Tucker

by Tom Birdseye

  Later, on the way home from practicing with his bow and arrows, Tucker stopped at the mailbox. Livi has probably already picked up today’s mail like she usually does. Mom’s letter to me isn’t due till Monday, anyway. But what harm does it do to just check? To his surprise, several envelopes lay facedown in the box. He pulled them out and closed the door. The first letter he turned over was from Kentucky. As usual, it was addressed to Livi.

  Tucker stood for a moment and looked at the envelope: the stamp with a picture of an old riverboat on it, the handwriting so neat and clear, the name that headed the return address—Kathy Hayden. He looked up at his house. She’s already written me by now, you know, Livi. He put the letter up close to his face and breathed in deep. The envelope smelled faintly of perfume. And mailed it, too. It’ll be here on Monday.

  Tucker turned the letter over and over in his hand, watching the handwriting appear and disappear. He looked back up at his house. You wouldn’t mind if I read it, would you, Livi? You’re always telling me what Mom said in the letters she wrote to you, anyway. It wouldn’t matter, would it? My letter will be here on Monday. And anyway, it’s from OUR Mom, right? Then he turned and ran back across Tamarack Road and into the woods, tearing the letter open as he went.

  15

  The cold rain began an hour before dawn on Saturday. At first it was only small patters on the birch and aspen leaves overhanging the clearing. Soon it began to drip to the dry ground, leaving round marks in the dust. It also dripped on the back of Tucker’s neck as he tried to light damp twigs in the fire pit. He ignored it, striking one match and then another, his hands moving in quick, jerky motions.

  Tearing the last match from the pack, Tucker stopped and took a deep breath. A hunter for The Tribe must begin by keeping a clear mind. He struck a match. It lit. He held it under a piece of shredded cedar bark. A thin curl of smoke rose almost immediately. He quickly pushed the match closer, shielding it from the rain with his hand. A small orange flame grew. Getting down on his hands and knees, Tucker blew gently on the fire. It caught the twigs. He put on bigger sticks and blew some more. Flames began to flick upward. Crackling sounds filled the clearing.

  Tucker nodded to himself. Now to start the ritual of preparing for the hunt. He moved directly into the drifting smoke from the fire and sat cross-legged. Eyes closed, he let it bend and curl around his clothes, his face, his skin, his hair.

  Only seconds later a freckled face crowned with red hair appeared in the circle of firelight. Tucker looked up through the smoke. Joe Allen smiled and waved. “Hi.”

  “Sit down,” Tucker said, voice gruff. He closed his eyes again.

  The smile fell from Joe Allen’s face. He walked over to the fire pit, but didn’t sit down. “What’s with you?”

  Tucker talked without opening his eyes. “We’re late,” he said, the smoke still curling around him. “It’ll be daylight soon. We’ve got to prepare for the hunt—just like I read the Indians used to do. The smoke will cleanse our spirits, helping us to be worthy hunters, that’s what the books say. It will help hide our scent too, so the deer can’t smell us. Sit down.”

  Joe Allen still didn’t sit.

  Anger crept further into Tucker’s voice. He spoke through tight lips, eyes still closed. “The books say the Indians used to play drums and smoke a pipe. It was supposed to give them strength, make a bridge to the sky. It was all part of preparing for the hunt. Now sit down.”

  Joe Allen finally moved, but only to crouch and rub his hands together. He held them out to the warmth of the fire. “My fingers feel like a tongue stuck on a January flagpole,” he said. He continued to hold his hands over the fire. “Hope I haven’t got frostbite. The last thing a man in love needs is cold fingers, right?”

  Tucker opened his eyes again. He scooted back out of the smoke and looked right past Joe Allen to his bow and arrows. They were in the tipi, still wrapped in the old wool blanket and tied with a leather thong. His small sheath knife lay on top of the bundle. “Have you got the hunting licenses? You said you’d get them in town yesterday.”

  “Couldn’t play the clarinet either, not with fingers like these,” Joe Allen went on. “Guess I’d have to settle for growing old by myself with no music.”

