LATE FEBRUARY HUNT

LATE FEBRUARY HUNT
by W. H. Hackel IV

I hunt, not for a living, not for sport, but due to a sense of tradition. I hunt in order to keep the archaic remembrance of my family relevant. I remember my first hunt, the first time I slew another man. I followed Uncle Guillaume throughout the twists and turns of the forest in search of our prey. The slow beat of our boots in the mud, as our trophy ran in fear from the inevitable. I wish I could retell you the feelings I knew then, now, with distance from the event as well as my own numbness due to other atrocities in this lifetime, I find it difficult to emulate emotion at all. It is a chore to write about feelings I can no longer muster, these sentiments I lost when I took on the mantle of the hunter. 

 Each of my siblings had gone on their hunts before me, as they came of age. I was the runt of the litter, waiting for my summons in the great room, sitting on the couch staring up at the fireplace. It was a late February morning; the snow reflected the sun through the great windows on either side of the room. The trees in the expanse of the property had shed their leaves long ago, standing tall and bare.

The musket, with the family’s seal engraved in the stock, hung over the fireplace. It was grandfather’s during the war of 1812. Now, this weapon was more of a formality; they had come out with finer machines more effective since. But the musket held in it a sense of tradition. It wasn’t the first weapon used to kill, that was a sword one of my great-uncles kept in Europe. At least that’s what I’ve been told. My sister loved the hunt. For me, it was solely a duty. 

Around the musket were the five trophies my brothers and sister accumulated during their hunts. They served as a constant reminder of what I must do; they haunt me, to this day. The mouths are sewn shut from the inside, their hair is done up in different styles, but the eyes trouble me the most. They’re black, beady, and unnatural, but they do not look at me, but beyond, as if they themselves are finding what lay after life. I like to imagine my own fortune that I will never end up mounted like that, but then again those who bring in the trophies are still the subject to losing their own mind. My brother, who was responsible for the trophy with half its face missing, was sent to a hospital where they picked his brain apart after his hunt. He’s not been the same since. Still, my mother parades him around in his wheelchair as one of her esteemed hunters.

Other animals lined the room, but the heads over the fireplace were the most engaging pieces. When we had guests, they would ask about the ivory, or what bird had been slain with such magnificent feathers. But the heads silenced the boldest, humbled the mighty, and struck fear into each guest. The guests knew better than to cause issue. The heads reminded them what each of my mother’s children were capable of if they were to get on her bad side.

My mother, that relation more of a formality than anything, was respected throughout the colony. What she did for a living I did not know at the time; now I understand that she ruled over the peasants. Managing the town and its inhabitants was her business. She has since passed, and my sister now acts as an executive for the town. A position not elected, rather, assumed. Power, we gained from finances that mother passed down to daughter. She holds the small businesses by the purse and knows enough members of the King’s army to keep us safe.

Some members of the town claimed my mother had an unholy relationship with Guillaume, the man of the hunt. My father who had married into this power ran away once he learned the nature of Guillaume and the hunt. Once he knew that each of his children were to become ritualistic murderers. My father’s eyes were blue like mine.

Guillaume was the only of his siblings who successfully managed to track down his mark. He had since gone to the far corners of the map to find the most exquisite game imaginable. The travels allowed him time to forget what he was a part of, still, he always returned, when one of his sister’s children came of age, to introduce them to the hunt. Whomever of the siblings brings back the finest trophy would replace him. 

The subject of the trophies themselves don’t really matter all that much. Could be one from the village (which they typically are), or one just passing through the woods. Some are native, some from Europe, a few from Africa.

The head my sister brought home belonged to one that must have weighed 200 pounds. I believed she was guaranteed to become the next huntress, as the other trophies did not come close by comparison. She came into the house the night of her hunt with a wide grin, boasting her achievement to the rest of us. With a feast prepared for her, and herself in the finest black dress the town had to offer, she retold me the whole story knowing that I would be next. Her raven hair was stained in blood, and she couldn’t clean herself until the next morning. Grandfather had allegedly stated we needed time to bathe in what we did, so that our accomplishment would stain us the rest of our lives. As if there was any way to forget what we had done. that day wasn’t etched into my memory in all its details. This was one of the traditions my sister amended to remove once mother died. Her own kids will be able to wash up before their own celebratory feasts.

