Damnit!
The boy’s stomach growls louder. That was meat. And he wants it. Craves it.
He stares after the cottontail. Tries to will it back into the sanctuary. But it's gone. He knows he might not get another chance.
Wait! The rabbit gets its water from the spring and its food from the grass around the waterhole. He picks up the primitive weapon and walks across the canyon floor to the cottonwood tree, straight to his pack, and, for the first time, unloads all the contents. He knows what to do.
Chapter 35 - Throwing Stick
The pack has essential items. Most he is familiar with: Grandfather’s thin wool blanket, straw-type water filter, paracord, a butane lighter, a small box of Band-Aids, gauze, four packets of disinfectant ointment, two bandanas, a small spool of narrow-gauge wire, salt tablets, headlamp with an extra set of batteries, a small stainless steel pot with fork and spoon, some plastic baggies that seal, a small grinding stone for knife sharpening, and light wool underwear.
It is barebones. He holds the spool of thin wire. He guesses it's for traps, but he doubts he can set one that will work.
He looks over his dwindling food supply. Four plastic quart bags of pemmican, one protein bar, a small bag each of dried apricots, raisins, and figs. Not much. Nourishment for a few more days.
He needs meat. The rabbit is meat.
The boy thinks of the journal in a side pocket of the pack. He's been carrying it in the cargo pocket of his pants and can't remember when it went back in the pack. Last night, it might have been waterlogged had it been in his cargo pocket. He pulls out a plastic bag. Little things determine life or death. He places the baggie next to him on the ground. He doesn't want to forget to zip it in the baggie when he finishes reading. It must stay dry.
Protecting it is essential. If the pack gets lost, the journal has vital information that will save him, as long as it is on him. It will go back into his pants pocket.
Bound in worn leather, tied by a single rawhide strap, the journal feels solid in his open palm, with an old feel to it. It's definitely worn from much use. He unties the strap.
The first page is full of script, Grandfather’s handwriting.
Grandson—if you are reading this, I am dead, and you are on the move. This journal is for you. Follow these words, and you will survive and find your place in whatever world reveals itself. Keep this journal safe, at least until you know it and live it. Trust no one, yet follow your inner voice, your heart.
Grandfather wrote like he talked, thought the boy: to the point, no wasted words. He opens to the “Contents” list.
He uses it to run through a mental check of his current condition, another of Grandfather's lessons. Shelter is good in this secret canyon. Check. Clean water from a spring. Check. Fire he can make with available sources. Check. Food? This seems weak. Not enough in his pack.
The Food section in the journal has a sub-list:
Tracking/Hunting
Traps
Cleaning/Skinning
Cooking
Plants
Flipping to the first section, “Tracking/Hunting,” the boy finds what he's looking for: information on the throwing stick.
~ Find a stick, wrist thick. Measure it from armpit to palm. Carve it to fit your grip.
~ Use a straight stick. Carve edges on one end or both ends: your choice.
~ You can also use a boomerang-shaped stick with a grip.
~ With a boomerang-shaped stick, hit your target with the inner part of the curve (like I showed you). This is the striking part.
~ Carve/shave the striking part of the stick to a sharp edge.
~ Throw overhand or sidearm – whichever works best.
~ Experiment and practice!
The boy looks down at his cottonwood stick. Rolls it in his hands. It's actually thinner than he first thought. He stands up, stuffs the journal in the zip-lock, shoves it in his cargo pocket, and walks out across the canyon floor. Straight or boomerang shape, it doesn't matter. He just needs a better throwing stick.
By a sidewall, he spots a branch from a tree that grows out of the rock. He thinks he recognizes the tree: an oak of some kind. Grandfather once talked about trees of life that offer much for survival. Maybe this is one.
He digs the journal out of the cargo pocket and flips to “Additional Notes.” A few pages are devoted to trees. He glances over the notes and sees that, after each tree, Grandfather drew the leaf that belongs to that tree. Cottonwood, juniper, mesquite, Russian olive. Gambel oak. The Gambel oak leaf drawing matches the leaves on the small tree in front of him. A sense of pride bubbles up. His guess is correct. He's thankful Grandfather could draw.
