The Night of Trees

by Thomas Williams

  Shim once said that he could smell deer, but Shim said a lot of things. You didn’t have to smell a deer to shoot out his shining eyes at night, when he was hypnotized by a jacklight. Where had Shim stashed his kill, though? He still hadn’t got all the blood out of his fingernails this morning.

  As they walked, single file, their boots made small noises, softer than the ground wind. The real wind was higher, for the misty clouds flew silently overhead, very fast; their silence and speed excited him, and seemed to predict great action. The beginning day seemed weird and momentous—but it was always like that on the first day of deer season, no matter what the weather. Murray left them—no one spoke—and as the sky lightened he followed Shim up the long tow slope. Shim walked steadily, not too fast—they didn’t want to sweat themselves out, and it wasn’t just for comfort: deer had sharp noses, and the wind on the mountain turned and was fitful in the morning; best not to stink too much. The odds were large enough already. As they went around a deep patch of ground juniper he reached down and gathered several of the berries, by touch—it was still too dark along the ground to see them, and bit into one. Bitter, harsh as gin. He spat it out again, and followed.

  Shim was gone, off into the woods to the left, and Richard climbed on until he reached a certain tall spruce whose needles sighed, whose trunk was straight. The trees around it had been cut down, but it still grew tall and narrow as if it were deeply surrounded. He moved into the dead lower branches in order to merge his silhouette with the tree’s, and as the day came on, the sunrise white and clear, blue growing across the sky out of a deeper, darker ultramarine, he stood quietly and let himself cool out.

  All that morning he moved slowly, then stood with his outline carefully broken so that whatever habitual movements he happened to make with his hands, his head or his shoulders would not be too dramatic against a lighter or darker background. The deer could not see the red of his clothes, and he had to keep remembering this. Shim wore green, but that was because he didn’t want to be seen by other hunters, not because of the game.

  He faced the wind as much as possible, and examined each new vista carefully, section by section, before he brought his body fully into it. His rifle was always ready, held hunter-fashion in the crook of his left arm or, if he used his sling, barrel-down over the back of his left shoulder where it could be swung up and over into aiming position in one smooth movement. He saw fresh sign, but none so fresh it excited him. There were a few moments when his pulse picked up and his arms grew hard. Once a partridge, sneaking beneath a bent alder in a swampy place, looked in the deceptive distance as if it had deer’s legs. Once a squirrel snapped a twig that, from the sound, must have been as thick as his body. Once the sun flashed against the gnarled roots of a blown down pine, and for a lovely moment the bony wood was the antlers of a buck.

  What did it matter that a deer did not appear before him? One might at any moment, and each new moment brought him as near a possible, unpredictable chance at fate as would a new birth and a new life.

  He met Murray at a little after ten o’clock. Murray had a good stand among some tall beeches where he could see quite far along the edge of the field and in certain directions up long, chance corridors of trees. Richard would have passed him by, but Murray gave a short whistle and there he was, not far away. They were both glad, for the moment, to relax somewhat and to move not as hunters.

  “Nothing?” Richard said.

  Murray shook his head.

  “No really fresh sign at all,” Richard said.

  “Shim came by about twenty minutes ago. He’s circling around. Said he jumped a skipper but didn’t shoot.”

  “I would have.”

  “So would I. I wouldn’t mind, even if it was small. Not so hard to drag out, anyway.”

  “Good eating. I’d like some of that tenderloin tonight,” Richard said.

  “Shim wouldn’t settle for a skipper,” Murray said.

  “Hurt his pride to use his tag on one.”

  “Wouldn’t hurt mine.”

  And so, almost ritually, they made the hunters’ talk. They didn’t look directly at each other, but back into the trees: it was as though they were hunters who had met by chance in the woods, and neither knew anything about the other except, by his red clothes and rifle, that he was a hunter too.

  “A rabbit came by about an hour ago,” Murray said. “Had me all nerved up for a while, till I saw what it was. Sounded like a whole herd of deer.”

