by Guy N Smith
In reality, Maddox would have harmed none. He yearned for young company, any company, but others either fled at his approach or else refused to open their doors to his knock. Except when there was work that needed to be done.
He wasn’t angry, just hurt and confused.
The tumbledown shack in the midst of the rhododendron thicket was reached by following a narrow track that had been worn by badgers and foxes for half a century. Maddox had not widened it for it offered seclusion, and overhanging foliage that saturated his clothing in times of wet weather was a small price to pay for his privacy.
The basic structure of his primitive dwelling was pine trunks dragged under the cover of darkness from the felled area of woodland on the roadside. That was in the early seventies. A petition by angry villagers who feared for their environment had resulted in a prohibition of tree clearance and the forest had remained untouched since.
The rest of his “building materials” had been wheeled away in a battered, discarded pram from the unauthorized garbage dump in the disused quarry; some rusted corrugated tin sheeting, ripped tarpaulins, and discarded carpets.
The shack was not weatherproof but the surrounding rhododendrons provided an impenetrable barrier against the prevailing westerlies.
Maddox did not mind snow or rain, he had ample brushwood to kindle a fire to dry out the ragged garments which clung wetly to his wiry frame.
Some said that he was an itinerant vagrant who had chanced upon these beautiful woodlands and decided to make them his permanent home. There were rumours that he was a wealthy eccentric with a fortune banked somewhere and, frustrated by his disability and treatment by his fellow beings, he had opted for a basic existence. Or perhaps a broken romance or the deaths of doting parents had driven him to become a hermit.
The stories were many, guesswork that spawned romanticism. But none really knew whence he came, who he was, or why he was here. Or even his real name. In the early days the school children had nicknamed him “the Mad Ox.” Nowadays, he was known as just “Maddox.”
Maddox had a gun, an ancient double twelve-gauge hammer gun with wafer thin Damascus barrels pitted with rust. A weapon that was a tribute to its maker, for it had not only stood the test of time but had survived continual misuse and constant exposure to the elements, and it still functioned with unerring precision.
Maddox was a superb marksman, whether it was a rabbit bolting through dense bracken or a wild duck briefly silhouetted against a sliver of moon, he rarely missed his target. His skill was born of necessity, the outcome of his hunting determined whether or not he had meat upon his tin plate. Likewise, shells were not plentiful, he could not afford to waste them.
He grew a few potatoes in an area of rough ground which he had cleared at the rear of his shelter, but the soil was poor, shaded by the dense shrubs. The tubers were small, mostly he had to rely upon the pittance earned from casual chores to supplement his hunting.
But he had lived this way for twenty years, he would survive another twenty.
He was not lonely. These rhododendrons were a habitat for creatures of the wild, he would lie on his bed of blankets at night, and even though he could not hear them, he was aware of the comings and goings of woodland animals; the scuffling of badgers searching for mice and voles amidst the dead leaves, the dog fox prowling restlessly, awaiting the call of a vixen when the mating season was nigh. Timid rabbits grazed within feet of the man-made den, Maddox never killed them in the immediate vicinity of his home.
And in the dead of winter, a mighty horde of twittering starlings roosted here, flocks of several million aggressive, quarrelsome birds that came from as far afield as the steppes of Russia. They, like their human neighbour, recognized this place as an invincible sanctuary beyond the reach of Man. Maddox did not trouble them; in all probability they never even noticed his presence.
They coated the foliage white with their droppings, their foulings weighed the branches down, a stinking sediment several inches deep covered the ground beneath the bushes.
The pungent stench hung heavy in the atmosphere during the long winter months. Some years ago, when the starlings first made this place their migratory refuge, the water authority had feared for the purity of the nearby underground reservoir, that the rain would wash the droppings down through the soil. An attempt was made to drive away the seething flocks which darkened the late afternoon sky as they flew back to their roost.
An armament of shotguns was mustered, an unlimited supply of birdshot for those who accepted the invitation to join the battue. Military help was enlisted from the nearby barracks; exploding rockets and flares, blank machine gun fire. Anything that would bang or light up the sky, disturbance would be the main factor in deterring the offending birds from this place. They must be driven away to another roost where their foul habits would not be harmful to Man’s existence
The exercise failed miserably at an extortionate cost in ammunition. An incessant onslaught over three evenings resulted in the starlings crowding defiantly into their nocturnal bastion, chirping angrily until the winter dawn broke.
In spite of his deafness, Maddox had been aware of the mighty aerial barrage, standing in the entrance of his home and staring up at the illuminated dusk sky. The gunfire went unheard but he sensed the ferocity of the assault on the birds and it angered him. They never disturbed his sleep, he did not even notice their stench now, he had become used to it long ago. Starlings were inedible, so why kill them?
That was the beginning of his resentment towards his fellow men. After those three evenings of starling warfare, he became more of a recluse than before. Rarely was he seen mooching the village in search of menial tasks. He would manage, in his own way.