I was inspecting the head she had brought in when Guillaume called for me from outside. I took one long breath before standing up and retrieving the musket. 

He met me out behind the manor, smiling, a look that was unnatural to see upon his tight, boney face. His hair was grey and wild, contained by his trifold. His eyes, rotting yellow, matched his teeth. His long slender body was enlarged by his coat. The hunter wore black, as he always did when escorting one on their first hunt. There was no hound for this hunt, they would have made it unfair to the prey, a tradition that was as old as the family name.

I followed him as we made our way down the road. The melting snow flooded the dirt, mud splashed up on my ill-fitting boots that were once my brother’s. I cradled the weapon in my arms. It was a miracle that it had never fallen from its mantle as it weighs half of me. The family crest scattered the reflected sunlight on my face and cloak.

Walking through the town was worse than I imagined. My siblings had warned me that the names that the townsfolk called you were the worst part. As they hurled insults, Guillaume barked back at them, they would not dare to test their luck against him. They called me the “Bastard Butcher,” a name that stuck with my face, as they never referred to me as Quinton again. There were more troops in town than usual, after the actions of Papineau’s Patriotes, trying to liberate the colonies. The soldiers looked us over, maybe they knew what we had to do, but one way or another, they knew better than to stop us.

We walked further on to a cabin on the outskirts of town. “Cabin” is hardly a fair description of the decaying building. This shack was built by my grandfather and had received no maintenance since its construction. The roof was nearly falling in on itself, and dormant ivies clung to every surface. Guillaume led me to the front door, and I danced around the holes on the porch as the old wood groaned beneath our weight. He knocked. While we stood there, he looked at me, smiling as he patted my shoulder, our breath joining together in the closeness between us. I shrugged his hand off.

A man older than the shack came out. His eyes were dark as the wood from his forest. His fur coat was braided with bones and twigs, typical signs of a warlock or a spotter. He greeted Guillaume, “Ah good hunter, how goes it today? I have seen-” He caught the family crest from the rifle in his eyes, “Oh, it’s already that late in the year.” He took a deep sigh. “Christ, tell me he’s the last one.”

“Of course, dear friend, this will be my last time asking this of you.” Guillaume’s tone was low, more of a growl than a voice, nearly inhuman; yet he was trying his best to sound sincere. “The oldest one has made it evident that his children will not participate.” He was attempting to wash away the worry over the hermit’s face.

“But the girl, the one two winters ago, she enjoyed it. It was a sport to her. Surely she will raise hers the same as she was.” There was a panic behind the voice, like a trapped animal. The warlock knew that history would repeat itself, and his duties would be called upon again, less something happened to him.

“She is without child at the moment.” Guillaume paused and offered out a bag of coin. “Like I said, this will be my last hunt. It is something you know I do not enjoy.” This sense of regret, of resistance, I would come to know.  

The hermit took the bag, and you could see the burdens of guilt enter his body. “The ball showed me two of them earlier, down by the creek. You should be able to find their prints with ease, no doubt.”

Guillaume patted his cheek twice. “Thank you, friend.”

The main road led South, eventually to the States. The woods were barren this time of the year. Autumn leaves poked through patches of snow as some of it was beginning to melt. In the spring and summer, the foliage would shroud the forest in all her mystery. That day, she was naked. 

We continued on the trail; the sun now high in the sky. Guillaume and the forest were like old lovers. He knew all the bends and curves, the way it moved and breathed. He told me of her habits, he shared the stories he made with her, sparing no detail. Squirrels ran up and around the trees, and a handful of small birds lamented to us. Guillaume whistled back as we continued through the mess of twisted branches. I followed in his footsteps, so that I would not risk unnecessary injury with a misplaced step as one of my brothers had. Guillaume carried my brother’s mark over his shoulder while my brother hobbled into the house that year, one of the more awkward feasts. 

We were on a downward slope before Guillaume struck up a conversation.