  “A squirrel did the same to me. Sounded as big as a horse.”

  “Getting colder—maybe freeze tonight.”

  “Might snow.”

  “Hope so. Then we’ll find where they are.”

  “Was that skipper alone, did he say?”

  “Far as I could tell.”

  They were silent, listening. The leaves had begun to dry out, and now they heard loud rustlings and crunchings from up the hill. It turned out to be nothing but a red squirrel, who ran up a tree, much closer than he had sounded in the leaves, and screamed and chattered at them for a moment. Murray threw a stick against the tree trunk and he shut up.

  “Going to be noisy this afternoon,” Richard said.

  “Shim said he saw bear sign,” Murray said.

  “Try to see a bear, though.”

  “Did you ever see one in the woods?”

  “Once—far away across a field. He was turning over rocks looking for grubs. All I had was a shotgun and birdshot.”

  “You never see them when you’ve got the right gun.”

  “Shim told me they got forty-five off the mountain—Cascom and Leah sides both—last deer season.”

  “Most with dogs, I bet,” Murray said.

  “Deer hunters get a lot of them, though.”

  “You think it was Shim out jacking last night?” Murray said.

  “You heard the shot?” Richard was startled by the question, but then he remembered that Zach had mentioned the shot at breakfast.

  “I think I did,” Murray said.

  Then he might have heard them by the hall window—but they had spoken very softly, and the window was a good distance from Murray’s door. “You didn’t sleep too well, I guess,” he said, and now watched Murray’s face carefully.

  “Just woke up for a while. I guess the shot woke me up. You think it was Shim?”

  No, Murray hadn’t heard anything else. But he would have to be careful, very careful. “I wouldn’t doubt it. Meat for the winter?”

  Richard found himself getting impatient to hunt again. “Which way did Shim go?”

  “Said he was going to make a big circle around to the right, then end up back here again.”

  “I’ll go around the field to the left, then.”

  “Good luck.”

  “Same to you.”

  And again he was off into the woods, hunting. He could see the field off to his right, and slowly, slowly, he moved along about twenty yards from its edge. Small balsam were growing up among ash and pin-cherry saplings here, some in little islands perfect for hiding deer. A fine place for their day beds. He would be oh, so quiet and careful here—so sharp with his eyes, and if the deer were bedded here, and leaped up…His hands felt expert and savage upon his rifle, and when he stopped he was completely still —all of him immobile except his eyes, and he was aware even of their deliberate movements.

  17

  MURRAY WATCHED his father move off into the trees. He had looked happier; he supposed that the unhappiness he had detected in his father could, at least for a while, be forgotten. Now his father was a hunter, and could concentrate upon that. He hated to worry a man who was already worried, but his father had always seemed so capable, had taken charge of things and solved them so often, he didn’t doubt that somehow he would bring his mother back again. There seemed to be no reason for their separation. He didn’t think either one of them was unfaithful. He guessed they were both still young enough for that—seriously—then smiled at his own first childish thought. Hi
s father was still a handsome man. He hummed the lullaby:

  Yore daddy is rich

  And yore mammy’s good lookin’.

  So hush, little baby,

  Don’t you cry.

  Just old. Pretty old, both of them. In their forties. And he did resent a little their troubles with love. He was the young one who should have full rights to that exciting problem. Old people ought to steady down and let the young ones have their adventures. One generation at a time, please! So, he thought, we make our parents, even though their blood still runs red, into institutions—sort of corporate entities which should be run by highly responsible committees rather than by glands and hearts.

  He loved them both, though, and it was not possible to love a corporation that much. He wanted them both to be happy, and he was sure (or was he again their child?) that in order to be happy they must be together.