September came with a hint of early frosts. The fields outside the forest were golden with stubble awaiting the plough, the grain harvest was gathered. Flocks of wood pigeons gleaned them by day, by night came mallard with whispering wingbeats, witches silhouetted against a moonlit sky.
The old man’s muscles had stiffened over the months, his joints creaked when he rose from his bed at first light on a dewy morning. Yet the sweet aroma of overripe blackberries on cobweb festooned briars stirred an instinct that had lain dormant within him since last winter. The instinct of the hunter, for real.
Summer months, with unwary rabbits grazing on the outskirts of the wood and nesting pigeons in the tall pines offering an easy shot, were no challenge. Now the time of mystery and adventure, the thrill of the hunt, was nigh, the chance to bag a wild duck or a Canada goose that came here to feed from the distant river.
The hairy nostrils of his grotesque blackhead infested nose flared. He went back inside, found the polythene ice cream box in which he stored his shotshells to protect them from the damp. A few heavy loads rather than light birdshot, ancient buckshot cartridges which would fell a goose on the wing at long range.
This was the season for which he lived; the time of the hunter. Tonight he would go forth beneath the full moon.
Maddox was uneasy tonight, he did not know why. A tenseness that transcended his usual alertness, pausing every so often, pressing himself up against a tree to render himself invisible in the deep forest shadows. Had he been gifted with hearing, then he would have listened. Instead, he watched, straining his eyes beneath bushy hooded grey eyebrows, picking out an owl that perched silently on a branch above him.
The bird was watching him, too. Wary, poised to flap silently to safety if he made the slightest movement that alarmed it.
He ignored the owl because raptors, like the starlings in the rhododendrons, were inedible; its corpse was of no use to him. It was hunting mice and voles, a winged sentry patiently waiting to drop down on any unsuspecting small creature that moved beneath it. Man had never troubled this nocturnal hunter of the forest but his clumsy movements disturbed its prey. Which was why it regarded him balefully. Annoyance rather than anger; wariness, not fear.
Maddox relied upon a sense unknown to those who
took hearing for granted. Others did not need it as he did; an inbuilt alarm system that warned him of the presence of others, whether it was humans or forest creatures. Perhaps a vibration that was detectable only to one who lived perpetually in a world of silence. The knowledge that something moved in the vicinity.
As it did now.
His keen eyes scanned the sky above, a moonlit background of cirrus clouds against which anything that moved would be clearly outlined. Searching for mallard arrowing their way to the stubble fields; circling, wary of danger, then losing height, paddles lowered in readiness for a landing. Or the heavier, slower movements of wild geese in a V formation.
Tonight the sky was devoid of movement. In all probability the ducks, or geese, had already arrived, were greedily devouring the spilled grain amidst the stubble. Their greed reduced their wariness, made a stalk much easier. Or if they had not yet arrived then Maddox would take up a position in the hawthorn hedge, ambush them clinically with the cunning born of a lifetime of hunting for food.
Something had impinged upon his hunting instinct, distracted him, made him uneasy, edgy. His nostrils dilated, sniffed for a scent; it wasn’t a fox prowling nearby, the creature had an unmistakable rancid odour that was easily identified even from a distance. Nor a badger. Badgers smelled earthy, blundered heavily through the undergrowth so that they were recognizable by their vibrations.
It wasn’t a rabbit, either. Neither stoat nor weasel. What then?
Maddox crouched down, a callused thumb rested on one of the gun hammers, ready to cock it instantly. Immobile, watching, alert in every sense except the one which had been denied him.
A movement atop the rise in front had him stiffening. It was far enough away for it to have been a fox without its sour stench wafting on the slight breeze towards him. Or a cumbersome badger. Even a deer, for occasionally they wandered this far from the military land on the other side of the fields.
Then he stared in disbelief to where the scrubland rose before it sloped away to the fields below, a vantage point which he had often used in the past for spying out the lower farmland, looking for feeding waterfowl.
Silhouettes emerged from the shelter of a clump of silver birch saplings. Shapes that were unfamiliar in this place for they were not of creatures of the woods.
They were humans.
Maddox tensed, his first thought was that it was a gang of night poachers from the city on a foray after roosting pheasants, armed with powerful lamps with which to see their prey, rifles to knock them from the high branches. But he knew before his eyes had finished scanning them that these strangers in the night were not hunters.
They did not move with stealth, instead they walked in single file with no thought for concealment. None of them carried guns, nor any other weapon of the chase.
Who were they? What were they doing here at this hour?
It was their posture which disturbed him most. They looked neither to the right nor the left, followed some well-worn animal track, arms hanging by their sides. Trancelike, robots which had been programmed to reach a particular destination and anything en route was no concern of theirs.
Maddox counted five of them; a tall, imposing figure in the lead, another close behind. The other three were female. The one bringing up the rear stumbled suddenly as if her foot had caught against a protruding root, fell headlong. Those in front appeared not to notice; she scrambled to her feet, hastened to catch up with them.
Then they were lost from view.
All thoughts of ducks and geese were gone from his mind. People were trespassing in his domain, he wanted to know why they were here, where they were going. They presented a threat to his lifestyle.
