A short distance into the woods, Jim heard two shots go off and felt pain run through his body. “Please don't let it be,” he said, looking upward into the tops of the pines. He waited, but heard no other shots. He threw his rifle over his shoulder like an unnecessary walking stick. He sometimes wondered why he still bothered to carry the thing. Tradition? Habit? So other hunters wouldn’t think he was nuts? He had never shot a deer, even in his younger years. Small game, yes. But deer? He'd seen them, just never lifted his rifle, never got a bead on them. Several times he’d shooed them away. “Well, hello there, deer. You really shouldn't be out in these woods today. Lucky you happened onto me.” He was not against hunting; he just didn't shoot deer.
His mind wandered over those days while he crunched through the top crust of snow. It amused him to think about the past that way. He had always been the quiet type, often very passive. Rebecca berated him about it in the beginning. She wished for a more aggressive husband, one who fought for a better life, more money, more power. Eventually she saw that he could never make himself fit into a corporate mold. He loved his job teaching junior high school English. He looked forward to the summers off where he would pick up a different part-time job each year. Labor-intensive, mindless work that rested him for the new school year.
Going through the woods around the hill, Jim had the choice to think abstractly or to focus on the moment at hand. He drew himself into the neck of his jacket whenever the wind rushed overhead. It kept him warm and also protected him from falling snow that might slip down inside his coat. The smells and sounds of the woods were unique every season, but Jim loved winter best, with its muffled tones and crisp, clean air, the slight scent of pine.
On the last leg of his slow progression, Jim followed what looked like a path although there were no tracks in the snow. The underbrush had been parted; whether by man's technical hand or beasts' use over and over didn't matter. The path was set and he planned to explore it. The path continued to open up and reveal more as he walked deeper into the woods. The incline was slight, but he knew he headed uphill.
As the woods got denser, the path became more apparent, yet there were still no prints to give away what, or who, kept the path cleared. As the ground leveled off, the wind picked up. He wasn't at the top of the hill, but somewhere near it. He continued following the path, turning one way then another. He was almost sure it was a hikers' trail, or a horseback trail for some local 4-H club. As he walked on, he became more winded, his heartbeat unusually fast. He knew he wasn't out of shape. Yet the combination of shortness of breath and increased heartbeat was even more confusing when he considered how invigorated he felt. Around another turn and Jim fell into a run, his heart pumping, his breath heavy. Holding the stock of the rifle in his right hand, the weapon swung next to him like a relay race baton. He got warm and unzipped his jacket completely.
As he wound through the woods, first going along level ground, then uphill again, and finally, in a spiral, into a steep decline, Jim could feel the lump under his arm rubbing as his arms rocked forward and back. Life was finite, at least physical life was. He stopped jogging and leaned against a tree. He lifted the rifle into the air and placed his left hand under his right arm and pressed. “Damn,” he said. “I'm a dead man.” He breathed deeply and spit into the snow. He let his arms fall next to his sides. His right hand gripped the rifle—the weapon, cold and black, that killed living things. Life was much too precious at that moment to ever want to use the rifle.
The trail came to a fork and Jim contemplated going back the way he came. He felt excited, jittery, like he had overdosed on his prescription. He didn't know if he wanted to continue into the woods or not. A little ways more, he thought, only a little farther. There was a good chance that the trail circled back onto itself, anyway.
He thought of leaving the rifle. He no longer needed it. But Brad would want it. Jim's grandfather, father, and now he had used it. The stock of the 44-40 he carried was cold.
Jim zipped up his jacket halfway. The breeze that worked its way down from the tops of the trees touched his face with gentle hands, and he raised his face toward it, accepting it.
Farther down the path, his mind slipped into thoughts about Connie when she was a little girl. He stopped the tears before they got out. It had been a long time since he thought about her as a young girl. He tried to get his mind to focus on the woods and the path, to separate him from the pain born of memories of someone he would soon join.
The snow appeared to be deeper. Dense clumps hung over the tree branches and perched on top of the thicker, stronger bushes. Even the sky overhead took on a deeper hue. Jim looked down. His eyes widened and his breath quickened—hoof prints. Everywhere. When did they start? He looked around. They came from all angles, from both directions on the path, from the woods on either side of him. Fresh tracks, but there were no deer. He bent down. It was almost scary that he could be so mindless. Could he have stumbled into a herd and not even noticed? He stood up and proceeded down the path. Beyond a small grove of pine trees, there looked to be a clearing. He headed for it. When he stepped around the trees, he saw them. Deer. One lying down and two standing. Two does and a buck. Jim stopped dead in his tracks. The deer didn't move. They weren't threatening at all.
For a long time Jim stood still, staring at the three deer, which stared back at him. There were hoof prints everywhere, as though thirty invisible deer were standing there. The air filled with what appeared to be the golden glow of dusk, but different as well. Perhaps these new variations in color entered from overhead. Perhaps they were from the deeper colors in the sky, the depth of green from the trees, or some odd ricochet of light off the snow. All Jim knew was that the deer looked unnatural. Fantasy deer. Mannequins. Their only movement was an occasional twitch of the ears. Green, blue, and brown converged, part deer, part light, and waltzed as the trees swayed in the wind.
