The Hunting Tree

by Ike Hamill

  From his new vantage point, Davey could survey the entire population of the courtyard without meeting the direct gaze of the blond boy. What he found disheartened him further. The small group of younger kids to Davey’s left were closest to Davey’s age. Everyone else was at least a couple of years older, and to Davey’s eyes they looked like trouble. In groups of two and three they had formed little cliques and circles. Aside from the two who appeared to be punching the ground, most of the older kids simply talked to each other, sometimes drawing with their fingers in the dirt, or tossing pebbles.

  “I’m Evan,” a plump kid landed in the dirt next to Davey.

  “Hey,” said Davey, eyeing the boy. Davey guessed that Evan had just gotten out of first grade.

  “What do you do?” asked Evan.

  “What do you mean?” asked Davey.

  “Do you go to school?”

  “Not now,” said Davey. “It’s summer.”

  “I go to school in summer,” said Evan, sneering a little. “Most kids do.”

  “I don’t,” said Davey. “I have camp in the mornings.”

  “Oh yeah,” said Evan. “Me too. These kids all go to school,” he drew a circle in the air around the cluster of younger kids next them.

  “What about those guys over there?” Davey asked, pointing with his chin to the older bunch.

  “You shouldn’t mess with those guys. They’ll make you do bad stuff,” said Evan.

  “Okay,” said Davey.

  The door to the classroom squeaked open and a small Asian man stood in the doorway. “Let’s go,” he shouted. “Back inside.”

  Davey rose slowly and followed the other kids towards the doors. He found himself near the back of the pack of younger kids; lined up with the older, slower group.

  Mr. Nguyen pointed at Davey as he walked through the door. “You’re new,” he said to Davey, pointing him to the side.

  Back in the classroom, the kids were divided roughly by age and set up with different activities. The youngest were assigned finger paints, and the oldest left with the desk woman to go to a different room.

  “We put you here.” Mr. Nguyen pointed to a group of five which included the blond boy. “Together we do drawing or writing,” he continued. Davey’s group-mates seemed to know the agenda. They dragged desks and chairs to the center of the room to form a rough circle. Each student received a couple sheets of unlined paper and a charcoal pencil.

  Mr. Nguyen gave brief instructions. He set up a table bearing a bowl of artificial fruit; to this he pointed. “Draw or write,” he said. “One hour.”

  Davey’s eyes scanned his group. They included two other boys and three girls, all of whom bent over and went to work on the assignment. He looked at his pencil and wondered what sort of script he might achieve with such a tool. As far as he knew, he had no interest or aptitude in art, but that seemed like the less onerous option. He began to sketch the round arc of the front of the bowl.

  Even to his untrained eye, he could see that his drawing was a naive interpretation of the simple shapes. Mr. Nguyen circled the group once more and then stalked off without offering any advice. Davey glanced around at his fellow inmates and hunched over his work, imitating their concentration.

  He glanced up again at the apple, tried to memorize its contours, and focused back on his paper. Something in the back of his head clicked as he looked back down at his paper and Davey’s head snapped back up. His eyes focused on the empty seat across the circle. The older boy with the long blond hair, the one who had thrown the ball earlier, was no longer in his chair.

  Davey glanced to his right just as a hand clamped down on his left wrist. He fought his arm as it moved back, across the edge of the desk and jerked back up behind his back. The blond boy’s face appeared just over Davey’s right shoulder; his hair brushing Davey’s neck and cheek. Blondie lifted Davey’s arm another inch, until he could have scratched his own shoulder blades. Davey felt his elbow and shoulder light up in pain, but he kept his quiet—not rewarding his attacker with a yell.

  “Hey queer-boy,” the blond boy whispered in Davey’s ear. “I heard your mom’s a whore. Is that true?”

  Davey’s eyes danced around the room, looking for help. Within his group kids glanced up at the altercation, but they quickly returned to their own work. Davey’s eyes touched on young Evan, across the room, covered up to his wrists in finger paints. If Evan saw the attack, he made no outward sign.

