The Purification Ceremony

by Mark Sullivan

  "It's all right," I called to Cantrell. I pointed at the gun. He shut his eyes. "I thought I was a goner."

  I yelled to Griff and Arnie. "C'mon, I kicked over a loaded gun."

  Griff had a flashlight in his hand. Arnie came in behind him, pale and shaking. "I want to go," he said. "Right now."

  Griff patted him on the shoulder. "Let me get a blanket and we're out of here."

  Griff stepped inside. He cast the beam around the room. He found a blanket on the nearest bunk and went out. I had Arnie train his flashlight on the gun, a model 94 with a chipped stock and faded bluing. And next to it, a pack stained with tobacco juice and other grimes. There was little in the pack: a mess kit, a knife, .30-.30 shells, some jerky, dried fruit and a rain poncho.

  "Probably Pawlett's," I said.

  "Why would he leave his gun in here?" Arnie asked, gripping his own rifle a little tighter.

  "I don't know," I said. I took the flashlight from Arnie and shone it deep into the room. The dust had been disturbed back there and I walked over to a heavy oak table against the wall. Several pools of white candle wax caked the tabletop. And between them, quivering in the wind blowing through the open door, were bits of bird down.

  "It's them, all right," I said. I squinted at a chunk of something black lying on the table against the wall.

  I set my gun against the table and reached out to it, immediately recoiling at the thin, soft bristle that brushed my palm. I turned with realization and, choking, I elbowed my way past Cantrell and Arnie. I ran now toward the kitchen, holding my hand before me as if I'd burned it on hot embers. The hand pump in the sink was rusty and it shrieked when I worked it, even after the icy water erupted over my skin.

  Griff found me there. My hand was turning a purplish color from the frigid bath and the scrubbing I was giving it with the coarse dishcloth. He took the cloth and drew me away from the sink. My knees threatened to buckle and he grabbed me.

  'That was human hair, a scalp . . . " I whimpered.

  "I know," Griff said. "There was blood on the table, too."

  The implication set in and I held tighter to him and closed my eyes. I wanted to be anywhere but British Columbia. I wanted to be home, normal, listening to Kevin prattle about his latest publishing coup.

  "Hour of daylight left," Cantrell called grimly. "Better we start hoofing for the snowmobiles or we'll get caught out here."

  They say time accelerates in the presence of danger, but for me the opposite was true; the three-hour trip back to the Metcalfe Estate plodded. I could not shake the sensation of the hair and dried flesh against my skin. It had awakened something in me, something I didn't know I could feel. I knew that no matter what happened, I would not allow myself to be disfigured like that. It was that realization that made me understand for the first time that I might have to kill a human to survive this ordeal. I wondered if I could.

  The creeping effect of this confrontation was a winding of my intestines and a knot at my scapula. On the phone one night about a month after my forced exile from our home, Kevin and I had had a vicious argument about the trip to Metcalfe. He accused me of barbarism. I told him the hunt was an ancient tradition with a stiff moral underpinning; unlike him, a commercial carnivore, I accepted the moral weight of my canine teeth. Kevin claimed it was a savage act, no different from killing a human, maybe worse, in fact, because the motivations were so suspect in this day and age.

  But killing a human was different. I knew it was true and yet I couldn't tell Kevin why I knew it was true; that wound, scabbed over for nearly fifteen years, was still festering and continued to fester on the ride back to the estate.

  Overlying all of that was the knowledge that we were trapped in here, that my life might no longer be measured in decades, but in days. For an instant I allowed myself to consider how Patrick and Emily would deal with my dying out here.

  The idea so sickened me that I quashed it immediately; such thinking could corrode resolve, make me less than the woman I would have to be to survive the coming days.

  Whether it was emotional fatigue or an instinctual need to retreat, I somehow slept on the back of the snowmobile for the last ten miles to the lodge. Griff nudged me awake as we entered the yard. A single light glowed through the stained-glass window of the stags on the second floor of the lodge. The lower windows were dark.

  The kitchen door opened and now we could see them all crowded at it. Our faces said enough.

  "They're not coming, are they?" Theresa said.

  Cantrell shook his head. "Radio's smashed."

  "Phil's been shot," Butch said.

