As I see it, Pawlett tries the flashlight, but it doesn't work. He's about to tear open one of the battery packages when he notices the faint outline of two white candles that have been set up on a table on the far side of the room. He leans his rifle against the wall. He shrugs off his knapsack. He sets it on the floor. He fishes a matchbook from his pants pocket and weeble-wobbles over the gear. He strikes a match, holds it to one candle and then to the other.
In the wavering light, Pawlett beholds a shrine: the hide of the spike buck has been nailed to the plank boards above the table. The wolf's skull has been boiled free of flesh and affixed to the bloody deer skin. Attached around the skull, in a fanlike formation, are the red tail feathers of a hawk, the white wing feathers of an owl and the oily spine feathers of a raven.
But I know it is what Pawlett finds on the makeshift altar below the fetish that makes him panic. Pawlett's heart catches and snags, as if manipulated by a force outside his capacity to understand. The urge to flee overcomes him. He stumbles over the gear and through the door, forgetting in his haste his gun and his pack.
He explodes into the outer room. He slips on the plywood floor and crashes to his knees, trying to keep down the bile that climbs the back of his throat. He tells himself to calm down, to get to the generator room, gas it and start it so he'll have electricity to run the radiophone. He'll call Curly. He'll be all right.
Pawlett gets to his feet and runs to the door to the generator room. Locked. The keys are under the stoop. Pawlett curses and races out the door of the Quonset hut, barely giving attention to an outer world that has been made anew and powerful and evil in the confrontation of the shrine.
He digs through the snow and reaches in behind the stoop. He strains for the coffee can the keys were kept in. And then the keys are in his hand. He is laughing, telling himself he'll be all right, that he'll be all right.
The generator argues with Pawlett for what seems an eternity until he checks the oil, sees that it is low and fills the reservoir to the brim. Three tugs on the cord and the machine wheezes to life.
Pawlett has time now. He lowers his head and moves straight back through the main room toward the nook where the logging foreman had kept track of the operation. There, on a metal bookshelf, the radiophone glows.
He picks up the phone and is about to dial in the Metcalfe frequency when his heart catches again, only this time he feels the presence of a manipulator, and a shaking takes hold of his entire body. Pawlett turns to see that the outer door is open. A thick shaft of sunlight cuts across the floor and in it, dressed head to toe in a camouflage suit the color of fresh cream, is a man whose eyes shine like ebony.
Pawlett sees the primitive weapon the man holds and realizes he has no recourse. He feels the predator's intent like a claw in his chest. The old trapper drops the phone and begins to cry like a baby stricken with night terrors . . .
The rest of what happened that fall, I know for certain.
November Sixteenth
LONG BEFORE I ever speculated about Pawlett, the chill forewinds of a gathering storm raked the surface of the lake and the heavy chop spit white foam onto the dock. A twin-engine Otter floatplane bucked and strained against lashes. And the spruce trees on the far side of the inlet cowered.
The wind gusted. The metal Coca-Cola sign above the ramshackle provision store clanged against its braces. I flipped up the collar of my green plaid wool coat and turned my back to the storm. I stepped around the two canvas duffel bags and the aluminum rifle case I'd stacked on the dock to be loaded into the floatplane. I shoved my hands deep into the sheepskin-lined pockets of the coat, and for the fifth time that hour, I went to the phone booth in the gravel parking lot
Inside the booth, I allowed myself a moment of quiet from the chatter of the others who were gathering themselves and their equipment for the flight into the Metcalfe Estate. Then I dialed. Three thousand miles away, at what used to be my home in Boston, the line engaged and the phone rang. It sounded thirteen times. I made to hang the receiver in its cradle.
On the fourteenth ring, my husband answered. "Hello?"
"It's me."
For a moment I thought Kevin had hung up. But over the wind, I caught the faint beat of his breath.
"I'm glad I caught you," I barged on. "I wanted to talk to the kids . . . before I go."
"They're already outside in the car," Kevin replied curtly. ;'Off to Mom's for dinner."
"You could get them for me."
"I could," he said. "But I won't."