  Something moved just at the periphery of his vision. He heard nothing, but something had moved. He waited for at least thirty seconds, then slowly turned his head. There, by a bunch of basswood brush, half hidden behind one of the beeches, was something green. Shim. The eyes, disembodied by a skein of branches, looked steadily at him, but Shim evidently didn’t think he had been seen. Murray casually looked on by. Shim liked to play games, even though such a game, with a jumpy hunter, might be very dangerous. Murray sat still, now acting hunter himself, and let Shim try to come closer. Then he became impatient with it all; he felt that he had outgrown this business, and hadn’t the time for it. So he put his rifle down, placed his cap carefully on a mossy rock next to the tree he had been leaning against, put his head on his cap and nonchalantly stood on his head.

  Shim whooped. “You seen me, by God!” and he came walking up. “How long you seen me?”

  “Just now,” Murray said as he got back on his feet.

  “I’m pretty sneaky, you know! You got to watch out for me.”

  “You are, all right,” Murray said.

  “I’m going to sneak me a deer, too. You watch. Git that big buck your pa saw on the road.”

  Shim’s orange hair seemed thinner today, his face paler; his whole head was sweaty and unhealthy-looking. His rangy arms and shoulders were restless under his chino shirt. “You know what I done to young Spooner,” he said fiercely, narrowing his eyes. Then his face turned sly, and he said: “You go out with girls? You had much to do with the women, Murray?”

  “Some.”

  “What I want to do—sort of a little project, you might say, is grab a hunk of Spooner’s wife. Oooo, man! What a nice little split-tail he got for himself!”

  Murray was shocked by the word. Split-tail! A square-tail was a trout; a pin-tail was a duck. But a split-tail! For the moment, at least, it seemed to be the filthiest word he had ever heard in his life, and he wondered why. By Shim’s expression, and his waiting, he was aware of the shock it had caused.

  “Nicest little split-tail you ever did see,” Shim said, watching.

  Yes, it managed, more than any other word he could think of, to dehumanize. Split-tail. To dehumanize and yet keep the violated object somehow delicate and frail, so that the violation was all the more brutal. He was a little shocked, to, because Shim had been married for only six months.

  “I’m figuring out how I’m going to git me a nice juicy hunk of that stuff, boy.”

  “You ought to get friendly with Spooner then, shouldn’t you?”

  “You think so, do you?” Shim said quickly. “You think I ought to git real palsy-walsy with him? Real buddy-buddy?”

  Murray was somewhat resentful that Shim had perceived his shock, so he prepared to demonstrate his worldliness. At the same time he was rather ashamed of himself. “You got to get into the house before you get into her pants,” he said.

  Shim laughed. “Oh, Murray, you’re a regular philosopher, you are! I guess I better go apologize to Spooner!” He looked sly again. “Oh, sure! Got to git into the house before I git into her pants!” He punched Murray on the arm and said, “Ain’t we devils, though?

  “Dartmouth’s in town again,

  Run, girls, run!“

  he sang in a high, squeaky little voice. Then he was all serious again, and suggested that he take the stand for a while—it was a good one—and Murray still-hunt. Murray would circle to the right and maybe, between the two of them moving and him watching, they might jump and see a deer. “I think that buck’s hiding out around here. I seen his sign.”

  As he left Shim, while he was still in Shim’s sight, he consciously hunted. It was getting colder, and he was a little stiff at first. When he was safely out of Shim’s sight he relaxed, and then found himself merely walking along, snapping twigs and scuffing leaves. After a while, some hunting instinct left in him, he decided he’d better sit again so that if his father did push a deer out he’d at least have a chance to see it. He found a place at the edge of some hemlocks where he could see down a barely recognizable tote road, broke off a few lower branches of one of the hemlocks, and sat down on the soft needles with his back against it. Maybe if it snowed he would get some of his interest back, but he could not summon much of it now.

  For the first time since he’d come to the mountain he wondered how long he would have to stay in order to fulfill his contract with his father. They hadn’t spoken yet; he was sure that in this week his father would speak seriously with him. But what could he say in answer to his father’s questions? Didn’t they already know each other as well as most fathers and sons? Not as equals. He didn’t think, really, that his father wanted that kind of a relationship. They had it, of course, in certain things—like that hunting conversation, where they had acted almost as if they were distant acquaintances. They would never be buddy-buddy (Shim’s old-fashioned phrase), though. Obviously his father was putting off the time when they must speak to each other. Now he seemed to be using the hunting, after having used it once to get him up here, again as procrastination.

