Big Game

by Daniel Smith

  In the center of the Place of Skulls was a huge platform built from dead pine and birch trunks. It was like a giant crate, and through the gaps between the dark and weathered wood, I could see the surface of smooth gray boulders inside used for support.

  It looked like it had been there since the beginning of time — like a great altar ready for a sacrifice — and I wondered how many boys had been brought up here and made to stand on it, waiting to take the Trial. A ring of old wooden stakes circled the altar. Large poles of pine as thick as my forearm and high enough to reach my shoulder. Others were scattered about the area, driven into the earth at random, each of them topped with a skull. Some were small, just the remains of grouse or pheasants or rabbits, but there were other, more impressive skulls here, too. I could see what was left of a deer, a couple of foxes, and even the skull of a large buck, complete with antlers. And there, right ahead of us on the tallest pine pole, was the skull of a bear.

  Battered and yellowed by the wind and rain and sun, the bear skull was fixed to the top of the pole with its mouth open as if it was letting out a fearsome growl. As if, even this long after its death, it was still angry at what had happened to it.

  The skull was at least three times the size of my own, and the great curved teeth were as long as my fingers. Teeth like that could crush a man’s head or rip off his arm. A bear that big could break every bone in a grown man’s body as easily as I could snap a birch twig.

  I shivered and stared at the skull.

  The skull stared back at me, hollow-eyed.

  “Is that yours?” I asked, shifting in the seat and breaking the silence.

  “It is.” Dad nodded and put a hand to the bear’s tooth that hung from a leather cord around his neck. “But it doesn’t have to be a bear. Hamara brought a deer, not even a buck. And Davi managed only a pair of grouse.”

  I looked back into the dark, empty eyes of the bear-skull and wondered what the forest would give me. What did I deserve?

  Other vehicles began filing out of the trees behind us, lurching and jostling to where we were parked. They formed a semicircle facing into the Place of Skulls, then the men climbed down from their cabs. Within a few minutes, there were at least twenty of them setting to work as if they each had a job to do.

  “Wait here.” Dad popped the door and stepped down into the clearing. For a second, the sounds of the men filled the car, then Dad slammed the door shut and everything was muffled once again. It made me feel different from everyone else. As if I was not one of them.

  Dad pulled his cap tight on his head and fastened his green jacket over the top of his hoodie, then trudged across to the last vehicle in the line. It was an old SUV, rusted and falling apart, with a small caravan attached. Hamara, the owner, was standing beside it, with his thumbs tucked into his belt, watching as the other men set to work.

  Hamara was the biggest man I had ever seen. He was a good head taller than Dad, with a shaggy gray beard covering most of his wrinkled face, and long, straggly gray hair hanging out from underneath his battered black woolen hat. His camouflage jacket was open to reveal a dirty beige sweater that strained to contain the bulge of his stomach. On his feet he wore a pair of large rubber boots. He carried a rifle over his shoulder that looked as old and weathered as he did.

  Dad didn’t much like Hamara, always said he was a grumpy old man, but he was the chief elder of our village and there was nothing anyone could do about that.

  They spoke for a moment, then both turned to look in my direction. I could tell Dad was nervous because he was picking at the skin around his left thumbnail. He always did that when something was bothering him. The first time I saw him do it was in the hospital, when Mom was ill, and he had picked it raw. He hadn’t even seemed to notice the blood.

  Hamara watched me with his piercing, watery eyes, and tightened his mouth before nodding once. Dad stood for a moment, then looked down at his boots and came back to the SUV.

  “Come on, then,” he said, opening the door. “Help me with the tent.”

  By the time the tent was up, the Place of Skulls was a bustle of activity as the men made preparations, but there was no laughing or joking. Instead there was a solemn atmosphere, and they spoke in hushed tones while Hamara directed them to do this job or that job.

  Dad went to help Efra split huge pine logs and throw them onto a bonfire that blazed inside a circle of boulders. Others were putting up shelters, or rearranging their caravans, or lighting fire torches and putting them in the ground, even though it wouldn’t be dark for another few hours.