"Are you trying to destroy me, Kevin?" I'd told myself I wouldn't yell at him anymore, but I couldn't help it.
“You’ve already done a pretty good job of that yourself," he said calmly.
I took a deep breath and tried to be civil. "I just want to say good-bye. This separation is hurting them more than us."
"They're in the car," he said again. "I'll say good-bye for you."
I pressed my forehead against the chill glass of the phone booth. "Why do you have to be so cruel? Haven't you punished me enough?"
"Diana, you punished yourself."
I didn't want to get angry again. I knew I had to keep my lines of communication open, but it boiled over again. "That's a lie. You're a shit for doing this."
"Judge didn't seem to think so."
"You know I'm a good mother."
He laughed. "And you show it by going on this trip?"
I looked out at the windswept lake. Tears welled. I whispered, "I have to."
"So you've said." There was a pause. "The way I look at it, you lost your mind. Everybody can see it but you."
"I suppose sympathy would have been too much to expect."
"Used up," he replied. "Gotta go."
"Kevin, please . . ."
"Call when you get back, Diana."
The line went dead. I closed my eyes and listened to the static as if it were a wild thing moving electric and purposeful through dry leaves.
Someone rapped sharply on the door behind me. I hung the receiver up, wiped the tears from my eyes and turned to find a vaguely familiar man, short, stocky, bald, early fifties, wearing a long red Pendleton coat that had been woven to affect a Navajo blanket design. He stuffed a stick of gum in his mouth and chewed at it, creating the illusion of a brick smacking a boulder. He was looking at me with a vague sense of hunger.
I say this not to draw attention to myself. Like most women in our culture, I have learned the subtle lessons well. We may be competent. But we may not boast. We may not see ourselves as something more than a part of a community. But here, to tell this story true, I must abandon convention. I must describe myself honestly.
If you were to see me, you would think—a tall, handsome woman in her mid-thirties with a duskiness to her skin that suggests diluted Indian blood. Despite carrying two children, she has kept her waist, her legs and her lungs. Her black hair, flecked silver at the temples, is cut functionally short. My mother, in one of her rare moments of lucidity at the end, said Little Crow's eyes were the color of shale, intent, roving and yet, somehow, sad. My mother always knew me best.
When I opened the door, the man said, "If this phone booth was a John, sweet thing, I'd swear you had the trots, you been here so many times.” The accent was all cactus and bourbon and quail.
"Trying to call home for the kids," I apologized. "First time I've been away from them for a holiday."
"Kids, huh?" He chuckled. "I'm checking in one last time with my broker before we head out. Can't believe they won't let you call out 'cept in an emergency."
I shrugged. "I'm kind of looking forward to the solitude."
"Solitude?" He chuckled again. "Sure, I guess."
I moved by the man, ignoring the way that, despite the heavy coat I wore, he stared at my chest. I suppose I would have found it stranger if he didn't, but I went off toward the dock, past the fly-fishing dories that had been pulled up on land for the winter.
There, the pilot broke off a conversation with a
woman perhaps five years younger than I. The pilot got inside the plane. The woman turned and gave me a look of appraisal. I gave her one in return. She could have been called glamorous, but for the hardening influences of an oilskin drover coat, a cowboy hat, an overly precise makeup job and an indifferent expression. She balanced the weight of one leg on the heel of a black, hand-tooled boot and raised her right hand to brush back hair dyed the hue of dried goldenrod. A chunky gold bracelet dangled from her wrist. A four carat diamond glittered on her left hand. She gestured with the diamond toward the phone booth.
"He figure out whether you're traveling alone yet?" she asked in that same South Texas drawl.
"Excuse me?"
"Earl," she said. Her gaze did not waver from the phone booth. "He likes to hunt women as much as deer. I'm his latest trophy wife, Lenore."
"Look, Lenore, he said he was calling his stockbroker. I was calling my children."
Lenore seemed to think that was funny. "Stockbroker? More likely his secretary or the gal that does his fingernails." She gave me a closer look. "You got looks, honey, but I figure you're a bit too easy for Earl. He likes his game tough to handle."