“I’ve asked all your siblings this, and each one has gotten it wrong. Do you know why we don’t have to be quiet?” Guillaume was taking this opportunity to try and mentor me. In the coming years, the questions would become more intense than this, testing tactical and situational awareness. Considering there was no other means to pass time, I had no other option but to amuse him.

“Because they can’t hear as well as other beasts?”

“Ah, probably the best answer yet, but still, no.” He stopped and turned to me, his coat dotted with fresh specks of mud. “It’s because they know. They know we’re here. They’ve more than likely seen us already. The difference between them and us, is our attention to detail and our endurance. They will not best us.” He turned back around, continuing the walk and his lecture, “That’s the beauty of all of this. They’re smart enough to know fear. That’s what makes them such wonderful trophies; the difficulty in hunting them is their intelligence. You can bait vermin and trap mighty bears, but they’re too clever for all that.” Guillaume knew exactly how to cheer me up, reminding me of the slaughter I was to commit. “Still, they will commit some mistake. Some lapse in their judgement will give us all the opportunity we need.”

It was shortly after this we reached the creek we had been tasked to find. The prints were there sure enough, heading out in two directions: one towards an incline, the other further along the creek. “See, they’re not quite smart enough to stay together. They would be stronger in numbers.” Guillaume flipped a coin and it landed showing the portrait of the King. We headed after the set of tracks leading into the hills. Beforehand, there was a chance that nothing would come of this; the warlock could’ve lied, the tracks could’ve washed out with the melting snow, but no. Now that Guillaume had a scent, this bloodhound would find his mark. 

“You know how to use that thing?” He asked, referring to the weapon. I had some experience with muskets before. My brothers took me on the occasional outing in preparation for today.

“Yeah, I know.”

“And she’s loaded?” I had spent the previous night cleaning the weapon, religiously tending to it. I wish I hadn’t. I wish I would’ve given some chance for failure.

“Yea, she’s loaded.”

“Wonderful.”

We followed the tracks for some time. Based on their spread, the prey was in no hurry. At least Guillaume thought so. The muscles in my legs were begging me for some rest, I could feel my feet swell from blisters as they rubbed against the interior of the boots. Guillaume was lucky, the hunter’s blood that pulsed through his veins gave him a degree of vigor that rivaled the beasts he hunted and heightened recollection and perception. I was nearly winded when, we heard a scream break through the quiet peace. Guillaume smiled at me, “C’mon now boy, we’ve nearly made it.”

He was able to pinpoint the exact location of the sound. We jogged, me following his steps, kicking up the snow as we went over to the source of the sound. He lay there, imprinted in the snow, branches had stabbed into its back. 

“He fell.” Guillaume pointed to the tree with the vibrant crimson stain. “Must have seen us coming and tried to take flight.” I walked over to quivering body, his teeth smacking together in the cold. His eyes, Christ, I’ll never forget his eyes. These were not the black eyes of the others around the fireplace; they were wild, frantic, young, and very much alive. He was looking everywhere at once.

“It’s a shame. He would’ve made a fine trophy.” muttered Guillaume, more concerned over the trophy than the dying beast before us.  

“His head’s still intact, I can just-”

“You know better than that,”  his voice, a warning tone.

“But it’s a waste to leave him here. Nobody will know any better if we use him or the other. We don’t have to let his death be in vain.” He was frantically grabbing at me, not trying to fight, but in a way, asking for aid.

“You aren’t getting off as easy as your siblings.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I turned to him.

He let out a low laugh that reminded me of a carpenter’s saw cutting through wood. “You’ll see.” 

He walked past me, heading back down the grueling trek to the creek. I stood there for another minute, catching my breath while watching the life drain from his eyes as his hold on me became weaker and weaker. He was from the town, I recognized his face, but his name was a mystery to me. He had helped the smith, and he should’ve known better than to be out here. Still, he did not deserve this. “Keep up now, we got to set up camp while there’s still sun.”