  It was spring, but we were so high up and so far north, above the Arctic Circle, that the air was still cold. The men were all wearing layers of sweaters and jackets that made them even bigger than usual. They looked hairy and ugly, and even though I saw them every day, this place gave them an unusual wildness, as if they had just stepped out of the forest. They carried rifles slung over their shoulders, and knives hung from their belts.

  There were other boys there, too, all of them older than me, but not by much. None of them spoke to me, though. Even my friends Jalmar and Onni didn’t do much more than smile and nod whenever I caught their eye. Others, like Risto and Broki, looked at me and whispered, and drew their fingers across their throats.

  I pulled on my woolly hat and went to the trailer, pretending to check the ATV. Dad and I had already looked over it before we left, so I knew it was in good working order and that all my gear was on the back, but I didn’t know what else to do with the short time I had left. Soon, Hamara would call me in front of the men and all my fears would catch up with me.

  As if to confirm my thoughts, the sudden crack of a gunshot filled the air. Sharp and loud, it made me jump, and I looked over at the platform as the shot echoed around the Place of Skulls and rang out across the mountain before fading into nothing.

  Hamara was standing up there, looking down on us all, with his rifle in his right hand. He had rested the stock on his hip and the barrel was pointing up into the air. In his left hand he held a large hunting bow. He seemed even bigger now, like some kind of prehistoric forest animal.

  Everyone stopped what they were doing and looked over at him as he fired off another shot. The rifle kicked against his hip, but he remained still.

  When the sound of the second shot had died, Hamara bellowed one word: “Oskari!”

  My heart missed a beat and my insides tightened.

  By the bonfire, Dad threw a last log onto the flames and hurried over toward me, pointing at the ATV.

  All the other men headed for the platform.

  “Watch out for bears,” Davi said, slapping me hard on the back as he went past. He was Broki’s dad and I hated him as much as I hated Broki. His slap knocked me off balance, pushing me into the ATV, so I had to put out my hands to stop myself from falling. When I turned, I saw Dad stop in front of him, ax in one hand.

  “What?” Davi held out his arms. “I was just wishing him luck, that’s all.”

  Dad stepped right up to him so they were toe to toe, looking into each other’s eyes. His fist gripped the ax handle so tightly that his knuckles blossomed white.

  “I’m all right, Dad,” I said, rubbing my hands on my trousers. “Really.”

  Dad’s breathing became heavy and he continued to stare at Davi.

  “You heard him,” Davi said, backing away. “He’s all right.”

  Dad clenched his jaw and shook his head. I thought for a moment that he was going to hit Davi, but then another gunshot rang out and Hamara shouted once again:

  “Oskari!”

  “Better not keep everyone waiting,” Davi said with a smirk.

  Dad swallowed his anger and stepped around him. “Come on, son, let’s get this off the trailer.”

  He unclipped the tailgate, glancing back at Davi, who went to join the others around the platform. “Don’t worry about him,” he said. “He’s no one.”

  So am I, I thought as I climbed onto the ATV and settled into th
e creaking seat. I felt small and afraid sitting there, and I imagined what it would be like to just drive away and leave all this behind.

  “Come on, Oskari, hurry. They’re waiting. And remember to do everything exactly the way I told you.”

  “Yes, Dad.” I switched on the engine and throttled it before slowly reversing off the trailer.

  “Quicker.”

  I throttled it a little harder, and the ATV lurched backward down the metal ramp. For a second I lost control, and sped off the trailer so that the wheels sank into a patch of rain-loosened soil and spun around, kicking up dirt in a dark spray behind us. I throttled the engine harder to get myself out, but the wheels only spun faster, digging deeper, and the engine revved loudly.

  “God above, Oskari!” Dad leaned across to switch off the engine. “How many times do I have to —” He stopped himself and closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. When he opened his eyes again, he looked at me. “How many times do I have to tell you? If you overstress the engine, you’ll damage it. And if you damage it, we’ll have no ATV. We can’t fix a blown engine and we can’t afford to buy another one of these. Look after it, Oskari. Take care of it.”