"What are you—his wife or his bedroom guide?"
At that, Lenore leaned back and laughed. She pointed at me. "You're all right, honey! I come on a little strong, I know. But it helps me tell what people are made of. I can see you're tougher than I thought. No hard feelings?"
She stuck out her hand. I admit she had me confused now. But I could see she genuinely meant the apology. I took her bony hand and shook it. Earl called out behind her. "See you two huntresses have met. Didn't catch your name?"
"Diana, Diana Jackman."
"Earl Addison. Addison Data Systems, Forth Worth."
That was where I knew him from. "Your company's getting lots of press in the trades these days, Earl."
"Yeah, you in the computer bus—?"
Before Earl could finish, another man's voice called out: "Jackman? You're not Hart Jackman's daughter, are you?"
I froze at the mention of my father's name, then forced myself to turn.
Within the cluster of duffels and weapons cases stood someone seen in pictures on the walls of my father's office, a man of about fifty-five or sixty with a startling white beard and a tangle of equally chalky hair that ran off his head in thirty directions. He wore a green camouflage vest, jeans and heavy leather boots. His skin was mottled red, the kind of skin you see on open-water fishermen. His eyes were rheumy, but intelligent.
Then the name came to me—Michael Griffin. He owned a store outside Nashville from which he dealt fine shotguns: J. Purdey & Sons, Holland & Holland, A.H. Foxes. But when it came to big game, if I remembered, he hunted strictly with the bow and arrow. He was also a writer who had made a name for himself discussing the more philosophical aspects of the hunt, a trait which had endeared him to my dad.
"Yes, Mr. Griffin, I was Hart's daughter."
He got around the equipment and thrust out his hand.
"Then you are Little Crow."
I smiled. "No one's called me that in years. Please call me Diana."
He smiled in return. "Only if you'll call me Griff."
"All right, Griff."
He turned to Earl and Lenore. "Could I have a minute with Diana here? She lost her dad a little while back. I'd like to make my condolences."
Earl's jaw flapped in annoyance. He was the sort who didn't like to be told what to do. "Sorry, Diana," he said finally, "uh . . . cancer or something?"
"No, Earl," I said softly. "Much worse"
"Oh," Earl said.
"You toad!" Lenore said, grabbing him by the shoulder. She thrust her chin at me. "I apologize. Earl's a genius with computers and business, but his people skills leave something to be desired. Come on."
When the two of them were out of earshot, I said, "I hope Metcalfe's as big as they say it is."
"Thirty-three miles by thirty-three miles," Griff replied.
"Sounds a little small," I said, gesturing in their direction.
"We'll make the best of it," Griff said. His expression turned sober. "It's real nice to meet you. Your dad used to say that, besides himself, you were the best tracker he ever saw."
"It's been a long time. I'm way out of shape for the woods."
"Shape! Young lady, you look like you could run twenty miles."
"That's gym shape," I said. "I haven't been in the big woods in eighteen years. I've been sitting behind a desk, writing software—waste management, pollution control, that sort of thing. You might say I've been living as far away from nature as a person can."
Then this will be a good place to reintroduce yourself," Griff said. "Isolated country, spirit country, your dad's kind of country."
I found myself looking at the ground.
The pilot called out to us then. The chatter on the dock died, replaced by an awkward entry as we all tried to board the pitching plane. Inside the Otter, I took a seat mid-cabin. Besides Griff and the Addisons, there were three men in their mid-thirties chatting familiarly. And then another guy in his late twenties, overly lean, almost sallow, with curly red hair and a mustache. He took the seat opposite mine. There was something strange about him. I studied him out of the corner of my eye until I figured it out. Everything he wore, from the pile jacket to the wool pants to the pacstyle boots, was brand new. Not that I hadn't bought new equipment for this trip. But everything?
He caught me looking and smiled. It was a confident, attractive smile. He said, "More women than I expected on a trip like this."
"I guess," I said.
"Just that you don't expect to see women going on a wilderness hunt."
"I started hunting when I was five," I said, crossing my arms. "And there are more women in the field every year. Threatened?"