  "What?" Arnie cried. "Is he okay? Don't tell me he's not okay!"

  "Flesh wound," Butch said. "He's upstairs, locked in the middle bedroom."

  The pediatrician bulled his way inside. The others pressed in around us, jabbing the air with questions. Sheila forced her way to the front and told the others to let us in out of the cold. I stepped inside the kitchen, instantly surrounded by the odor of frying onions and garlic. I'd forgotten how enveloping warmth and scent can be. I soaked in it, oblivious to the anxious chatter about me. I limped forward into the great room and slumped into one of the overstuffed chairs by the fire. The others trickled in.

  In turns, Griff, Arnie and Cantrell laid out what had happened. Kurant peppered them with questions. I was so tired I couldn't speak.

  When Griff described Pawlett's fate, they became visibly shaken. Even Nelson reached out to the wall for support. After it had sunk in, Butch slapped his hand on his thigh. "Philly was shot at with a cedar arrow, too."

  "What happened?" Cantrell demanded of his guide.

  Nelson held his palms up. "I ordered everyone to stay here in the lodge for the day. But the guy's got his own mind. He managed to slip out around midmorning. He says he just meant to hunt around the camp—"

  "Where is he?" Cantrell jumped in. "I want to hear it from him."

  Nelson motioned up the staircase toward the second floor. "He's a stubborn bastard, eh? Couldn't be sure he wouldn't try to go out again, especially after what happened. Took his gun away and locked him up there in the old man's bedroom."

  "Get him," Cantrell said.

  While we waited, Kurant slipped over next to me. "Sounded rough."

  I smiled, thankful for his concern. "I'm alive."

  He patted me on the leg. "I'm glad you are. I was worried."

  "I can take care of myself."

  "Yes and no, I think."

  That made me uncomfortable, so I was somewhat relieved to see a very annoyed Phil following Nelson and Arnie down the stairs. "Your guide locked me up like I was some street gangster or something!" he yelled at Cantrell.

  "I want my fucking cash back!"

  The outfitter was having none of it. "You disobeyed my guide's orders. You almost got killed because of it. Now knock off the bull and tell us what happened."

  Phil glowered.

  "Philly, c'mon. Who else can tell it?" Arnie asked.

  Phil nodded, but his tone was defiant. "I went out 'cause I was thinking it was dumb to stay inside. Still do. This week's the peak of the rut, and, damn it, I put down some righteous cash for this hunt and, killings or no killings, I was gonna get my deer."

  "Brilliant," Arnie said. "The guy's just brilliant. Been this way since childhood."

  "Hey, don't diss me, Doc," Phil snarled. "You got your trophy buck."

  "Aw, Phil, don't you get it?" Butch demanded. "The bigbuck contest is over. Just tell 'em what happened."

  Phil clenched his teeth, but began. "I went east along the lakefront, then cut north, figuring to make a nice loop, not too far from camp. I'd been out about an hour, working through the pines, you know, figuring that the deer would be waiting out the storm in the thick stuff. I came to a nice little clearing with a lot of browse in it and I spotted a couple of deer feeding on the other side. I stopped to see if a good one might be following. I got in the middle of three pine trees where the wind couldn't get at me, r
ested my Browning automatic rifle against one of them and started to glass the deer. Man, I hadn't been there two minutes when I hear this thwack! noise and my right arm gets yanked sideways, pinned against one of the trees. There's an arrow, one of them cedar fuckers, right through the bottom of my new camo jacket. I snapped my head left and—hard to find the mother at first—but then I see this arrow come up around thirty-five yards away. And behind it is this fucking clown in snow camouflage, boots to face mask. And he's got this gray wolf cape on for a hat. He's drawing down on me."

  Lenore got up and headed for the bar. "I've heard it twice and it still gives me the shivers."

  "Recurve or a longbow?" Griff asked.

  "How the fuck would I know?" Phil complained. "I mean, some crazed asshole with a wolf hat's gonna stick me, who's gonna look at his bow? But I'll tell you what, man: I wasn't dying that way. I learned not to die in the 'Nam."

  "C'mon, Phil," Arnie groaned. "Not 'Nam again."