Jim suddenly became cold, particularly his right hand, the one holding the rifle. Once stabilized and calm, he braved movement, first by bending at the waist and lowering the rifle onto the snow. Then he zipped his jacket to the neck; a small string of goosebumps formed and ran down his spine and over his shoulders. His face felt hot. His mind raced to the old house and incorporated its dark, shadowy spaces downstairs and the loving spaces in the master bedroom into his now growing emotional attachment to this moment, to the deer, the woods, the odd light, and himself. Together, there were emotional and physical energies he couldn't understand, could hardly fathom except that he knew each aspect intimately, having experienced it.
He took a step forward expecting everything before him to disintegrate and for the face of some fat nurse to be staring down at him, lifting the cold white sheet over his face. But to his complete surprise, nothing of the kind happened. His heart raced faster and he felt he could hardly contain the energy. His body wanted to run. No, be cautious. The six-point buck stepped out from behind the supine doe; the other doe, standing near the buck, turned her head to watch him move. Just from watching him, Jim could feel the power of the male. His smooth motions were like an ice skater’s, not an animal’s. Jim knew that movement was what animals were all about: migratory, life-securing, pleasurable movement.
The buck walked slowly, as if concerned that it would scare Jim away. And Jim considered stepping back to his original position and reaching for his rifle. The odd light ran across the deer's back, the wind rustled the trees, the woods closed in and held them all there in that place. Jim became part of the deer and the grove and the strange world of light and wind. Even his death was a part of this place that seemed to create itself out of, and around, him and his experiences. How oddly everything here belonged to him and he belonged to it. His love and anger and euphoria and pain—inside and outside him.
Jim waited for the male to come closer. Its brown eyes glistened and its nose dripped. A peculiar, yet authentic, smell emanated from the animal. Jim lifted his hand the way one human does to another human.
With that thought still struggling inside Jim's mind, the buck lifted its head and looked into Jim's eyes. Jim heard the words, “No, that is not it.” He stepped backward in a reverse run and tripped through the snow, landing on his back. The rifle lay near his hand, but he didn't grab it. He only looked at its long black barrel lying in the snow next to him.
“Do not be afraid.” The words came from the direction of the deer. The syllables entered his ears as though they had passed lips and rode the wind over to him. Yet the deer’s lips had not moved.
Jim stayed on his back, lifted his head, and waited for more words. He couldn't speak. There was nothing to say. In a moment, the buck came over to him, not in curiosity, but in determination and confidence.
“Fear does not become you. Abandon it.”
It was an order Jim didn't know how to respond to. He reached for the rifle, but when his hand met cold steel, he didn't grasp it. Instead he rolled to his side and sat up. “What do you want from me?”
The buck turned its neck and looked back in an expression of concern for the other deer, a way to include them, to see if they heard the question. The standing doe shifted her feet and perked up her ears. The other doe lowered her head, nose out, brown eyes wide. The buck turned back around to Jim. “We want nothing.”
“Then . . . “
“We are the gift—” the standing doe said.
“—and you are the giver,” the other doe completed her statement.
“But if you're the gift, I can't be the giver,” Jim said.
“Without you, we cannot be what we are,” the standing doe replied.
It was too confusing for him. Something didn't fit properly. It wasn't a gift, it was a miracle. There was no other word. Either he had died, gone crazy, or it was a miracle. He didn't feel dead or crazy; that left only one explanation. What else could it be?
The buck’s ears twitched expressively, then the first doe’s ears did the same. They must be communicating among themselves. Jim stood up from the snow and picked up the rifle. There was no longer any sense of threat from either side. Miracles were like that, he thought. He followed the buck to where the doe were.
As though invited to do so, Jim knelt behind the doe that was lying down and placed his gloved hand on her bony neck. He held the rifle upright. It would make such an odd picture, he thought.
The light around them remained peculiar. Time slowed, even though his heart raced. “I want to understand,” he said to them. “Why are you here? What gift do you bring? What am I giving?”
The doe in front of him spoke. The words took hold of his ears and mind at once. Even his body felt them. “Your being is a part, a calling. We were chosen as the gift.”
“Then how am I the giver?”
She rose from the ground then, and turned to him. Jim rose also, the rifle in his right hand not a weapon, but an article of clothing he wore into the woods.
“You give.”
“But I'm receiving the gift.”
The buck put his nose to Jim’s elbow and nudged him.
Jim raised his face to a soft wind blowing into the small clearing. The snow shifted like a light fog over the ground and tree branches; some clumps hit the ground with muffled thuds. He felt oversensitive. His face, his nose, his body. All the smells and the color, everywhere. If the deer were a gift then so was this place. How had he given it to himself? Why had he? It was beautiful and sad. What could he do with this gift to himself, but know that it happened only to him? Why had he complicated his life with a miracle? He looked around, held out his arms, and dropped the rifle. He became a human cross; trying to grasp the universe, trying to feel everything around him, take it all inside.
Twilight fell around them. The forest remained quiet, only the sound of wind, small birds, and squirrels. “I want to know more. Don’t let me forget this. Please, I want to go back with every memory.” He was afraid of forgetting details, because there were no details. The closer to night it became, the less he seemed to know or be able to grasp.