There was hardly any light when we returned to the creek, but that was fine by Guillaume. We opened our packs, and before I could even find our dried meat he had the tent set up for the evening. The branches applauded his handiness as they smacked together in the bitter winds. He flashed me a grin made up of his carnivorous teeth as I struggled to get settled. “In time, you’ll get there.” I found the cold hunks of meat wrapped up in brown parchment. I laid out the paper on a flat area for kindling, Guillaume found some sticks, and we had ourselves a fire. He threw a pan on the coals and cooked the meat. “You doing alright there?”

I was in the middle of the Canadian wilderness with a man who killed for a living, I just witnessed another kid bleed out, and my ass was wet and my feet were killing me. “No problems, uncle.”

“That’s a boy.” He tended to the meat, sprinkling pepper onto it to make it almost taste like something before biting into it raw. “You know you’re the one to take over don’t you?”

“What do you mean?” I had never much talked with him; I had no way of telling if he was getting at something or if this was just one of his mannerisms.

“You’re going to be the one to follow me. You’ll be the next hunter.”

“No, you don’t know that. What about Diane? She came home with-“

“Your sister? I was the one that dragged him in. I was the one that killed him too. A fine shot as well, rupturing his lungs. Nope, that wasn’t her.”

“Well, what about my brothers? Did none of their marks count?”

“One did, the idiot who put the shot into the eye. You know the one I’m talking about. That one was all him. It looks terrible there next to the others, but hell, he actually did it.”

“So, it’s mine by default?”

“Just about, yeah.” He took the pan off the coals; the meat had simmered enough for me, still it was so raw I could swear I heard the cow still mooing. I thought over what he said, I couldn’t tell if he was telling the truth or not, but he had no reason to lie to me. If anything, the chance that I fled or failed on purpose increased as both would mean I wouldn’t have to become the hunter. But I couldn’t, he would keep me out here in the woods until we had a score.

We unpacked our sleeping rolls on the cold ground. I threw my jacket overtop of myself to preserve the heat. Guillaume was asleep as soon as his back touched the ground. I stayed awake for the eternity of one night, listening to everything the woods had to offer, the beasts howling at the moon, the wind whistling to me, and the scream of the kid who fell out of the tree. I wasn’t ready to become a hunter, I wasn’t ready to do this for the rest of my life.

The second set of tracks led along and eventually into the creek; the morning sun stung my tired eyes. Guillaume studied the prints for a second as he packed his lip with chewing tobacco. “Smart, they know how to hide.” We went down opposite ends of the creek, looking for where the tracks picked up again. My heart stopped as I found the prints. Guillaume was up some ways. I could’ve lied, said I did not find anything. They’d be lost forever. 

“Over here, Uncle Guillaume,” I felt the words roll out of my mouth, without my mind’s consent, and watched them linger in the air as the old hunter came over to me.

“Well done, boy.” he patted my shoulder before he crossed the water. I reluctantly followed, the two steps in the water rattled the bones throughout my body as the liquid tore through boot and skin. They must have traveled through this for some time to try to obscure their path. They were desperate, and so was I. 

I could only hope, for my own sake that they were already dead, and for their sake that the trail would be lost to the melting snow. We were graced with some deer moving around, watching us, making sure we weren’t after them.

We followed the footprints until we saw her figure standing alone in the cold. She was younger than those on the wall, her head on a swivel. She had no idea where we were, or where she should move. I crouched low, readying the weapon, without instruction from Guillaume whose face was coated in surprise with the way I instinctually got down to do what needed to be done. I presented the rifle, there was a small click as I pulled the cock back. A faint sound, but the way it contrasted with the stillness of the woods it might as well have been a cannon. She did not see me, but the sound was enough, she took flight.

The thing about muskets that differs from the newer devices that they produce in the states to the south, is the rifling. My brother taught me how rifling in the barrel gives the projectile a more accurate shot. The smooth musket’s interior made it so that, when the projectile came flying out, there was a certain spin on the ball, giving it a wild path. Inaccurate as hell.

This was my last hope that the ball would miss her completely, fly into a nearby tree and Guillaume would have to finish her off himself, something that he was more than capable of, even in his old age. Yet when I took aim, the ball flew true enough, shattering her knee instead of her stomach as I had aimed. She fell with a scream and an explosion of snow. The powder a cloud in front of me, more birds screaming nearby.