“Just intrigued," he said. He held out his hand. "Steve Kurant."
"Diana Jackman."
Kurant craned his head around. "Your husband?"
"Not along," I said. "Doesn't believe in it."
He smiled that smile again. "Really? Now that's an interesting twist—"
The twin engines belched, interrupting him. They wheezed, then thundered to life, sending a vibration down the plane's interior. The pilot's voice came from an overhead speaker: "Weather Canada has issued a storm warning for early this evening, so the turbulence could be rough. In fact, weather's gonna be nasty off and on the next ten days. Keep to your seats and your belts fastened. I'll try to make this as painless as I can."
A row behind me, Arnie Taylor, who turned out to be a pediatrician from eastern Pennsylvania, shook his head and grabbed the arms of his seat. He gritted his teeth and stared across the aisle at his friend Phil Nunn, a muscular black man with a shaved head, thick brow ridges and skin so scarred by acne that it looked sand-blasted. Nunn owned a string of auto-parts stores.
"I hate this kind of stuff, Phil," Arnie said. "I don't know how I let you talk me into this."
"What's your problem, Doc?" Phil snapped. "I been listenin' to you whine since we left Philly. We'll be up and down in forty minutes, tops."
Arnie reddened. The man next to him looked like a hippie. Sal "Butch" Daloia had long brown hair, a full beard and pouty lips perpetually twisted in amusement. He sold expensive music recording equipment for a living. He said, "Lighten up, Phil. You know Arnie hates to fly."
"Well, what's he want, Butch, a frigging limo to the wilderness?"
"Horses," Arnie complained. "You said go out West to hunt, I figured horses." a dismissive gesture. "We'da gotten to the trail and heard you bitching about being allergic to ponies. You been like this since we was kids, Arnie, always complaining about being sick. I been thinkin' lately that's why you became a doctor, so you could figure out new stuff to be bitching about."
Arnie chewed on the inside of his cheek, but didn't reply.
Butch said, "And what about you, Phil? I think you became a grease monkey just so you could keep that pimpish old Cadillac o
f yours on the road."
The black man laughed. "I admit I got a certain style, Butchy-boy, but c'mon—pimpish? You can do better'n that old stereotype."
Arnie said, "That was a little lame."
Butch shrugged. "He takes the fuzzy dice off his rearview
mirror, I'll take it back."
"Uh-uh, me and those dice go way back," Phil said, holding up crossed fingers. "Had 'em in my first Caddy before I opened the shop. I'll have 'em in my last."
Butch reached inside his jacket and drew out a silver flask. He took a swig, then motioned to Arnie. "This'11 help. I'm in these damned short-hoppers all the time and it's the only way to deal with them."
Arnie attempted a smile. "I'll be okay."
"Think of it as a toast," Butch insisted, shaking his long hair from his eyes. "Then do what I'm gonna do—dream about what's waiting for us inside Metcalfe's tomorrow morning."
The pediatrician took the flask, sipped the liquid and shuddered.
I shuddered with him, thinking of the dream I'd had the night before. In it, I had been cooking in my father's hunting cabin in the shadow of Mt. Katahdin in northern Maine. I carried a bowl of water from the sink to the oven and tripped, falling facedown on the floor of the cabin. The spilled water turned to blood and soaked the white clothes I wore. I had awakened sweating and shaking from the vision. In the world I was raised in, blood dreams foretell violent death.
The plane came free of the dock. The lake roiled now, gray and ominous with the approaching storm. We headed into the oncoming waves for several minutes, gained speed finally, bumped twice, then rose. The first wisps of cloud caressed the ridge tops. Snowflakes fell.
Around me, the talk was of the hunt to come. I tuned it out and looked down, trying to identify the various trees by their crowns: Red pine, poplar and, in the wetland bottoms, ash and willow. Where the leaves had fallen I could make out the faint lines of game trails and my eyes became hazy, closed, then opened and shut again as I thought of being in the big woods again, slipping quietly after a deer, after a memory.
The Purification Ceremony Page 2