The boy breaks off a branch, dead but still attached to the little tree. Oak. It feels good in his hand. The texture of the wood is appealing. It's a bit smaller than his wrist, yet heavy enough, he thinks, to knock out or kill the rabbit. He measures its length. Armpit to palm of hand. He'll trim some off with his knife and shave off the ragged bark to smooth it out.
At camp, he settles down, cross-legged on the soft sand, and pulls his knife out. First step, cut the branch to the right length. He makes sure the bend is in the middle. The handhold end of the stick suits his grip, comfortable and solid in his hand. To fine-tune it, he carves off the bumps, notches, and bark. He trims the inner part of the bend to an edge.
The boy takes his time. It's important to get it right. Every once in awhile, he looks up and notices the dapple from the sun in a different spot on the canyon floor. The morning is advancing. He stands and stretches his body, stiff from sitting so long in one position.
Time to practice.
The boy walks to the back of the canyon, about a hundred yards, and picks a target: a low bush, a foot or so high. It looks like a bush in Grandfather's book. He remembers seeing it around the desert. Grandfather used it for making a fire kit once. Rabbitbrush. He smiles at the irony of the name. Silently, he apologizes to the bush and sets up to throw. Fifteen feet is about as close as he'll get to the rabbit. That was about the distance the first time. Yet, the rabbit may be more cautious. He steps back to increase the distance.
His overhand throw is somewhat accurate, but the stick keeps hitting the ground in front of the bush, bouncing over it and striking the back wall of the canyon. He works to improve form and accuracy, but misses more than hits. He adjusts to sidearm throwing. Once the boy throws sidearm enough to adjust release time, he hits the bush more often. Even throwing sidearm from a crouch, right arm and left leg extended out for balance, produces hits.
Sidearm is his style.
Soon, his right arm tires, so the left gets a workout. Grandfather always stressed using both arms and both legs in the learning of a skill. The left arm tires quicker, yet he's able to throw enough to feel comfortable with it.
The afternoon drifts on until shadow covers the canyon walls and floor. Only a few hours of good sunlight left. He walks over to the rabbitbrush and tries to fluff the broken stems. The bush is damaged, but not too badly. Again, he apologizes.
Time to head back toward camp. In his right hand, the throwing stick feels good, like it's a part of him now.
Feeling the weapon's familiar heft, he shifts to a quiet stalk as he gets closer to the spring. At forty paces, he spies a movement to his right. On the ground, by the knee-high grass stands the rabbit. Has to be the same one. It's bigger than any rabbit he's ever seen. And it's in the canyon for dinner.
The boy freezes. The rabbit stops chewing. It turns its head slightly, chews, stops. It seems like forever before the rabbit turns its head back and starts nibbling grass again. The boy trembles with anticipation, takes a deep breath and releases it. Quietly.
He slowly moves the stick to sidearm position, eyes glued to the rabbit. He takes a careful step forward with his left foot, for balance.
Anchored, the boy winds himself and the stick to
his right like a spring. He takes in a breath, holds it, and snaps the stick away from his body.
It whirls toward the target but hits the ground sideways, a foot from the rabbit. No bounce. It skips, instead. The rabbit turns once the boy’s arm snaps and bolts forward. As the stick ricochets sideways off the ground, it catches the rabbit on its hind end and knocks it into the tall grass.
The rabbit lets out a high-pitched scream in pain and fear. The back legs are damaged from the impact of the stick. It squirms and squeals an unearthly sound, trying to get away.
Exploding into action, the boy goes primal. The ancient instinct of the hunt thrusts him into action. He races to the squealing rabbit, knife out. Within three feet, he pounces.
The rabbit proves difficult to grip and the boy's afraid of being bit. He manages to pin the head to the ground. With his knife, he strikes at the base of the neck. The knife sinks in to the hilt. Blood spatters everywhere: on the boy, the rabbit’s fur, the tall grass. The rabbit stops moving, silent now. His knife cut its spinal cord.
