Migrators

by Ike Hamill

  “I’m sorry,” Alan said. “Is this your land? We were just out for a…”

  The man cut him off.

  “It’s not posted. You’ve got as much right to be here as I do, but legal don’t mean safe,” the man said.

  Bob approached the man.

  “My name is Bob. I live over on the Location Road.”

  The old man nodded.

  “My name’s Clyde. Everyone calls me Buster though.”

  “Nice to meet you, Buster. My friend and I were wondering who owns this lot. It says on the map that it’s owned by the town?”

  “Yup,” Buster said. “It is. You fellas need to come over here. I’ll fix you up.”

  “Pardon?” Alan asked.

  Buster waved them closer.

  Bob got there first as Buster produced a small bag that was slung over his shoulder. Buster leaned his shotgun against the side of the cabin and leaned over to unzip his bag. He came back up with two handkerchiefs. They were bright orange—even brighter than Buster’s overalls.

  “Put this around your head or at least tie it around your arm. I shouldn’t have to tell you—today’s the first day of Moose season and the Massholes will shoot at anything. And you’re walking around in brown pants, and your friend here has got on a brown jacket. You two might as well be wearing a Bullwinkle costume. I have half a mind to shoot you myself,” Buster said. He chuckled. The sound was throaty and warm.

  “I thought hunting season didn’t start until November,” Alan said.

  Alan took one of the handkerchiefs and tied it around his upper arm. Bob tied his around his head, with the triangle of orange in the back.

  “There—now nobody can say I didn’t give you a sporting chance,” Buster said. His stained smile was little comfort. “Deer season starts in November for firearms. You’ve got archery in October, but we don’t get a lot of that around here. This week is moose. I suggest you do your hiking on Sunday from now on and keep it that way until Christmas.”

  “So whose cabin is this?” Alan asked. “Do you know?”

  “I do indeed. I didn’t catch your name,” Buster said.

  “Sorry—I’m Alan Harper.”

  “I’ve seen you somewheres, and I’ve heard that name,” Buster said. “Over to the dump maybe? Does your wife own the Colonel’s house?”

  “Yes,” Alan said. “That’s our house. The Colonel was her grandfather.”

  “I liked him,” Buster said. “No matter what they all said.” He gave Alan an exaggerated wink.

  “The cabin?” Bob asked, trying to get the old man back on track.

  “Yes?”

  “If the town owns the land, then whose cabin is it?”

  “Well the town’s, I guess,” Buster said. “Quid pro quo, as they say.”

  “The town built it?”

  “Nope,” Buster said. “The town owns it though. Bunch of old boys who were contemporary with my father built the thing. They built it to last. Town took it over when they took the parcel. There wasn’t anyone left to pay the tax on it, so they just took it back. Nobody fought them. It’s not worth a shit anymore.”

  “So nobody really owns it?” Alan asked.

  “You catch on quick,” Buster said with another wink. “Back when your house was the only house on this end of the road, this whole area here was pasture. The land down there wasn’t much good for grazing. The ground’s too soft. That marsh will suck the feet right off’n a cow. So the locals harvested the marsh grass. They could dry it out and use it for hay in a pinch. Once all the dairies moved away and the woods grew up, then the old boys used this cabin as a hunting lodge. My father said he could come out at dawn for a piss and shoot three bucks from the porch. It’s no good for that now though.”

  “Oh?” Bob asked.

  Buster burped and nodded.

  “You’ll want to head that way until you get to the road,” Buster said, pointing. “If you see my truck out there, you can leave the bandanas on the seat. If you hear someone else in the woods, I suggest you start yelling at the top of your lungs. A Masshole will still shoot you, but maybe the yelling will throw off his aim a bit.”

  “Buster, we saw something in the marsh last week. We came back to see if we could find out anything about it,” Bob said.

  “Is that right?” Buster asked. He slung his bag over his shoulder and then picked up his shotgun.

  “It looked like a body. I guess it was some kind of dead animal,” Alan said.