  "Hey, hey," Phil said, wagging a muscular finger at the pediatrician. "There were snipers and bombers everywhere in that country. The auto works got hit a bunch of times while I was there."

  "Just tell them what happened," Butch insisted.

  "I reached down left-handed and got the autoloader up, flipped the safety, stuck the butt against the tree behind me and started blazing! Barrel on that mag was jumping all over the goddamned place."

  Phil nodded his shiny head with satisfaction. "I'll tell you, that chickenshit bastard didn't have the guts to hang in there and stick me, ha! ha! After my second shot, he put his ass in overdrive. With that snow gear on, he wasn't twenty feet into the thick shit and—poof!—he just went invisible."

  "Did you track him?" I asked.

  "Nah, I was bleeding pretty good. The broad head got an inch of my triceps. So I got my arm freed and came in. Theresa patched me up; then her man here threw me in stir when I said I wanted to go back out after the mother."

  "For your own good, eh?" Nelson insisted.

  "Sounds it," Cantrell agreed. "From now until the floatplane comes back, we're not leaving the lodge yard."

  "Another week!" Lenore protested. "Why don't you just cut that last tree on the trail and go to the nearest town?"

  "It's too far, how many times you got to hear it?" Theresa asked sourly. "I grew up in Barna. It's sixty miles beyond the logging camp, thirty-five of it by two-track. And it's a snowbelt up there, gets hit hard in these storms, eh? Those old machines aren't worth a damn. They'd bog down."

  "So we stick it out, no problem," Butch said hopefully.

  Phil took a step forward. "Maybe you, Abbie Hoffman, but not me."

  "Pal, you're pissing me off," Cantrell said.

  "Hey, hey, hey," Phil said, wagging that beefy finger at the outfitter now. "I'm the only one here who's seen Mr. Screw Loose mano a mano, and I'm telling you he was on top of me before I knew it. He's that good. Sure enough, I think he'd rather stay in the trees, but who's to say he won't just come in here after us? Man, he pulled Grover's body right in here and hung him on the pole while we ate dinner. If you think he's gonna stop there, you're outta your mind."

  Before Cantrell or Nelson could break in, Phil barged on. "We're all good hunters or we wouldn't be here. Now this fucker's tryin' to kill us using deer-hunting tactics. I say we turn it on him, do the same to him and whoever else is with him. I'd rather die trying to cover my ass than sit in front of a fire spanking my monkey, not knowing when the shot's coming."

  "We're staying inside," Cantrell said again.

  "Hey, who elected you Pol Pot? This is my life you're talking about," Phil retorted. "At least put it to a vote. Majority rules, this is America, right? Well, Canada, sorta the same thing, am I fucking right?"

  Cantrell glanced at his wife, who nodded. "Okay, we vote. I vote inside."

  "Me, too," said Nelson.

  "Make that three," Earl added.

  Lenore looked at him with utter disgust. "So predictable."

  "I'm not looking to die, sweet thing," Earl snapped. "We got business at home, remember?"

  "What's her name, this business?" Lenore taunted. "Does she tell you you're a big, brave hombre? Or does she know how little you are?"

  The Texan's fingers dug into the leather chair. "At least everything I got works, Lenore. For all that talk that body of yours does, I'm the one who knows you're all bait and switch."

  Lenore's expression did not change, but her fingernails trembled. "How dare you! In public like this!"

  "What's the matter, sweet thing?" Earl grinned. "Am I getting too close to the enchilada?"

  She threw her drink in his face and snarled at him: "I'm sorry God screwed up my plumbing and I can't give the little man a little man to leave his computer company to. But I'm still the best thing that ever walked into your sorryass life. Don't you forget it."

  Lenore laughed at Earl's expression as the Bloody Mary ran down Earl's face. She threaded her fingers through that thick mane of exquisitely dyed hair. Then she took us all in at a glance, and pointed at Phil. "Anyone wants to take my scalp for a trophy will have to fight for it. I'm with you, Muscles."

  "You bitch," Earl said as he walked toward the bathroom.

  No one said anything for the longest time after he left. Lenore fluffed her hair again and looked at us. "Don't worry about it. Earl and I . . . every now and then . . . we need to tell each other how much we . . . love each other. Finish the vote."

  "Butch?" Phil said.