The boy collapses on his back. Outstretched in his right hand is the bloody knife. In his left, he grips the body of the dead rabbit. A few moments, and his breathing and racing heart slow to normal. He sits up and stares at the lifeless body in his left hand.
The boy feels both elated and horrified. He's never killed an animal. He'd watched Grandfather kill, but was never asked to do it by the old man. Now, in his bloody hand he holds the consequence of his action. From deep inside the boy, an emotion surfaces as he looks at the rabbit carcass, feels its slippery warm blood on his hands. The same primal feeling that catapulted him into action now validates his need to eat and the gift of this meal. He smiles in gratitude.
Chapter 36 - First Kill
Time to gut and skin. The journal will tell him the correct procedure. Wait. He might get blood on the pages. From memory then. He mentally rehearses the steps needed to skin and gut a rabbit. Grandfather's instructions were clear and to the point, thank god.
He'll work at the back of the canyon. He is satisfied it's far enough away from the spring not to contaminate his water source.
The boy sets the rabbit on the ground and digs a hole with the throwing stick. The ground here is softer than the outside desert floor. He holds the rabbit up by the back legs, upside down, and looks at it. Grandfather trapped a cottontail once and showed him how to skin and cook it. Bigger game, he's not sure about. But a rabbit he can handle.
With his knife, he cuts around each hind leg, just below the heels. Next, he peels the fur down towards the head. A quick cut across the anus allows him to keep peeling off the skin. Both skin and fur come away easily. Once at the smaller front legs, all he does is pop them out of the skin. One last tug over the head and the hide's off completely.
He holds the skin up to look at it. It's inside out, the pale inner part of skin exposed. This pale layer he'll scrape later to get the membrane off. For now, he sets the skin on a rock.
Turning to the carcass, he studies it. It looks so naked, creepy in its rawness. The boy flashes on the Death Camp and the Growler's decision. He starts to wretch at the memory but catches himself by blotting the thought out of his mind. Horrible.
Focus on the task. The rabbit. He slits the rabbit’s skin from its anus up to the ribcage. It's slow work. Grandfather stressed not to puncture internal organs because their fluids will spoil the meat.
Once the cavity is opened, he pulls out the entrails by cutting them at the gullet. They fall out in one neat package, all at once. He drops the entrails into the hole. Grandfather showed him how to eat the heart, liver, kidneys, and lungs. He decides not to keep them, unsure. He drops them into the hole and apologizes to the rabbit for wasting its organs. Once the hole is covered in, he positions a couple softball-sized rocks on top of it. Not sure why. Some animal is bound to dig them up and eat them. He pulls off the rocks and tosses them aside. That will give them easier access.
Rabbit fur in his left hand, carcass in his right, the boy walks back to camp. Both fur and carcass need washing.
At the spring, he studies the water flow out from the pool, walks past the pool ten paces and continues to watch its flow. The current appears strong enough to carry blood and dirt away. Ten more paces, and the water disappears into the ground. Cleaning in this spot is best, so he sets to work.
By the time the carcass and hide are clean, sunset's not far off, but being inside the hidden canyon makes the gloom of night drop down earlier than on the open desert.
He needs fire.
Already, a loose pile of wood is haphazardly stacked near the cottonwood. The boy tossed small sticks there, pencil to wrist size, when he found them. Always think ahead, Grandfather would say. Maybe he's getting better at remembering. His life depends on it. Collecting wood earlier brings satisfaction now. With this quantity, he calculates enough wood to cook by and enjoy the light while eating.
The boy fishes out his fire kit from the pack, unwraps the deer hide cradling the kit, and pauses. He looks at his hand, the one that caught the cactus spines the night he fled the Death Camp. He studies it. The healing looks complete, but puncture scars mark where the barbs ripped out. That night seems so long ago. He tries to calculate. Three days. Four? He is different now. Much different.
Focus.
