his breath. His throat felt rough and his back and neck sank like they were still in that vice.
He felt like hell. What was that fella on? He became dimly aware his rifle wasn't right. He checked the sights, flicked the safety on and off, then blinked in surprise. He checked his right glove. Yes, a little neck in the leather on his index finger. He thought back to the moment he was jumped. He was sure he'd pulled the trigger, but the rifle hadn't gone off.
He found it in the imprint he'd made when he fell. The trigger had been snipped clean off just above his finger as he'd pulled it, neat as bolt cutters.
As he'd pulled it.
He turned and lurched hurriedly through the deep snow back down the way he'd come. It couldn't be more than four miles to camp and then a two-hour drive home. He'd willingly leave the mountain – and its damned woods – to their own dark business.