  “Leave him alone, Curtis,” said a girl across the circle.

  “Shut up, bitch,” said Curtis. She shot him a disgusted look, but she heeded his order. “Now, faggot. Is your mom a whore or not?” he asked again.

  Davey didn’t answer. Not because of some brave act of defiance, but because he wasn’t quite sure what was happening to him. The world had slowed again, like when he was catching the pop foul at catcher’s camp. His vision sharpened, focusing only on the world within ten feet, but he could see everything.

  With awe he realized that he could take this frozen moment and disconnect himself almost entirely from the slow-motion scene and see himself from the outside. Davey pictured clearly his own sitting form, arm pinned painfully to his back, and Curtis’s crouching form and savage sneer.

  Davey chose to repel the attack, and to inflict as much damage as possible on the bully in the process. He fired the strong muscles of his thighs, turning the toes of his right foot outward and kicking his chair back and to the left. Rising a few inches from his seat, the pressure left his arm and Davey dropped his shoulders, moving his shoulder-blades onto his back. He accomplished all these actions before Curtis had time to respond.

  “Hey,” Curtis barked as the back of Davey’s chair drove into his hip. He didn’t have time to utter another syllable—with his shoulder-blades out of the way Davey was free to drive his head backward, hitting Curtis’s temple with the side of his skull.

  A flare of pain shot through Davey’s head, but he was prepared for the blow. The sound from Curtis’s head sounded like a rock hitting a rotting pumpkin, Davey decided. With his head driven back, Curtis staggered as his brain sloshed.

  Given the extra distance between their bodies, Davey pivoted and took full advantage of Curtis’s stupor and spun to his left. Once he faced the blond bully he realized that the only thing keeping Curtis on his feet was his death-grip on Davey’s wrist. Davey raised his right arm quickly and chopped Curtis’s grip, leaving Curtis swaying on his feet. With his accelerated perception, seeing the world one frame at a time, Davey had time to consider if this retribution on the bully had been good enough, or if he should exact further revenge. He almost decided to show leniency, but then remembered the ball that Curtis had aimed at his head earlier. For whatever reason, Curtis meant to conquer Davey. Based on this fact, Davey decided to strike a decisive blow.

  Even in a daze, Curtis raised his hands to ward off Davey’s attack, but Davey saw the blond boy’s hands come up and ducked under. He waited for gravity to catch up to his legs and then thrust upward, driving his arms up, underneath Curtis’s defenses. Davey’s hands connected with Curtis’s chest, driving him backwards—away from the circle of desks.

  As he stumbled backwards, Curtis’s feet interlocked and he tumbled, landing flat on his back and sliding a few feet on the shiny tile floor. With two long strides, Davey leapt on the prone boy. With one leg bent and the other knee to the floor, Davey drove two knuckles down with all the force he could muster. His sharp knuckles connected squarely with Curtis’s solar plexus.

  The effect was instantaneous—Curtis’s torso rose up off the floor as he pulled his knees to his chest and produced a strange, inhaling “Ghurrrp!”

  Davey stood and stepped back from the blond boy who was struggling for air. Time started to speed up for Davey again as the threat passed. The color returned to his vision. He once again heard the ambient sounds of the room, and his focus waned, returning him to a broad peripheral view of the world again. Footsteps pulled his attention to his lef
t—Mr. Nguyen banged through the door and strode to Davey’s side.

  “Come,” he said to Davey. The small man stalked back towards the door.

  Davey lowered his eyes and followed him, leaving Curtis still on his knees.

  Once they reached the hallway, Mr. Nguyen closed the door to the classroom, clasped his hands behind his back and faced Davey, scanning the boy’s face.

  “You too smart for room,” he said.

  Davey struggled to parse the sentence before he realized that Mr. Nguyen purposefully omitted words to disguise his accent.

  “No sir,” said Davey, taking the statement as an accusation of vanity.

  “Yes,” said Mr. Nguyen. “You too smart. Those kids not smart.”

  Davey wondered suddenly why Mr. Nguyen had drawn this conclusion. The little man hadn’t witnessed the fight, and even if he had, he wondered why fighting back would mean Davey was smart.

