Hunting
Aaron Knopp

I do not intend to tell you a story of drastic worldly importance, as the event itself was not, but it shall change your life. The unfortunate fact is; no one is quite sure if the event actually occurred, as is the case for most stories like this. That being forewarned, I myself do believe these events to have taken place. Surely the cook and his wife seem strange to any who enter this establishment, but many of you may have noticed the young lady (who has just walked in) before, and the odd manner she goes about doing things. I have lived just long enough to answer any of your questions as to why she possesses such an eccentric behavior. You may feel compelled to make jest of her actions, but I plead to you: do not! I have witnessed nearly all of you, each in your own turn, make your attempts to fraternize with her, and I cannot blame you, for her young beauty is most captivating, despite it being hidden actively by her reactions to the lost childhood and also inactively through her warped, broken mind. It would not be fair to deny that she interests us all, and more importantly, this treatment is morally distasteful considering she has survived the most severe happenings in this small town, those that would destroy even the bravest of you.
I have made good friends with the cook and his wife even before their granddaughter started living with them, and they will not speak of the nature of their son any longer; believe me, for I have made many attempts. Gather closer though, for they have wished I not speak about the subject either. However, since you insist so much, I feel it is important to relay the chronicles to you. Alice (for I know that to be her name) lived with her parents, out on the Jones farm; of course, this was before it belonged to them. From what I heard, they were all a splendid, young family. I cannot attest to this as I only occasionally came in contact with them, usually at mass on Sunday mornings. Although once, the father, Thomas, created quite a scene at McKinney’s Pub down the road. If my memory has not staled, old Mr. Smith, a surly character only the eldest of you may recall, had caught Thomas hunting on his land many times before. This accusation was most likely true since Thomas did not much care for the boundary laws in his sport, but most of us overlooked this due to the fact that he often shared the success of his hunt with the town. As a matter of fact, the butcher’s venison stock came mostly from young Mr. Thomas, so we were glad to let the man cross into our parts of the forest. However, Mr. Smith was very different. Pleasant though he was, he came across as rather irrational in situations such as these, mostly because he was influenced by the drink from noon till dusk. This particular evening, Mr. Smith stumbled in and yelled to the entirety of the patrons of the bar, announcing his entrance. As if it were an established custom, we welcomed him with a hearty call, “Get out of here, you’re too drunk!” He then grumbled at us, and the air was filled with laughter. Taking his seat at the bar, he began complaining about Thomas crossing the line again, and he would not, could not stand this anymore. For a while, I entertained this conversation, trying to cool his temper by asking him, “Sir, when has Mr. Thomas refused to share the spoils of his game with the owner of the property?” He ignored my side of the conversation a great deal, and when his drunkenness ceased to amuse me, I found it all too easy to turn back to the company I had before.
Shortly thereafter, Thomas walked pointedly through the door. We never saw him here, as he was known to be wary of alcohol, and until then, I had thought he lived a dry life. Needless to say, everyone sensed there was something a bit off. McKinney decided not to question his actions when he walked up and ordered a drink, but rather, let the man figure it out on his own. Unfortunately for him, Thomas had walked up to the bar and stood directly next to old Mr. Smith. Immediately, Mr. Smith began berating him about him trespassing, to which Thomas roughly replied, “lease sir, I do not wish to deal with this now.”
Still, the old man went on, making ridiculous accusations that Thomas had shot his dog, and was now just a cold-blooded killer. Many of the men in that pub overheard these ramblings, but ignored them. We all knew Thomas was not the most lawful of us, but his misdemeanors never crossed into serious crimes such as these. There was no way in hell he could have murdered a pet. After a good ten minutes of shouting, Mr. Smith crossed the line.
Recently, out in Poltington, there had been a mysterious death. Rumors spread fast in places like these, where there is not much else of substance to discuss. By the time it reached here, it was said someone had been shot and the police were investigating a murder. (These, however, were rumors, and most level-headed men knew it to be a simple hunting accident, which unfortunately was not an uncommon occurrence; every couple of years someone would be injured in this way.) At the height of this argument, Mr. Smith jumped from his seat and exclaimed, “Why, you just returned from near Poltington, didn’t you? Isn’t that where your hunting buddy lives? I wouldn’t be surprised if you killed that man!” Before any of us had a chance to calm him down, Thomas punched old Mr. Smith square in the nose, knocking him down and sending him sliding halfway across the floor of the small room. Immediately, the entire pub reacted. Three men a table away from Thomas jumped up and seized him, two of my colleagues tended to Mr. Smith, and after a short scuffle, the crowd was silent except for McKinney, who angrily instructed the men to escort Thomas outside. I followed the small group into the street, where Thomas was unexpectedly greeted by who I can only assume was his friend from Poltington. The other men with us recognized that Thomas was no longer upset, and reentered the building. Just before I myself left the cold air, I witness Mr. Thomas and his friend begin a hushed debate about which I did not know. At the time, I thought nothing of it, though now it is strange to wonder at how these disagreements led to the inevitable conclusion. Yet, I digress. Needless to say, these events inspired much talk that night, and also in the following weeks. The old man was wrong to suggest Thomas was responsible for this hunting accident, but to respond by hitting him? That was unheard of. Everyone knew Smith was a drunkard, so his words should have been taken lightly. Besides, he was an endearing fellow much of the time, and as a matter of fact when he passed away nearly seventeen years ago, all of us were saddened.