He straightened up, moved with the lope of a hunting timber wolf that had scented prey. Half crouching, shotgun cradled across his chest, he set off to follow them. Anger mingled with his curiosity and his gnarled thumb rested across the hammers of the ancient gun.
Again, Maddox used that inexplicable sense of his to track those ahead of him; in places the path forked, there were a couple of left turns. One trained in the art of pursuit might have put his ear to the ground, listened. The old man had no use for his ears, a palm placed flat upon the earth told him all that he needed to know, picked up the necessary vibrations.
Twice he had to hang back for those ahead of him moved with frustrating slowness as though time had no meaning for them. He did not want to catch up with them, reveal his presence.
They were heading deep into the woods. Moonlit landmarks were a guide to location, he wondered if the others might become lost. No, they seemed to know exactly where they were going. So they must have been here before.
They were up to no good, they would have come in the daylight otherwise. Maddox thought of reasons why they roamed the woods after dark, excluding poaching because the others had no guns. Gathering firewood was the only alternative that sprang to mind. It didn’t fit for the very reason that they wouldn’t find it in the dark, not even by moonlight.
A familiar square outline loomed up ahead, a raised plateau that was starkly in contrast to the hills and the trees, a symmetrical building that jutted up out of it, squat and ugly, like the conning tower of some gigantic dry land submarine.
The old reservoir!
Maddox hung back again, for the moment he could not see those he pursued, they were following a path through the pines. Either they would head straight on towards the larch plantation or …
They emerged into a patch of silvery moonlight, congregated alongside the sagging perimeter fence. Heads were thrust close together, the tall man was talking, the others listening. They nodded, agreed with whatever he said. He turned away, lifted a strand of barbed wire, held it whilst his companions squeezed through on to the other side. Then the other man held it so that their leader could join them.
What the hell was going on?
Maddox pressed himself back into the shadows. Where previously he had experienced curiosity, anger at this intrusion of his lands, now he felt a sense of unease. Not exactly fear, just a nagging insecurity. It would be unwise to let them see him, they obviously had nefarious business on water authority property. More than just a common trespass, they had a reason for being here.
Now they were mounting the wide mossy steps which led up to the blockhouse, the tall man in the lead, an arrogance in his step. They all halted, bunched in front of the heavy door.
Maddox sneered behind his unkempt beard. This lot were in for a surprise, there was no way they were going in there. He’d tried the door himself on more than one occasion, merely curious to know what lay behind it. Always it had been locked, so stout that you couldn’t even get it to rattle if you put your shoulder to it.
Once he had lain in a patch of wild willow herb and spied upon the man who had the keys to that door. Somebody in authority, obviously. The fellow had been inside for only a short time, and when he came out he locked the door behind him.
These night-time prowlers were wasting their time if they thought they were going in there …
They were filing through the doorway! Maddox strained his eyes but the entrance was in dark shadow. Then he heard the sound of a key grating in the lock. Those people had gained access, and then had locked themselves in.
Maybe they were water people, his limited intelligence struggled to find a solution to these strange goings on. If they were, then they would not have come at this hour. They didn’t look official, at least, four of them didn’t. The other was imposing, there was no doubting his leadership, the others had respect for him. But there was something … uncanny about him.
Maddox felt a shiver travel up his spine. He was glad that he had his gun with him.
He remembered the stubble fields, the possibility of mallard and Canada geese feeding there. He considered turning his back on this strange affair, going back to his hunting. No, the ducks would still be there tomorrow night, his inquisitiveness prompted him to stay. The waterworks man hadn’t been in the building
many minutes on that occasion, these folks surely could not find anything in there to delay them for long.
The moon was well past its zenith by the time they emerged back into the open.
Maddox was stiff and cold, the hands holding the gun were numb. Everywhere glinted sparkling white with the frost that had covered the landscape during his long wait.
He counted the strangers as they filed down the steps, slid beneath the barbed wire strands. Still five; none had stayed. He felt his muscles crack as he eased his position. Well, he’d found out where they were going, now he’d discover whence they came.
He stalked them back along that winding track, knew that they would be returning to that rise above the farmlands. It was the trek from thereon that intrigued him. Probably they were villagers, they would walk back into Hopwas. He could not think of any other habitation within walking distance of here.
Down the long slope towards the fields, the path led through a patch of gorse where the wicked spines scratched your legs through your trousers. Maddox had an elevated view from here. Where the forest ended and the farmlands began there was a wide track, a route often used by horse riders. Lovers sometimes came here after dark in their cars; there were sandy places where wheels sank and sometimes the occupants had to get out and push their vehicles back on to firm terrain.
There was a car parked there now, backed up off the track so that it was partly concealed by bushes. A big car, Maddox noted, he was not familiar with makes and models. It gleamed in the wan moonlight, the doors opened and shut.
It moved back on to the track with grace and power. The headlights were not switched on, perhaps that was because the moon was bright enough for the driver to see by. Gliding away, its brake lights showed redly on a bend and then it was gone from Maddox’s view.
