The Deer Hunter - Draft 1

By Jared Brown

The distant hills were calling to him before the sunrise as he stepped out onto the wet grass. Lighting a match, he watched the flame flicker in the coarse breeze that buffeted his being. The flame danced and struggled against the breeze, a ballet on the precipice of hell, and before it shed its last light and succumbed to the soft touch of death, he lit his lantern. Dropping the dead match to the ground beside his boots wet with dew, he set off on the long march to the deep forest in the hills beyond. Hidden within the hills was a mossy ravine rich with life. It was there that he would go, seeking out that life so that he and his family may survive through the winter months that the wind was bringing. He had not been home from the war long even though it had ended months prior as word didn't travel with much pace, and with an army spread thin all about the ruinous land, word sometimes seemed as if it didn't move at all. The sun came slowly upon the horizon to little effect as the clouds were a thick ceiling separating the heather from the heavens. All about him was gray and dead, the barren countryside once ripe with an ephemeral glow now lay hunched and aged years beyond his reckoning. The day brought little in the way of life, so the many continued on with his slow march. When he reached a village he believed was called Clover just outside of the forest he looked forward to seeing some of his old acquaintances that he had hunted with from time to time over the years, but within its premises he found no one. He stalked about and found the village deserted. Where had everyone gone, he thought, and then he saw the blood on the walls. His heart fell as he figured the war had come through and emptied the village as had happened with so many others, but it must have been a while ago as he found that the corn had been planted and stand unharvested and dead in the field. A strange feeling crept over him as he stood among the dead stalks with a menagerie of scarecrows staring at him. Not at him of course, but it seemed so. He stepped close to the nearest one and inspected its odd man-like build and raggedy old clothes covered in grit and grime and blood. They must've used old clothes from the hog harvest, he thought as he looked at the bloodstained sack about the scarecrow's head. A deep chill reached deep into his being and he stepped back from the creation. Leaving the cornfield and moving to the edge of the forest he looked back to find the scarecrows facing toward him. He paused for only a moment and said to himself, “wind must've shifted 'em,” even though the wind hadn't changed directions. He put them in the back of his mind and carried on into the forest, for the daylight would soon wane and he had no desire to be lost within the trees on a cold night. It was dark in the forest, the ravine would be even more so, and the wind whipped at the tree limbs above and about him as the trees creaked and croaked in agony at the coming weather. He moved cautiously through the trees and across the mossy earth as he approached the ravine. The wind was a bit calmer this far below the canopy and he moved silently as he listened for the movement of deer. Time would pass slowly here, and so he sat upon the moss against a large oak, its thick bark showing its ancient age well. After a while he heard the rustling of footsteps off from the direction he had come, but they didn't sound like that of deer or any other creature lurking the ravine, but of a man. Odd as it seemed since he didn't find anyone in the village, he assumed he just missed someone and they had come along behind him to join the hunt. That was good, he thought, he could use the company, and two rifles were better than one. The slow steps echoed throughout the ravine as they moved closer, then they stopped. The fellow probably just stopped to take in the scenery and get his bearings, and so he stood up to go back towards his new companion. As he began to move he heard a rustling in the leaves and knew it to be that of a deer, so he stayed still, readying his rifle. Closer the animal crept, closer and closer until he could see it faintly through the trees, and so he watched it move toward him, unaware of his presence, unaware of its death. The man considered for a moment how death sits and waits on you to come to it ever so slowly. He saw it time and again during the war. Death would sit still and a fool in his terror would spring out into the open and hot lead would pierce every inch of his being until he was prostrate upon the battlefield, though not him, only his corpse, for a dead man is no longer part of his physical being, he leaves it behind for death to dismantle as it saw fit, and then he would go on into whatever eternity had for him, if anything. Raising his rifle he waited for the deer to come just out from behind a tree that hid its shoulder from his eyes. Taking in the sight of the deer as it stepped from behind the tree, he saw that it was a small buck, probably four points from the looks of it, but he'd have to wait and see. For now, he was content with the size of the young buck and decided to take it, and with the crack of his rifle the buck sprang up, convulsed, and sprinted off into the trees. He stayed still for a moment, reloading his rifle in case he would need to take a second shot. Walking over to where the buck had stood when he fired, he found the blood trail to be good and so he waited a moment to listen for it to crash to the ground, and as he heard it echo throughout the ravine his thoughts drifted back to death waiting for the living to come to it, just as the soldier, just as the deer. Fortunate for him, the deer had run toward the edge of the wood, making the journey back home slightly shorter as he would not have to travel deeper into the forest. As he followed the blood trail he began to hear the footsteps from earlier again. Sure that it must be another hunter he called out to him, “come, friend, help me with this buck and I'll share it with you,” but no response came. This made him feel uneasy, but perhaps his new companion could not hear him, or he could not hear the response. Either way, he made no qualms about it and carried on with his business. When he found it, the buck lay dead there on the mossy earth, a stream of blood running down its fur onto the ground. He wanted to be quick with it as daylight would not last much longer and he did not want to be trying to find his way out of the forest in the night. Taking some rope from his pack and a strong, green branch about three feet in length, he tied the buck's hind legs at each end of the branch. Tossing the remainder of the rope over a large branch, he hoisted the buck up off the ground and began gutting and skinning it. The work was quick as he was able, experienced, and had a sharp knife, but daylight began to quickly fade and so he lit his lantern once again and worked up his hunt by its light. When he had finished packing the meat in his pack and rolling up the hide, he untied the rope and let the remainder of the carcass fall into a pile by his feet. Death was patient, he said to himself as he looked down at the pile of guts and bones swimming in blood, death is slow. As he began to move towards the forest edge, he realized he hadn't heard the footsteps in a while. Odd as it seemed, he paid it little mind as perhaps the other hunter simply went off a different direction. He walked slow, taking careful steps by the lamp light, for the moon would be of no aid this night. He had not walked a dozen steps when a silhouette appeared before him in the trees. The shadowed figure stood there, not hidden, not hiding, it just stood there unmoving in the open as if waiting. “Hi there, friend, lost your way in the trees?” he said to no response. “Friend?” he said again as he approached slowly. Cautiously, cautiously he moved towards the man until his light was upon it, and as the light moved up its being he stepped back in horror at the sight of the scarecrow. His heart raced as he stepped back back back until he tripped and fell to the mossy floor. Gathering himself quickly he looked up to see the fiend running at him, and with a scream he grabbed his rifle and fired. The shot struck true and the demon fell back just out of the lantern's grasp. He lay still on the moss for a moment as the terror had overtaken him entirely, then he reloaded his rifle once again. Taking up the lantern he moved toward the scarecrow where it lay dead on the ground, but there was no blood. Pulling the sack off of its head he found it to be the head of no man, for it had no face at all. “What is this!” he gasped as he dropped the sack to the ground and stepped back. He stood unmoving, unable to will his body to take a single step. He just stood there as the breeze coming through the trees caressed him, held him loosely, gave dance to his light. Soft footsteps sounded behind him, he turned not to look, he just ran, but ran in vain he did, for death waits for the living.