Aside from these events, Thomas and his family truly did seem very lovely though; and even after this scene in the bar, we all knew he felt remorse, as we began noticing him in town more often, spending a great deal of time with the church. As I now recall, another event I deem important to mention dealt with this fact. All of us young men used to habitually gathered at this very restaurant during the noon hour when our businesses were locked up for the midday meal. The conversation at the table, which I attempted to remove myself from, was that accusing Thomas of feeling guilt. A certain person, who shall remain nameless for his own sake, juggled with the idea of Mr. Smith’s drunken suspicions being correct. He was younger than most, and also new to the town, so some of our more experienced town members were outraged with the idea. It being Thomas’ parents establishment, hushed arguments existed throughout the entire meal. Some believed Mr. Thomas to be at the church trying to absolve his sins, while the rest of the company fought to defend his honor. Just as the discrepancy was about to get out of hand, the man in question walked into the building with his Alice, who, at this time, must have been around eight years of age. They of course were greeted heartily by the owners, and seated a few tables from where we were. In the unpleasant silence that followed our abruptly ended conversation, we witnessed Thomas and his daughter having the time of their lives. In a short time of about an hour, he had all who were judgmental convinced of his naturally loving, caring, and intimate nature. In hindsight, I suppose we might have noticed smaller actions or maybe the inflection of his voice that would hint to the strange transformation occurring in his mind. As it was though, all we saw was that Alice smiled every minute; nay, every second of that hour, enjoying the time spent with her beloved father.
That was the dynamic of the family, though. Another bright day, young Alice came with her mother to my store so as to purchase some stamps. She struck up a lively conversation with me, describing the letter she was about to compose for her grandmother. Trying to be polite, I spoke with her mother and when I could, I pondered out loud about how Thomas was getting along, considering the recent circumstances. She only nodded. Alice began talking again;
“My daddy came home yesterday and gave me a present.”
“Did he, now?” I responded.
“Yes. He gave me a new coat. It is made of leather, so it smells funny, but it is pretty and very warm.”
“I would hope so.”
“Yup,” she smiled, “A pretty coat for a pretty girl. That’s what he said”
I chuckled. “Your father is very good at what he does. He is one of the best hunters I have ever known.”
“Yes, I know. He gets a lot of meat, and everyone says the same that you’ve just told me. It’s not always fun though.”
“No?”
“He has to cut up the animals. I don’t like when the deer and other creatures are hanging in the barn.”
“No, I can understand why that would frighten a little girl like you.”
She nodded. Shortly thereafter, her mother announced they had to leave and I did not see them again. For the fact was, the very next day was when the horrid events I spoke of before took place. In the evening, I was closing my shop, and I saw a very distraught woman being driven away in an automobile by our doctor, who has since retired from his position in our town. I thought it strange to see a woman I did not recognize being carted away by the doctor, until I realized this woman, whose face was entirely void of color, who was shaking fiercely, even though it was hardly dark, and the middle of summer, was actually the wife of Mr. Thomas, and the mother of young Alice! It was not very long until I began to hear the stories of what happened down at the farm.
Alice woke up one day, after dozing in her mother’s large rocking chair. Her father was away for the weekend, hunting. She ran out to find him, as he might have slid in this afternoon while she napped. Quickly, she sped out the front door, down the stairwell, around to the rear of the house. Sure enough, the cart was in its place, even though the high-wheeler was gone (Thomas did not own an automobile, these were still luxuries back then, but his hunting partner did). This meant one thing for Alice; her father had returned! She hurried to greet him. Usually she stayed away from the barn. It made her feel queasy. That day was different, she wanted to see him as he was terribly missed. Normally, if she ever did walk into the barn after her father hunted, she would walk in and avoid looking straight ahead. The dead deer staring up at her with blank, black eyes from their vertical position felt so unnatural and frightening. Alice would find where her father was, and walk the longest path around the animals to see him. She would stare around the room as she talked to him, as he skinned and gutted his winnings. Thomas told her many times she shouldn’t be witnessing the events, but she first saw him at work five years ago, so it was not so difficult anymore and after all was she not a full eight years old? Normally, in this room she would notice all of the chains that hung, neat and organized in rows from the ceiling so as to hang these animals. She would look at the floor, it covered in hundreds upon hundreds of old newspapers and wood chippings (unless Thomas happened to be not working, when everything would be swept away). Everything in this small barn was plain, dull, white. To her left, there was a large white sink, stained ever so slightly with blood and rust. Further along that same wall there was a broken cart Thomas had never gotten around to fixing, it’s wood grey by now. Contrasting from the white-painted bricks, the far wall had a door which led to a large ice box that was usually at least half full. Normally, she would notice the only two windows, one over the sink at her left, and the other exactly opposite, over Thomas’ tool table at her right. She would look around, and she would shiver. It was colder in this room, always. She would feel a little uneasy. In the few number of times she visited while he was working, the smell would get to her first, and have to leave after a minute or two, in fear of becoming sick. But, like I have said, that day was different. That day, she could not avoid looking ahead. She stared at the poor, skinned creature, it swaying slowly back and forth. And she stared. And she couldn’t take her eyes away. This animal did not have large, black eyes that stare back, so it was her turn to take that endless occupation. She was broken that day. See her now, sitting at that table, a mere twenty-five years of age, with her beauty hidden among her fear. Again, no one is sure if this has happened, but I, for one, have never seen Mr. Thomas since. And of his friend from Poltington? He was arrested shortly thereafter with charges of murder. Thomas had seemed a good man, and I have found it difficult to understand, which makes the tale I manufacture today hard to believe; but I ask you who are gathered here today a single question. What, but the cold smile of a human skull and muscle could destroy this powerful young girl?