  “We had the sheriff out here, but the thing was gone. Something must have dragged it away,” Bob said.

  Buster tucked the shotgun over his arm and then folded his hands low, under his belly. The barrel of his shotgun pointed lazily off into the woods.

  “Have you ever seen anything out here that looks kinda like a person, but it’s like a mottled purple color?” Alan asked.

  “Purple?” Buster asked. He narrowed his eyes.

  “Yes,” Alan said. “It might have been bruised, or maybe it just looked purple because it was decomposing.”

  “You touch the thing?” Buster asked.

  “No,” Bob said.

  “Poke it? Move it? Molest it in some way?” Buster asked.

  “No, of course not,” Alan said.

  “What makes you so sure it was dead?” Buster asked.

  “It wasn’t moving,” Alan said.

  “And it smelled and had flies all over it,” Bob said.

  “And then you left and when you came back it was gone?” Buster asked.

  “Yes,” Bob said.

  “And did you see any sign that something else had carried it away?”

  “No,” Bob said.

  “Doesn’t sound dead to me,” Buster said.

  “But have you seen anything like that?” Bob asked.

  “Or heard of anything like that around here?” Alan asked.

  Buster shook his head and walked between the men.

  “Quid pro quo, as they say. Doesn’t sound dead at all,” Buster said. He veered to the right and left Alan and Bob standing there. Buster disappeared into the woods. They couldn’t see his orange overalls anymore, but for awhile they could still hear his shuffling feet brushing through the leaves.

  X • X • X • X • X

  “Nice guy,” Alan said. “He’s going to have to put some more effort in if he wants to pull off that ‘creepy-old-timer’ vibe.”

  “I think he was flirting with you,” Bob said.

  “Dudunt sound deyud ut uhl,” Alan said, imitating Buster’s accent.

  Bob laughed.

  “That’s pretty good. You need more phlegm in there though.”

  “What’s a Masshole?” Alan asked.

  “Massachusetts asshole,” Bob said. “Every couple of years someone gets shot by an out-of-state hunter. People call them Massholes.”

  “Clever.”

  Bob started walking towards the hill that sloped down to the pond.

  “What do you think?” Bob asked. “Should we keep looking around or get out of here before we get shot by a moose hunter?”

  “Let’s push our luck some more,” Alan said. He followed Bob.

  They picked their way down the hill again. It was easier this time—they’d learned the trick of veering south where the hill was more manageable. Soon they found themselves at the edge of the wetlands, where the trees dwindled and tall grass took over. Bob pointed towards a matted down area and the men started carefully moving into the grass. It grew in clumps. If you balanced on top of the grassy stumps, you could avoid plunging a foot into the wet weeds below. Alan moved quickly, hopping between the clumps and balanced on a big one right near the matted area. He waved his hand—there were a few confused flies buzzing slowly.

  “You think he was right? You think the things just walked off?” Bob asked.

  Alan shrugged. “Looked dead to me.”

  Alan slid his camera bag around to his front so he could unzip it. He’d brought one of his second-string camera bodies. It
wouldn’t break his heart if it got dunked. Alan documented the pressed down grass. It looked like some animal had circled to make a mat of the grass. The flattened stalks formed a counterclockwise spiral. While Alan shot, Bob moved on. Alan tested his weight on the grass. Where it was flattened, the ground under the grass felt more firm. Alan could walk around the small circle without plunging through. Alan paced it off—the circle was about five feet across.

  Alan knelt. The grass still gave off a little lingering smell of death. It did smell a little like rotting fish. Alan reached down. Under the spiral pattern twisted into the grass, the stalks were woven into tight pairs. That’s what gave the little matted area its firmness. Below dozens of layers of woven pairs, Alan found the same spongy mud that made the rest of the footing so treacherous.

  “Hey, Alan,” Bob called.

  Alan stood up. Bob had moved over to another compressed circle of grass.

  “What’s up?”

  “Come get a photo of this.”