  His father was an honorable man—that he never doubted. All men procrastinated, but his father always kept his word. An old-fashioned virtue, of course. Rather corny? Rather Mickey Mouse? Rather square? All right, but for his father’s honesty he had nothing but gratitude—deep gratitude that could never be worn away. Bone deep, lifetime long, and with all the inevitable barriers what else could a father give a son? When his father spoke, he spoke out of the steady knowledge of all he had seen, all he knew really to be true, and if he were wrong he could at least explain, honorably, his train of logic; and Murray usually found his syllogisms, if not always his major premises, correct.

  Tears came to his eyes, and the branches above him turned prismatic. How silly, but a man should have such a father, and honor him.

  About his own honor? He had tried not to think about it too much—what it meant. What could be excused by youth? What could be excused by hurry, a sense of mission? What could be excused by youth’s feeling, sometimes, of immortality, of the tremendous length of the years? One always had a past which contained certain experiences in which, it seemed forever afterward, one’s honor had suffered. It depended upon the mood in which they were recalled. Now, after having appraised his father’s honesty, the things he himself had done just last June did not please him, nor did they seem merely neutral—not even after five months in which much had happened. One measure—he hadn’t thought of this until now—was that he hadn’t mentioned what he’d done in June to Shelton when they came back to school. It was as if he had chosen to leave June out of his summer altogether. Now he thought of it. Did he dare? He smiled nervously from his ambush in the brittle woods, but he remembered the ancient record he played over and over while swatting mosquitoes in the old barn of a recreation hall: Long Ago and Far Away. And the silver, thickshanked needles he had to change, and how he had to hold the old Victrola with one hand and crank it with the other; how he rubbed 6.12 Insect Repellent on his arms and dreamed of Christine’s hair, which would be black and aromatic—smelling of the lake, and of her narrow han
ds coming up over his shoulders and sliding back down over his clavicles. He shivered, and the silly old tune took on that strange nostalgic power that only the banal can really command, because the banal never re-creates itself, but only brings back, pure and simple, whatever was there.

  The summer job arranged by the Athletic Department would not begin until July, and Charlie Gilman, the backfield coach, had steered him onto a job for the month of June—building a beach at a summer camp on Lake Cascom. Because the camp didn’t have a loader, all the sand had to be shoveled into the camp’s old Model-A truck. “Better than going back to the city and getting flabby,” Charlie said. “Don’t swim too much—wrong muscles—anyway, you won’t have time. Just shovel your tailbone off.” But, like many jobs, it didn’t turn out to be so hard after all. The amount of beach they wanted was small, and it took him just five days to haul the sand. After that he did odd things—scythed brush, painted, repaired the float and dock, caulked rowboats. The camp was called Winnicom, and was run by an old couple named Wilson; it would open later, in July, and whole families would come for most of the summer, families that had come there for years. It was hardly commercial, very cheap, and while the Wilsons had hired him for the whole month, they chose to be grateful for each repair he made. Ordinarily the people who came back each year to their favorite cabin and favorite rowboat did most of their own repairs. Mr. Wilson was a retired professor—in fact he had a men’s dormitory named after him at the state university.

  “No longer am I a mere man,” he said to Murray, “I am an edifice.” They were both standing thigh-deep in the cold water, rolling fieldstones into a breakwater; Winnicom was on the rocky, pine and birch side of the lake—the northwest side—where pine roots coiled into the water, beaches would never stay, and it was cool and dark in the mornings. Mr. Wilson pulled one of his long, ropy shanks out of the water, put his foot on the breakwater, and leaned his elbows on his knee. Already he was tanned. He looked, like many lean old men, not only tanned by the sun, but as if he had been tanned by a tannery: wrinkled but pliable, preserved. His head was smooth all over, except for a few very long wisps of bonewhite hair and the harrowed places around his brown eyes.