A fire needs to be built, his first since fleeing the city. There's been no need for warmth, and firelight can attract attention. He breaks the sticks into pencil length and constructs the tepee structure. Having a fire is safe in this closed box canyon. He focuses on the structure, putting the smallest, pencil-thick sticks against each other to create the first layer. This layer forms over a hollow nest in the middle that is for the burning tinder bundle once it's lit. He glances up, gets his bearings, and double checks that the tiny door is facing east, as Grandfather always did. Grandfather said the east represents new beginnings, like each new fire. Facing the door to the east celebrates new beginnings. The remaining sticks he stacks around the first layer, increasing the sizes with each layer.
Next, he reaches for Grandfather's bow drill kit. Not Grandfather's anymore, he realizes. It's his fire kit now. He runs his fingers across the fireboard, cradles the spindle and handhold, and feels a twinge of nostalgia for fires of the past. He holds the kit with reverence and imagines this fire as a bridge from this little canyon to the past, and to the spirit world and Grandfather.
From his pants pocket, he retrieves a small tinder bundle. He gathered rabbitbrush flowers and fluffy cottonwood seeds earlier in the day while at the back of the canyon. This soft bundle will hold the coal and give fuel for the flame once he blows it into life.
He puts the fireboard on a small portion of the tinder, assembles the kit, and works the spindle back and forth with the bow. Soon, he has a glowing coal. Gingerly, he folds the coal in its fluffy carrier and places it into the larger bundle. This he holds up and blows into flame. Carefully, not rushing, he places the burning bundle through the little door of the wood structure and closes the opening with thin sticks. The boy sits back, and watches the small flames grow in the middle of the tepee. The dry wood easily catches, spreads, and grows.
"Life."
He imagines Grandfather's voice echoing his.
Chapter 37 - Food
Flames lick the underside of the rabbit carcass as it hangs skewered above the small fire like the rotisserie chicken the boy saw cooking in grocery store delis in his old life. As the rabbit cooks, the boy turns his focus to the little hide.
It's inside out in the shape of a tube after its peel off the carcass. On a flat rock, half submerged in the water, he arranges the hide. With his knife, he scrapes the sticky membrane off the inner skin, keeping the blade perpendicular to the hide. A few times the blade angle is too steep and cuts through the thin hide. He adjusts the technique until it feels right and no more tears appear. He will sew the tea
rs closed later with cordage, along with the knife wound hole. He thinks about cordage and how he needs to weave some. There is the paracord, but it's for emergencies. As he finishes the scraping, he reviews how to make cordage.
It was one of the first skills Grandfather taught him. They made cordage from the yucca plant leaves, long, thin sword-like leaves. Some of the strongest you can make. As he goes over the steps, he remembers seeing plenty of yucca plants across the desert floor, more than enough for his needs. In the little canyon, though, he hasn't seen any. Too shady. That's okay, he thinks. The sewing can be done later. He will keep an eye out for the plant.
The scraping of the rabbit hide absorbs his attention. Then he notices a smell, something burning. He remembers the meat! He whips around and knocks the rabbit skin into the water. Flames are shooting up from the fire, charring the underside of the meat. He scrambles to the fire and knocks down the flame. Gingerly, he turns the rabbit skewer. The whole underside is black and brittle.
“Ruined,” he whispers angry with himself for forgetting. One thing at a time, he thinks and calms down. Stay here. Anger doesn't help. Doesn't fix things. Take care of what's happening now.
He pokes the meat with his knife. Seems to be done in the middle. Picking up the skewer stick, he pushes one end into the sand so the meat will cool as it hangs on the other end.
Turning to the hide, he sees it floating a few feet from the scraping rock, tangled up on some stones at the water's edge.
"Damn," he snaps and rushes over to retrieve it. But there’s no harm done.
Walking back to the rock, he finishes the scraping. Next, he takes the little hide and carefully stretches it out on the end of a broken branch of the cottonwood tree to keep it off the ground while it dries. Flies arrive but soon find little to interest them, and they leave the hide undisturbed.
Full dark fills the canyon and the camp now, so he eats the rabbit by firelight. The meat's only blackened on the surface. Inside, it is full of juice. He wonders about the charred section. Maybe the charring sealed in the juices. He runs his fingers over crispy skin and drops it into the fire.
Edge Walker Page 10