  “Sorry,” I said as I climbed off the ATV.

  Dad sighed. “It’s okay. Just … just show ’em what you’ve got.” He managed a half smile then grabbed the handlebars, and together we pulled the vehicle out of the mud patch.

  As we did it, I looked across the clearing where the skulls seemed to watch me from the tops of their posts.

  You’re going to fail, their dead voices whispered. You’re going to fail.

  The flaming torches surrounding the platform flickered in the breeze, and Hamara was still standing up there with his rifle against his hip and the bow in his hand, like he was waiting for his sacrifice to be brought to him. All the other men and boys had turned to see what Dad and I were doing.

  Some of them were laughing as I climbed back onto the ATV, but I gritted my teeth and ignored them. I tried to imagine they weren’t there as I drove through the crowd toward the platform, the ATV rattling across the stones.

  “Hey, Oskari!” Risto shouted. “You might find some cranberries over by the swamp.”

  “Or if you can’t find any, just bring back some elk dung,” Broki shouted, earning himself a murmur of laughter.

  “There’s plenty of rabbit droppings!” another voice said.

  I kept my eyes fixed ahead and pretended not to hear them. I tried to tell myself I would show them. I tried to tell myself that I had the map in my pocket, with Dad’s secret hunting ground marked on it, and they would all have to eat their words when I came back with the biggest buck they had ever seen. Somehow, though, it didn’t make me feel any braver or stronger.

  Closer to the platform, I could see that the timber frame wasn’t just filled with gray rocks. There were skulls in there, too, just like Jalmar and Onni had said. Hundreds and hundreds of them, most of them so brown and yellow they looked ancient. All those sharp, broken teeth and empty eye sockets, circled by the flickering torches, made the whole place feel like death.

  When I was right in front of them, I stopped and switched off the engine, terrified by what was to come. I sat for a second, then dismounted the ATV, wondering how many skulls watched me as I climbed the rickety wooden ladder to stand on the platform beside Hamara.

  I cast my eyes over the serious faces of the men below, hardly recognizing anyone because I couldn’t concentrate on anything. My vision sparkled and blurred. My heart hammered in my chest.

  Thump. Thump. Thump.

  My stomach felt heavy and it churned like the time I’d eaten something bad and spent the whole night throwing up.

  Then I caught a glimpse of my friend Jalmar, showing me a thumbs-up, and Dad giving me an encouraging nod, so I turned to Hamara.

  Hamara stared down at me, fixing me with those cold eyes. For a long time, it seemed as if he wasn’t going to do or say anything, but eventually he raised his left hand and offered me the traditional hunting bow.

  I swallowed hard and reached out to take it, but he didn’t let go. I looked at the bow, then at him, and tugged harder. Hamara narrowed his eyes and released his grip.

  A murmur ran through the crowd below. Someone mumbled something, and there was a ripple of laughter.

  The bow was even bigger than Dad’s. It was almost as long as me, so when I touched one end of it on the platform at my feet, the other end reached my chin. The wood was heavy and cold, but the grip was warm from Hamara’s hand. This was the traditional hunting bow of our village, usually kept in the Hunting Lodge, used only for the Trial. It was ancient; the bow every boy had used to prove himself. People from our village had been hunting with it — becoming men — for more than a hundred years. My own dad had shot and killed a bear with this bow.

  Now it was my turn to show what I could do.

  All those hours of practicing had led to this. All those days with aching arms and sore fingers, using bigger and stronger bows, had been about bringing me to this moment in time.

  Be calm, I told myself. Be calm.

  I closed my eyes for a moment, then turned to face the crowd and took up a strong stance, just like Dad had taught me. I held the bow tight in my left hand and took a deep breath as I raised it, hooking the fingers of my right hand around the braided string and beginning to pull.

  The bow creaked and curved as it bent to my strength.

