the hunt

by: martin ferris

Without getting out of his sleeping bag, the young boy pulled his cold, stiff jeans on over his long thermal underwear. The light from the outside Coleman lantern, tinted blue by the tent, outlined his crystallized breath. He searched for his wool socks at the bottom of his sleeping bag. Slipping them on, he stood, shaking off the cold air. He stepped into his winter boots, out of the tent, and crunched across the frozen ground, layered with a thin plate of ice and frosted snow. His way was lit by the Coleman lantern that sat on the camp stove and by the campfire that was already a long time burning. There was no light from the moon, but the Milky Way blurred across the sky, softly outlining a dark, black forest-shaped void.

Arriving at the fire, the boy held his ungloved hands, palms down, over the flame; his white breath created figures that leapt and danced and disappeared above the yellow, orange and blue burn. Turning to warm his backside, he cupped his hands to his mouth and softly blew a long time, shifting his weight from right foot to left.

An old man interrupted the boys’ warming ritual.

-Bring me them matches, the old man called.

The boy turned to face the fire, looked down, leaned to pick a small box of matches from a rock that helped form the circular fire pit.

He walked to the old man and gave him the matches.

-Here Grandpa, the boy said. He handed the box over.

-Good, the old man said, turn the tank on. As he spoke, the harsh light from the lantern illuminated his cold breath. The boy turned the metal knob on the tank. He twisted at first slowly then faster and faster until he could flick the knob with middle finger and thumb and watch it spin several rotations.

-It’s on.

-When I say so, the old man motioned to a metal lever on the camp stove, turn this to the right.

-I know, the boy said and placed his forefinger on the tip of the lever. The man struck a match on the side of the stove, leaving a gray streak on the otherwise dark black of the camp stove. He held it to the burner and grunted at the boy. The boy nudged the lever to a right angle and listened to the slow hiss of propane. The wind extinguished the match. The old man opened the box and retrieved another match, leaving another gray streak as a bright flame burst from the match’s head only to be snuffed out by a brisk breeze.

-Here, let me try, the boy said, looking up at the old man.

-Oh, the man grunted, just be careful.

The boy took a match from the opened box in the man’s hand. The boy crowded his body against the stove and cupped his left hand around the match. With his right hand, he struck the match against the metal. A tiny flame exploded on the tip of the match. He pointed the tip toward the ground. The flame slowly crept up the wooden shaft. He moved his cupped hands against his body, blocking the wind, a man guarding a treasure. He slowly moved his body over the stove and moved the flame-treasure to the burner, his body and head following his cupped hands.

All went silent. The boy heard one amplified crackle of the flame, then saw it extinguished by the rush of muted wind, the prelude to flame-on-propane explosion. He saw a blue-purple flame exploding, enveloping his hand in a wave of heat and force. The wave hit his face and knocked his head back. The shock moved from his head to the rest of his body, throwing him in the air. The boys’ hands moved slowly to his face, while his body floated steadily backwards and downwards toward the cold earth, his feet eventually upended by the ripple of shockwave through his body. The old man emitted a deep guttural shout and he reached out his hands, trying in vain to catch his grandson. As the boy neared the ground, the old mans’ eyes fixed on a slight rip in the boys’ coat, a coat that, as a child, the old man wore. He saw a bright day, the day he ripped that very jacket on barbed wire while running to retrieve a downed bird on the first day of his first hunt. He saw his grandfather lower his gun to reload in the old double-barreled shotgun. Then saw him fire again at two other birds. The spark of the gun mingled with the crackle of the campfire at present. He focused on the campfire, then saw the boys’ feet in the air from the corner of his eye. He heard a single heart beat and the whoosh of wind created by the boys’ feet flying through the air. The boy hit the ground, landing on his back. A soft thud against the frozen ground echoed the single heartbeat and brought time back to its regular course. The boy yelped, rolled to his side and clutched his face.

The old man cursed softly and knelt at the boys’ side. Across the camp, the door to the camp trailer opened and the boys’ father stepped out.

-Jacob? The old man said as he touched the boy on the shoulder, you awright?

The young boy groaned.

-What happened? The dad called from the trailer.

-I think he’s burned.

-What?

-I think he’s burned.

The dad jogged over to the boy. He smelled burnt hair as he crouched over the boy.

-Jacob, the man said, you okay?

The boy moaned.

-I’m just going to take a quick look, the Dad said as he moved the boy’s hands from his face. All the exposed hair on the boys’ face—eyelashes, eyebrows, and the hair showing underneath the orange hat—was singed back almost to the root. The ends were curled and melted, giving he boy a bushy, older look, as if the brown hair had suddenly grayed, but the gray was slightly polluted with smog and debris.

-Does your face hurt?

-No, I’m fine.

¬-Can you move? The old man asked.

-Uh…yeah. Only my back hurts.

The dad laughed quietly at first, then slowly it started to ripple through the rest of his body.

-What’s so funny? The boy asked, looking up at his dad. -Stop laughing.

-I’m sorry, the dad managed, but you look at least 40 years older like that. The boy let his head move to the side so he was facing the fire, away from his dad.

-Okay, okay, the dad said. Sorry. You’re right. It’s not funny. I’m just glad you’re okay. The dad looked over at the now-burning stove.

-You go get your gun ready, he said to the boy, I’ll help grandpa with breakfast. Here, the dad said as he extended his hand to help the boy off the ground, at least you got the fire started. I’d say that’s a pretty good start to your first hunt carrying a gun.

When he got to his feet, the boy had a single tear in his eye. The dad reached down and brushed it away.

-You’re okay, he said. Your gun’s in the back of the truck. Go get it assembled like I showed you. He motioned back toward the stove. I’ll cook these eggs with grandpa. Sorry I laughed. Here, take this flashlight, the dad handed the flashlight to the boy and guided him toward the truck by pushing the palm of his hand on the small of the boy’s back.

The boy sniffled loudly, wiped his teary eyes with the back of his hand, and continued on into the dark void. The dad and grandpa watched his body disappear until they saw only the beam of the flashlight. They turned and the old man took out an egg and cracked it in a bowl, throwing the shell toward the now low-burning fire. The shell hit the rocks that formed the pit, and cracked into pieces that fell soundlessly, displacing millions of particles of dust that mixed with the sparks of the fire and the ash of long-burnt log and twigs that rose into the sky and became one with the particle-like stars that formed the white blur of the milky way and millions of other galaxies and worlds, the glare of which compared not at all with the dome light of the truck, where the boy now sat and screwed the barrel of the Remington thirty-ought six to the wooden stock while still sniffing away the tears of pain, shock and embarrassment.