  "Outside," he replied without hesitation, but he did not look happy.

  Arnie struggled to control his voice. "I don't want to go out there again. Not after today. But I'm not waiting in here to die on my knees like that guy Pawlett. I'll hunt."

  "Arnie, my man," Phil said. "All right."

  Griff pursed his lips and gestured to the outfitter. "I hate to say it, Mike, but I think they're right. We have a better chance if we go after them."

  Cantrell was stone-faced. "Sheila?"

  "I'll stay inside."

  "Guess I got to be a team player sometime," Theresa said, rolling her eyes. "Inside."

  "Five for, five against," Phil said, looking at me and Kurant.

  "I'm going to abstain," Kurant said. "I'm a journalist. I'm supposed to be covering this."

  "Up to you, Diana."

  I felt a sour giddiness low in my chest. This is what women must have suffered thousands of years ago when they gathered their children to break camp and head after their mates into unexplored terrain. Men had their hunting cults to prepare them for such upheaval. Women had no such institutions. We have always been relied upon to negotiate the vagaries of life with an instinctive optimism. A return to security in such instances often seems impossible. As it did at that moment for me.

  I realized I had spent the previous fifteen years telling myself I could remain encamped in the Back Bay of Boston, sheltered from the savage issues of a life. The thinness of my philosophy now struck me as ludicrous. The hearth would have to be abandoned. "I'm going out."

  "I knew she would!" Phil cried.

  "But on two conditions," I added. "We try to capture, not kill, them. And neither you nor Cantrell is in charge once we begin."

  "What? Who the fuck, then?" Phil demanded. "You?"

  "No," I said. I pointed at the guide. "Nelson."

  There was a lot of grumbling on the outfitter's part over putting Nelson in charge. But Cantrell came to see my position. The guide had worked on the estate for three years. He knew the land better than anyone. If we were to have a chance at capturing the killers, we needed a strategist who could adapt instantly as the hunt evolved.

  When it was agreed upon, there appeared among us a new strength. We were taking action. We were asserting control, acting less like potential victims.

  While Sheila finished up with dinner, we pored over the map. We put red pins where we'd found the intruders' footprints. White pins where we'd discovered secondary evidence, such as the felled trees. Green pins for the
bodies. A blue pin for Phil's encounter.

  A fragmented pattern emerged. They had killed Pawlett, then moved south toward the estate sometime in early November, felling the trees to trap us. The freshest sign was located east and north of the lodge, this side of the Dream and south of the Sticks. We would focus our efforts in that nine-by-nine-mile quadrant.

  "Hundred and ten square miles is a lot to cover," Nelson was saying at dinner.

  "We don't try to cover it," countered Griff. "We try to predict their movements based on the travel corridors they're using. People are creatures of habit, just like animals."

  "Yeah, but don't we need to know where their camp is, where they sleep, where they eat?" Lenore asked.

  "Sure would help," Cantrell agreed. "But we got no idea where that is."

  "Not exactly, maybe," I said. "But if the tracks we found leading to and from Patterson are an indication, it's somewhere north of the Sticks."

  "And within a few hours' hike," Butch said.

  "They'll come south tomorrow," Nelson said, nodding. "If we can get them moving on our terms, we should be able to backtrack them to their camp."

  "Let's not forget we know a lot about them already," Griff said.

  "Like what?" Theresa asked.

  "Like those cedar arrows. It means he, or they, shoot traditional recurves or longbows."

  Kurant's face screwed up. "Sort of bow-hunting fundamentalists, then?"

  "I think we're talking fanatics, not fundamentalists," Arnie said. "But so what?"

  Griff waved his fork in the air. "The method they're using is as important to them as the end result. If they just wanted to kill us, they'd use a gun.

  A longbow has an effective range of maybe twenty-five yards. It forces them to be more methodical, restricts them to thick cover, says that they've hunted for a long, long time."

  "You all think I'm so friggin' stupid, don't you?" Earl interjected.

  No one replied. He'd been drinking hard since his verbal brawl with Lenore. She smiled grimly at us and then at her husband. "I think it's someone's bedtime."

  Earl laughed and slapped the edge of the table. "You think because I let her get on me like she does that I'm a stupid shit, don't you? I see it. The way you look at me."