  I kept my left arm straight and firm as I drew the string farther and farther.

  It wasn’t as hard as I had thought it would be. The hours of training had paid off. I was doing it. I was going to prove them all wrong. I would draw the bow all the way and —

  Two fingers’ width from my nose, the bow seemed to tighten and fight against me. The string refused to pull back any farther. I gritted my teeth and summoned all the strength I had, but it just wouldn’t budge. My arms began to burn. The sensation started in my forearms, then blazed right up toward my shoulders, and the bow began to shake. Panic threatened to overwhelm me. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t draw the bow. I wasn’t strong enough.

  I glanced down and saw Dad looking up at me. He was touching the bear’s tooth that hung around his neck, and there was an expression on his face somewhere between shame and pity, which only gave me more strength. I was determined not to let him down. I would show them all.

  With a last surge of effort, I managed to draw the bow back another inch, so that it touched the tip of my nose … but no more. And that wasn’t enough. It had to touch my cheek. The string had to touch my cheek.

  That’s when I knew I had failed.

  Tears stung my eyes and I could hold the bow no longer. My muscles burned and my arms were shaking and my father hung his head in shame.

  I allowed the string to relax and stood with the bow at my side.

  Some of the boys in the crowd laughed quietly, but the men shifted in embarrassment. It was the worst thing that could happen — if I wasn’t even strong enough to draw the bow, how on earth would I survive the forest? And what would the forest offer a boy who couldn’t draw the traditional bow?

  Hamara took off his hat, crumpling it into his fist as he stared down at me. He shook his head once and turned to scan the crowd, looking at each man before his eyes finally came to rest on Dad’s. Hamara watched him for a moment, then put out a hand and beckoned to him to join us on the platform.

  Dad climbed up, followed by Siffonen and Rysty, two of the other senior men from our village. They were craggy and weather-beaten, like Hamara, with thick gray beards and drooping bags beneath their eyes. They approached Hamara without looking at me. It was as if I wasn’t even there.

  “What shall we do?” Hamara asked. “No one has ever failed to draw the bow before.”

  “The boy goes home.” Rysty’s voice was gravelly from years of smoking, and his beard was tinged yellow with tobacco stains.

  “The hell he will,” Dad said, standing firm. “He needs to do this.”


  “There have been exceptions.” Hamara looked down and ran a hand over his head. “The Kuusisto boy didn’t do the Trial.”

  “He was in a wheelchair,” Dad said. “He didn’t even try to draw the bow. This is not the same thing.”

  Hamara frowned. “Maybe it’s better this way. He’s not strong enough. If he goes home, it will save him crying in front of the whole village.”

  “Oskari does not cry,” Dad said. “And sending him home will not save him the embarrassment.”

  “Or you.” Hamara raised his eyes to meet Dad’s.

  Dad looked as if he wanted to hit Hamara. “He’s not going home,” he said. “You have to give him a chance. We’ve been training like crazy for this. And don’t forget who’s teaching him. When I was his age, I brought back a bear.”

  “He’s not you.”

  “He’s my son.”

  The men fell silent for a moment, then turned to look at me.

  I wiped my nose with my sleeve and stood straight.

  Hamara shook his head again and let out a heavy sigh. “I’m not going out looking for him tomorrow if he gets lost.”

  “He won’t get lost,” Dad said. “He’s smart. Just make your speech and send him on his way.”

  Hamara continued to watch me for a moment, then he looked at Siffonen and Rysty, who shrugged. Hamara nodded and pulled his hat back on. “Very well. Tradition is tradition.”

  Dad spat into his hand and offered it to Hamara, who hesitated. For a second, I thought he was going to change his mind, then Hamara spat into his own palm and the two men shook once. The way they gripped each other’s hands, it was as if they were trying to break bones.

  When they were finished, Dad squeezed my shoulder then left the platform and went to join the other men. Siffonen and Rysty followed close behind, leaving me alone with Hamara once more. The crowd grew restless and muttered conversations broke out.