  Alan shouldered his camera strap and followed Bob’s trail. Bob was crouching in one of the other flattened areas. Alan joined him and stopped at the edge. He didn’t want to disturb Bob’s find. At the center of this spiral of grass, Bob was looking a small pile of bones. Alan dropped to a crouch and started taking photos. He stayed at the edge of the circle and zoomed in on the bones. The bones were clean, dry, and white.

  “What is that skull?” Alan asked.

  “I don’t know. Maybe a cat? Raccoon? I’m not well-versed on small animal skulls.”

  When he’d circled the pile, photographing it from all angles, Alan stepped into the circle. He snapped a few photos from directly above the bones.

  “There’s something in there,” Alan said. “Check it out.”

  Bob came closer. The two men hunched over the pile. All the small bones—the legs and ribs and spine—were all piled up underneath the little skull. Through the eyeholes, Alan could see something inside.

  “Where?” Bob asked.

  “Under the skull. Go ahead—check it out.”

  “What do you mean, ‘Check it out?’ You check it out,” Bob said. “I’m not touching that thing if that that’s what you mean.”

  “Pussy,” Alan said under his breath. He reached over and picked a long stalk of grass. He held it near the base, where it was most stiff. He pushed at the side of the skull, trying to push it over.

  Bob laughed. “You’re so brave. You won’t even touch it.”

  Alan cursed at the skull under his breath. It seemed stuck.

  “It’s quid pro quo, as they say,” Alan said. He stabbed at the side of the skull with his stalk of grass, but it only bent.

  “Okay, fine. Move,” Bob said. He reached out an extended index finger and thumb and grabbed the skull on either side of the eyeholes. He picked it up carefully and flipped it over. Under where the skull had sat, they were looking at a small spiral of stacked bones. It looked almost like a birds nest. In the center of the nest, they saw a bloody organ.

  It looks like a tiny heart, Alan thought.

  Alan picked up his camera and started taking photos immediately. He shot about a hundred photos of the organ from different angles as Bob sat back on his heels. It was about the size of a small chicken egg. Alan let his camera hang on its strap and picked a couple fresh stalks of grass. He poked the side of the heart.

  “It’s soft,” Alan said.

  “Quit poking it,” Bob said. “Those are blood vessels, right? Is it the heart of a really small animal?”

  “That’s just what I was thinking,” Alan said.

  Bob tilted his head and stared at the heart. Alan picked up his camera and took a couple more shots. He backed away and took a photo of Bob next to the pile of bones and then took a couple of photos across the marsh to the pond.

  “You think it’s a nest or something?” Bob asked.

  Alan took a photo of him, asking his question.

  “Alan?”

  Alan took a photo of the milky sky above.

  “Alan?”

  “I don’t know,” Alan said. “I’m thinking.”

  “Maybe we should take it and show it to someone,” Bob said.

  “I’m coming around to your earlier opinion. Maybe we shouldn’t touch it. It might be infected or something. Besides, who would we show it to?”

  “I don’t know. There has to be someone who knows about this stuff,” Bob said.

  His words hung in the air as they looked at the bloody heart.

  The silence was broken by a gunshot from the south. Bob stood up and Alan raised his camera again. They heard another shot. Bob took the orange bandana from his head and waved it in the air.

  “You think they’re shooting at us?” Alan asked.

  “I don’t know, but let’s get out of here, just in case,” Bob said.

  “Good plan.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Picnic

  OCTOBER 17

  ALAN PARKED the picnic basket on one of the plush chairs and turned his attention to the desk. It was orderly, but heavily populated with stacks of paper. Alan started at the upper left-hand corner and piled the papers carefully, in alternating directions to preserve their organization. He took the whole stack and put it in her top drawer. Her computer monitor was on an arm that flipped over the side of the desk. This was the way she normally greeted clients—Liz liked a big clean desk when she welcomed visitors.

  Alan pulled the red and white checked cloth from the basket and unfurled it across the desk. It was just the right size. He unloaded the rest of his supplies—salad, bread, wine, cheese, and lasagna. It was Liz’s favorite meal.