  “You want library?” asked Mr. Nguyen. “Read alone? Away from boy?" He jabbed a finger at the classroom.

  “No sir,” Davey blurted out his reply. His first instinct told him that to go to the library would be almost as bad as losing the fight; it would be an admission of weakness. Mr. Nguyen didn’t reply right away. Davey found he didn’t want to change his answer.

  Sensing Davey’s resolve, Mr. Nguyen didn’t repeat the offer. “Okay, but no more fight.” He wagged a finger in Davey’s face. “You fight again and you go to library.”

  “Yes sir. Thank you,” Davey nodded to the thin man.

  “Okay. Go finish bad drawing.” Mr. Nguyen smiled at Davey as he opened the door.

  As he crossed back to his desk, Davey assessed the room. Everyone still seemed to be concentrating on their tasks, but he noticed the quick glances as he fetched his chair and dragged it back to the desk. Before sitting down, Davey took one last look around the room, this time noticing that Curtis had flopped his hair over his forehead, to cover the rising lump near his temple.

  Curtis made one more attempt to intimidate Davey. When he noticed Davey looking at his forehead he caught his gaze and made a motion across his own neck, miming slitting Davey’s throat.

  Davey stared at Curtis until the older boy looked away.

  * * * * *

  HE WAS EXHAUSTED by the time Mr. Nguyen tapped Davey on the shoulder. The little man simply pointed to the door and Davey knew what it meant—his mother had come early to pick him up. His emotional and physical stress melted away at the prospect of getting home and getting away from forced activities and older antagonists.

  During their afternoon recess, Davey had admitted to himself that he might have made a mistake when he challenged Curtis. As soon as they entered the courtyard, Curtis had joined a group of boys who hadn’t been present during the confrontation. It dawned on Davey that Curtis and his friends might gang up on him in the courtyard. When one of the boys laughed at Curtis and pushed him away, Davey breathed a sigh of relief. Based on his chilly reception, Davey suspected that Curtis had as few friends as himself.

  All those concerns faded into memory as Davey pushed open the front door and saw his mom’s car parked at the curb. He rode home without uttering a word. He simply looked out the car window as his mom talked on her cell phone and drove.

  * * * * *

  AT DINNER, DAVEY WAS UNSURPRISED to find his sister in a bad mood. She spent most meals either brooding or trying to find a spiteful angle of attack against her mom.

  Tonight she targeted Davey.

  “How was retard school, retard?” she asked between bites.

  Davey didn’t respond. He simply chewed carefully and looked at the calendar on the wall. He was re-counting the number of days until Paul returned from vacation.

  “Susan,” their mother scolded eventually while reading a piece of mail. “That’s an ugly word.”

  “What do you care?” Susan challenged. “You sent him there.”

  “It was our only choice at this late date, and it’s a perfectly fine class,” Melanie explained.

  “Ashley’s brother has to go there, and he’s a total retard,” said Susan.

  Melanie moved her glasses to the bridge of her nose and lowered the letter. “Susan, what did I just say?”

  “You said it was your only choice,” said Susan, sneering.

  “I said, don’t use that word,” said her mother.

  “No you didn’t,” Susan informed her. “You said it was ugly. You never said don’t use it.”

  “Well I’m saying it now.”

  Through this exchange, Davey kept quiet, but made sure his chin was up and shoulders back. He sensed another challenge coming his way and he meant to greet it head-on.

  “Well, Ashley’s brother can barely dress himself, and he’s older than Davey. Is that what you’re learning? How to dress yourself?”

  Not detecting any direct insults or threats, Melanie tuned out the question and returned to opening her mail.

  “Did you?” Susan asked again. “Are you too dumb to answer?”

  “Susan…” Melanie warned.

  Davey looked up and raised his eyebrows at his sister. After swallowing his mouthful, he shrugged slightly. “Whatever,” he said.

  “Oh my god,” said Susan. “You’re so retarded.”