As darkness settled around them, Jim realized that he must go. Once he left, he knew the miracle would be over. “One more thing,” he said. “How can I be sure this happened, that this was what it was?” He looked to each of them. “I need one more sign, one more.” He knew he was being unreasonable. A sign to prove a miracle? How human not to believe his own eyes and ears and heart. “Please,” he said, “then I'll go.”
Then, all around, in each set of footsteps in the snow, amidst the dancing light of near darkness, color and sound fell into flesh and bone like falling stars fall into the ocean. Deer appeared around him, fading into view one behind another as though they had been there all the time, but hidden from his eyes behind the very light that now seemed to bring them into view. Jim stood in silence.
“Remember that you are a part of everything, forever,” the buck said.
“Now go,” they said.
And the forest shook itself awake. Jim left.
CHAPTER 2
THE VOICES FADED BEHIND JIM. The moon rose above tree level and cleared a path. Light off the snow guided him to the side of the hill. Echoes pushed him forward. Images of what had happened sustained him in the cold of night. He tried to grasp everything that had happened, their words and his sensations, but became less sure of the specifics as he mulled them over. He knew—or hoped—that things would come to him as time went on. That the details of the event would surface like small lifeboats in a sea of survivors. He had been crying. He could feel the dried tears on his face. Part of him wanted to believe that it had been just a dream, but inside he knew it had all been real.
Darkness fell evenly across the fields and forest. The moon on the snow kept it light enough for him to find his way back. When he approached the small cabin, Ed and Mel rushed from the door. “What took you?” Mel said as matter-of-factly as he could muster.
“You won’t believe it,” Jim said. Yet, even at that moment, he debated with himself how much to tell them. He knew they wouldn’t believe him. But they were his friends, and since there was an explanation they should hear it.
The two men gathered around him, concerned and relieved at once. The cabin door stood open. A dim light fell onto the small porch and out into the cold night. Through the door, the flickering of firelight could be seen, but not the fire. The smell of smoke was in the air.
Jim handed over his rifle.
“We thought you were face down somewhere,” Ed said.
“What’d you do, take a nap?” Mel added. “We looked and called. Didn’t you hear us?”
“I couldn’t hear anything. My mind was too caught up in it all,” Jim said.
“In what? Hunting?” Mel asked.
“No. A miracle.”
Ed and Mel looked at each other as they ushered Jim into the cabin. The warm air fell over them like a heavy quilt. Jim hadn’t noticed before, but his heart rate had dropped to normal. “I need rest,” he said, taking off his coat.
“What about this miracle thing?” Mel asked.
“I don’t know if I should talk about it right now.”
“Why’s that?” Mel couldn’t let it go.
Jim, with Ed and Mel close behind, entered the single bedroom where there were two beds and a cot. Past years, Jim got the cot, but this year, Ed took it. Jim knew that the way they treated him now was a reflection on his condition, but he tended not to be too assertive, so he let them, though it wasn’t necessary. He liked the feelings of roughing it he got when he slept on the cot. This trip he had given up that sensation so that Ed an
d Mel could feel better. “I’m sleeping here tonight.” Jim flopped onto the cot, still fully dressed.
Ed and Mel said, “No,” at the same time, then looked at each other.
“I love this old cot. I miss it.” Jim put his hands behind his head and closed his eyes. He heard his friends shuffling around and whispering.
“Jim?” Mel said.
“Yeah?”
“What happened out there?”
Without opening his eyes, Jim said, “Something magnificent.” The last image he saw flashed through his mind— all the deer appearing, once again. “Something magical.” He opened his eyes and turned his head. Ed and Mel sat on their beds looking at him. Jim couldn’t tell if they stared in interest or in concern. “You won’t believe me, I tell you. You’ll just think I’m nuts.”
“No, we won’t,” Mel looked at Ed for confirmation and Ed obediently shook his head.
Jim propped himself on one elbow. His eyes felt extremely heavy. “If I told you, point-blank, that I saw a flying saucer and little aliens, would you believe me?”
Ed sat up straight. Again, the two friends looked over at one another.
“Did you?” Mel asked.
“No?” Ed said.
Jim had his answer, turned onto his back, and closed his eyes.
“He didn’t mean that,” Mel said.
“Really, I didn’t, Jim,” Ed said. “You know that. We’ve been friends too long. I didn’t want to believe about the cancer”—that word he said in almost a whisper—“either, at first. Remember?”
Jim did remember. Ed had been there for as far back as Jim could go, from playgrounds and preschools, from girls and puppy love, and from secrets and indiscretions, all the way from childhood into the adult years. They had met up with Mel in high school. But Mel had come along well, and could be trusted.
“I don’t know,” Jim said, his tiredness slowing his words. He breathed deeper. His eyelids were too heavy to hold open. Maybe after a good rest, he’d be more coherent. “Tomorrow,” he whispered. Just before falling off completely, Jim heard the concerned voices of the other two as they left the room. The conversation got farther and farther away until they were somewhere deep in the forest.
Terry Persun's Magical Realism Collection Page 46