  He uncorked the wine and set out the glasses.

  Alan had just taken his seat when the door opened.

  Liz came through backwards. She was clutching her notepad to her chest and giving orders to a young woman who was following. Liz almost dropped her pad when she saw Alan over her shoulder.

  “Honey!” she said. “Oh my god.”

  Liz turned her attention back to her assistant—“Give me a minute, Minh. I’ll get you the draft and you can review it for me.”

  She smiled at her husband. Alan poured wine into the glasses.

  “Honey, I have a meeting at noon and another at one. This is sweet, but your timing is terrible.”

  “I’m your noon,” Alan said. “And the 1pm. I scheduled with Minh.”

  Liz turned back to her assistant. The woman smiled and waved. Minh shut the door as she left.

  “I can’t believe you did this,” Liz said. “This is so sweet.”

  “It’s your half birthday,” Alan said. “You deserve a special lunch on your half birthday.”

  “Is that a thing?” Liz asked. “Tell me that’s not a thing.”

  “What? Half birthdays? I read about it in one of my magazines,” Alan said. “Surprise your partner with a special celebration. Is it working?”

  Liz sat down in one of the guest chairs. She picked up her glass of wine and a piece of cheese.

  “You wouldn’t believe the day I’m having,” she said. “Remind me—we have to change our insurance company. You wouldn’t believe how hard those jerks fight to keep from paying a claim. There has to be a better company out there to give our money to. My poor clients—their house burned down because of an electrical storm. I mean, if your house gets hit by lightning, how are you supposed to avoid something like that? They don’t want to pay because the chimney was not up to code. Can you believe that?”

  “Liz, baby, take a break,” Alan said.

  “I know,” she said, gesturing with her cheese. “It’s just galling that they take money all those years and then don’t want to pay off on a lightning strike. What could be more of an act of God?”

  “We have lightning rods,” Alan said. “I’m guessing the Colonel put them up.”

  “That’s true,” Liz said. “I wonder why. It’s not like we’re at the top of a hill or anything. Do a lot of places around here have lightning
rods?” Liz made a note on her pad.

  “Barns do,” Alan said. “I see them all the time. I’ve been taking photos of some of the barns around. Most are falling down.”

  “Huh,” Liz said. She was flipping through her notes.

  “I brought pesto lasagna,” Alan said.

  “Ooh,” Liz said. She was scribbling something in the margin of one of the pages. Her tight handwriting filled the page. She had a very particular scheme for how she took notes. Heaven help the person who tried to write something on one of Liz’s coveted yellow legal pads.

  “Are you going to put that away, or should I give your lunch to Minh?”

  “Sorry,” Liz said. “Sorry. I know. You know it takes me at least twenty minutes to disengage.”

  Alan nodded. Liz clipped her pen to the pad and tossed it to the floor under her desk.

  “Tell me about your day,” she said. She rose from her chair to tear a piece of bread from the loaf and steal another piece of cheese. Liz flopped back down in the chair.

  “You’re looking at it,” Alan said. “Took me all morning to put this together.”

  “You’re so sweet. Not working at Bob’s today?”

  “I’ll stop in on my way home. He’s doing electrical today. He doesn’t really need help with that.”

  “What about your other project?”

  “The bones and heart?” Alan asked.

  “The mysterious heart,” Liz said.

  “As far as I know, he hasn’t heard anything,” Alan said.

  “You should publish those photos,” Liz said. “Send them around to nature magazines or whatever. They’re incredible.”

  Alan nodded. He didn’t have the slightest idea where to send his photos. There were some interesting ones. The shadows of the stacked bones made neat patterns against the grass mat, and the heart itself looked like a hole cut out of the center of the shot. The purple clotted blood only showed on a couple of the closeup shots. On the others the exposure must have been wrong—the heart only looked black. Bob had sent a couple of the best shots over to a friend of his who was an animal wrangler and trained zoologist.