As we approached, she lay there beautifully in the snow. The white of her belly was covered in her blood. Her filthy brown coat flaked with the snow. Her eyes met mine. I saw myself in them: the fear, the frantic desire to be anywhere but there. It felt somewhat comforting, knowing I was not the only one afraid. 

It was odd. Perhaps in another life, we were something together. Friends, maybe lovers. There was something comforting in those eyes, I cannot explain it fairly. When she looked at me I was no longer afraid to become the next hunter, instead I came to an understanding that I was destined to succeed where my siblings had failed. The look she gave me confirmed that I belonged in all this. After all, in this life I was the hunter, and she was the prey. There was no other way. Guillaume approached me and nodded as he offered me his gutting knife. 

On our way back to town Guillaume stopped me for a second. “You’re okay with all this?” I bit my lip for a second, unsure of how to respond. He put his hand under my chin and forced my gaze to meet his. “I can always lie to our family; I can say I did it.”

“No.” I made that decision too quickly, I wish I hadn’t, but there was something in me that just felt that it made sense that I should be the hunter. I was better fit to carry on the traditions of my family. Diane, too insane, and my brothers incapable. This decision was made in spite of my own sanity.

“So be it.”

It was nearly dusk as we entered the town. I carried my score over my shoulders, her blood was drying along the base of my neck and trickled down my back. Guillaume held the musket in one hand. The mothers cried and hid their young from me, the butcher that I was. The butcher I still am.

We entered the great hall, one of the few occasions Guillaume was let into the house. “I present to you, your new hunter.” He shouted those condemning words I will never forget. In the moment I could not feel anything. Not the sound of the applause of my family, not the heat from the raging fire, nor the smell of the feast in front of me. All I could make sense of was the look Guillaume gave me, as he passed on his legacy to me. Sure, he would have to train me in the years to come, but he was freed, the joy in his eyes met with the sly smile. It was my soul’s turn to handle the burden of the hunt. I was the sacrificial lamb, for the continued tradition of the family. During my feast the family told me the truths about their hunts, they were overjoyed to hear that I would replace Guillaume, a duty that I undertook willingly, the idiot that I was.

I remember that night before bed, staring at myself in my mirror, blood still on my hands and shirt. My tears cut through the powder on my face. I could feel nothing but regret and self-pity in me. I was destined to be a hunter, dedicating my life towards slaughter. This thought played through my mind repeatedly. I screamed into my pillows until my body collapsed in exhaustion.

Over the next twenty years I would become to Guillaume an apprentice. I should state clearly now that I have no soreness with him personally. He is kind and fun. His position, and the training he had to throw me through on the other hand has wrecked me. And when I drank the old God’s blood during my initiation, I threw away all those weaknesses. I have had so much practice killing, that I fear I am no longer capable of wincing as bullet rips flesh, whether it be mine or another’s. I have become just like Guillaume.

Still, we have some differences. Unlike Guillaume, I am on better terms with my sister. She let me in the manor tonight, and I am writing this from the same desk I cleaned the musket on the eve of my hunt. She smiled and kissed my cheek when she let me in, it’s been some ten years since I last laid eyes on Diane. I envy her still, for her ability to feel anything. In the morning I will take her first born out, her excitement is unending. We will see if Guillaume’s training has all paid off, as it is my first time as the master of the hunt. I already long for the day I can pass this on.

I walked through the great hall today and saw the face of my kill. The space around the musket has been cleared for this new generation, but she’s still there after all these years, immortalized above the fire just slightly higher on the wall. The blonde hair that once covered her delicate ears has faded. I remember the day when her bright blue eyes were torn out by the taxidermist.

Fiction © Copyright Maxwell Marais
Image by unnamed from Pixabay

Will Hackel finished his undergraduate studies at the University of Michigan this year and is moving to Brooklyn for work. Come fall, he’ll be teaching for a living and writing for tattoo money. He hopes one day to write novels and return to school for an MFA. He enjoys long walks through the woods and feeding stray cats.
He tweets @will_hackel