The forest is beautiful. I have always loved it. Even with gunshots ringing through the hills, echoing off the straight gray tree trunks, it is still heaven. The hunters in their square red plaids disturbs our serenity for a short while, but then everything is as it was, watching birds, waiting trees, the living forest. For eternity I have been close to the woods. My husband brought me even closer last year. I thank him for it, though he does not know it.
Every hunting season he would go, bow in hand, hoping to kill, his face shining, not with lust for death, but with lust for life. The movements of his rock-like body would reveal his mounting excitement. He would walk into the forest, carrying his bow, relishing the clean coldness, anticipating adventure. He would never return disappointed, even when empty-handed, because walking the hills in itself was a joy to him.
Last year he begged me to come along. He said if I came, for luck, he would surely find a kill. We had been unhappy with each other for awhile, so I agreed, hoping the aloneness would draw us closer together. The beauty of the forest and mountains would surely make us forget our differences. The camaraderie of the hunt might give us unity again.
The day before the hunt we left laden with our packs. Our hikes in the past were pleasant experiences. I would lead, being slower. We would take time to look at new plants and insects, wondering at their strangeness or enjoying their beauty. My Eagle Scout would teach me his woodslore.
But this day we hiked with a purpose. My husband led. I struggled behind him up the narrow path, tripping over roots and rocks. All was still except our marching boots through the silent trees, and the hushed objections of an occasional small bird.
We hiked many miles from the road and made camp for the night. On past nights in the woods we would make camp leisurely, now and then stopping to sigh in the coolness. Sometimes we would stop to climb a small rise and enjoy the feeling of lightness that shedding a heavy pack brings. After pitching our tent and building a fire, we would play, Showing the forest and each other the beauty of bodies. We would keep each other warm, not needing a fire, only each other.
But that day, last year, we made camp quickly. After tent and fire came more work, almost endless target practice. The zip and pop of flying arrows echoed through the hills until the animals quieted in apprehension. My arms shook from exertion beyond their limits. My left breast and forearm burned from the friction of the bowstring scraping across them when I fired. We stopped only when the light of our fire made a bright spot in the gathering blackness. Then my husband's desire for dinner and sleeping bag seemed almost urgent--but he ate with strange detachment. The low monotone of his few words seemed to make the darkness press closer around us, as if trying to eavesdrop on a closely guarded secret. When we finally slid into our sleeping bags, the silence and the night crouched outside our tent like waiting cougars, breathing quietly next to me. Sleeping with a stranger would have been more satisfying .
On the day of the hunt we dressed carefully. The mixed grays, greens, browns and yellows of our clothes blended us with the foliage. We were nearly invisible. If we put our hoods over our faces and sat extremely still, we disappeared.
With quartered apples in our pockets to hide our scents, and our daypacks on our backs, we left the camp. At dawn we were in the gray mist a mile upwind. My husband asked if I would mind separating, insisting we would have more success if we did. Although knowing I couldn't kill a beautiful animal, I agreed. Argument would defeat the purpose of my coming.
My husband disappeared through a green wall nearby. I listened to his footsteps rustle away--then silence. I sat stock still as he'd shown me, against the mottled bark of a tall pine. With my shaded hood over my face and my bow parallel to the trunk, I looked like a giant burl at the base of the tree. I waited . An eternity passed without a sound. My mind wandered. I remembered back to our first year together. We loved each other very much and the extra we gave to the world. How righteous we were in our new love! It always starts passionately, joyfully, and so sweetly. But time changes a love, like wine into vinegar.
A sound woke me from my reverie. I waited. Rustling, closer this time. More waiting. The rustling drew steadily toward me. Muscle by muscle, moving one at a time, I slowly tucked like a stalking cat. As the rustling approached I rose to my feet, bow poised, arrow drawn, mind boring into the sound. I stood ready to kill, not feeling like a hunter. As the rustling drew closer, I felt hunted.
I stood tingling, legions of dark green sentries around me, silently watching as I waited for my target to show itself. My shaking arm charged the bow with mounting energy, increasing tension. All sound stopped, except the rustling. I stared in the direction of the sound.
As I watched a green giant rose from the bushes. It was my husband. I relaxed my bow and closed my eyes in relief. Then I heard the zip of an arrow and with the impact of a splitting-maul, something hit me in the chest. It knocked me back against the tree. My body began working by its own command. I felt it trying to stand. My eyes saw only shapes without detail, except for the sharp image of a straight green stem with a feather flower on the end. It sprouted from my left breast. I thought how delicate the blossom looked and how smooth the stem. I wondered how it grew there. A shape appeared dimly before me. It watched my body make secret little signs that denied the arrow and the fluid legs. The shape spoke muffled sounds that grew even fainter, like the echo of a voice shouted down a well.
When my body finally ceased functioning, I watched my husband pick it up. He threw it across his shoulders and walked in the direction of the camp. I followed.
As I moved I heard new sounds. The trees whispered to me when I passed, welcoming me to
the world. I noticed chipmunks and squirrels chattering to each other about me. My
attention changed from the retreating man and his load to the darks and lights of the
forest, to the green beneath and the blue above. I wandered and joined the forest. It knew
me and was glad of my existence. I discovered the forest had always loved me.
The last time I saw Diane Rebel was a ferry ride to Winslow on my way to the Last Resort. She was houseboat shopping. This is the first issue of Sign of the Times that Diane has appeared in. We hope she contributes again.
For a copy of the issue that this story appeared, tough luck since we are sold out of them. You might try and locate a copy in a musty corner of your favorite used book store.
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