  “Susan!” Melanie raised her voice. “You could join your brother at the Career Center. Would you like that?”

  “You wouldn’t dare,” said Susan. “You’ve already paid for my dance class and it’s non-refundable.”

  “Keep testing me,” started Melanie, “and you’ll find out what I’ll do.”

  Susan sensed truth behind the threat and shut her mouth without rebuttal. Scoring a minor victory, Melanie pressed forward. “Now apologize to your brother.”

  Susan glared at Davey for several seconds before her one-word apology. “Sorry,” she said. As she spoke the word, Davey was lifting his fork with another bite of potatoes. Under the table, Susan pulled her foot back and kicked out at Davey’s shin. The velocity of her hard-shoed foot was savage, despite the day of dancing class. Davey never took his eyes from the calendar and didn’t slow the fork to his mouth, but quickly pulled his legs back, out of the way of the unseen kick.

  Susan cried out as her foot connected with the hard table leg instead of her soft brother’s.

  Unfolding a bill, Melanie hardly seemed to notice. “What’s wrong, honey?” she asked.

  “Nothing,” said Susan, tightening her mouth to a thin line. She shot Davey another glare, but he never met her gaze.

  CHAPTER TWENTY NINE

  Mike

  “HELLO?”

  “Morris? I think it’s him. Did you hear about the guy near Sebago?” Mike asked the phone.

  “I’ll call you back,” said Morris.

  Mike clicked off his phone and turned up the volume on his television. The reports lacked any real detail, but the hair stood up on the back of his neck and his instinct screamed that there was a connection. Since mid-morning, the local stations had been reporting on yet another murder in the area. According to Mike’s improving mapping skills, this new one made perfect sense in the chain that he and Morris had tracked earlier.

  When the phone rang Mike nearly jumped off the couch.

  “Morris?” he asked before he even had the phone all the way to his ear.

  “It’s not him,” said Morris.

  “What? How can you be sure?”

  “I talked to my cousin,” he said. “My other cousin,” he clarified. “Says the MO is totally different. The guy was connected to some shady stuff. Someone broke through the window, took the guy off into the woods, cut him up, and buried him. This guy used tools and wore boots. They’ve ruled out a connection.”

  “But its right in line,” said Mike. “How many times is someone killed around here? It’s got to be our guy. Did you find out when it happened? If it was more than a day or two ago, our guy is probably almost to the coast by now.”

  “I heard it was earlier today,” said Morr
is. “Just a fluke that they found him so quick. If it was our guy, then he would be moving much slower than before.”

  “How did they find him so fast then?” asked Mike, unwilling to renounce his suspicion.

  “Don’t know,” said Morris, starting to return to his regular, more taciturn self.

  “You want to go out there? See what we can find?” asked Mike.

  “Nope,” said Morris. “You haven’t even paid for my gas for last time.”

  “I know, I’m sorry about that,” said Mike. “Like I said, I haven’t had a chance to go to the bank, but I will really soon. You’ll get it as soon as I’ve got it.”

  “Tell you what,” said Morris. “You bring by money, and we’ll go track.”

  “Seriously?” Mike asked the phone, pulling it away from his head to look at it. He found it impossible to believe that Morris wasn’t as intrigued as he was at the prospect of tracking down the elusive giant. “You must want to know what this thing is?”

  “Not enough to waste my time for no pay,” said Morris.

  “Okay, whatever,” Mike sighed. “Thanks anyway.”

  “Get my money,” said Morris.

  Mike heard the phone disconnect with a click. He returned his concentration to the television and wondered how he could find the location of the latest crime. The report gave precious few details, and nobody yet on the scene. They settled for updates every thirty minutes from a reporter behind a desk in the studio. A generic map of the area took up the other half of the screen.

  He muted the television again and picked up the thickest book from his coffee table. History of local tribes was maddeningly sparse, but he had collected the best information available from the local libraries. As the indigenous people were overrun with colonizing immigrants, their rich oral history had been twisted and discarded. He sought information on the mythology of local tribes, but most of the legends he read were contradicted, sometimes just pages later in the same book.