  “Joe Allen!” Tucker almost yelled. “Where are the licenses? This is the day we become hunters for The Tribe. I’ve already started an entry in Winter Count about it.” He looked closer at his friend. “Hey, where is your bow?”

  Joe Allen didn’t look away from the fire. “I guess I’d just have to collect dirty words for a living.”

  Tucker’s fist came flashing out in a blur. He hit Joe Allen square in the shoulder, knocking him sprawling. “You didn’t bring your bow, did you?” Tucker roared, jumping to his feet. “You didn’t get the licenses, either. I was right. You don’t care. You aren’t one of The Tribe!”

  The shock of being hit went out of Joe Allen’s face as he too sprang to his feet, fists balled at his side. “Don’t hit me unless you don’t mind getting hit back.”

  Tucker didn’t back off. “Do you want to be a member of The Tribe or not?”

  It was Joe Allen’s turn to lash out. “Get off it, will you! This Indian junk is just for fun. It’s not real. Don’t you know that?”

  “Liar!” Tucker screamed. “You’re all liars!” He lunged forward. This time Joe Allen was ready for him and jumped to the side. Tucker caught him by the arm. They both went to the ground in a flurry of fists. Tucker swung at Joe Allen’s face but missed, catching him only in the side of the head. Joe Allen swung back and hit Tucker in the side. Tucker threw himself onto Joe Allen’s chest. They rolled close to the fire. Joe Allen pulled free just in time and scrambled out of Tucker’s grip and to his feet. Tucker jumped up and started toward Joe Allen.

  “We can’t go hunting!” Joe Allen yelled, his breath coming in deep gulps.

  Tucker stopped short, trembling with anger. “What do you mean, we can’t go hunting?”

  Joe Allen ran his fingers through his hair. “My bow doesn’t work, my arrows won’t fly right, and I didn’t get the hunting tags. I couldn’t. You were so into this whole Indian thing, you forgot to think about a few Idaho things—like the law that says you have to be twelve years old to get a hunting license, which we aren’t yet. And that you can only get a license after you’ve taken a hunter safety course, which we haven’t, and after you’ve paid eight dollars, which is more than either of us have.”

  Tucker narrowed his eyes and took a step forward. “You’re lying, just like—”

  “No, I’m not!” Joe Allen shot back. “We can’t hunt. I’ve known it for weeks. I wanted to tell you. I just couldn’t make myself do it. Come off it, Tucker. You’ve been living in a dream. You’re not an Indian and neither am I. We’ve just been playing at it. We can’t get a deer with these homemade bows and arrows.”

  Tucker lowered his fists. Stiffly he walked over to the tipi and picked up the bundle containing his bow and arrows. He quickly put the knife on his belt. “Maybe this has all been just a game to you,” he said, turning to face Joe Allen again, “but today is as real as it’s going to get for me. License or not, I’m going hunting.”

  Joe Allen looked up at the still dark sky. The rain had picked up even more and was now dripping steadily through the trees. He shook his head. “OK, go then,” he said, and walked from the clearing into the predawn woods.

  Tucker looked after him for a minute, then turned back to the fire. A look of complete shock came over his face. Livi stood just inside the firelight, hands buried in her coat pockets, collar pulled up around her ears.

  “Hi,” she began, “I just wanted to know if—”

  “What are you doing here?” Tucker demanded, the anger returning to his face in an instant.

  Livi stepped back as if pushed. She stumbled over her answer. “I … just … I heard you get up and leave the house. I saw you carrying your bow and arrows. I followed you. Tucker, I just wanted to know if I could be with
you when you go hunting—”

  “Be with me!” Tucker yelled. He dropped his bow and arrows onto the ground. Reaching into his jacket pocket, he pulled out the letter from Kentucky. “Just like she’ll be with me?”

  Livi’s eyes grew wide. Anger crept into her voice. “Tucker, is that a letter from Mom?”

  He shook it at her. “Yes! It’s a letter from Mom.”

  “That’s mine!” Livi blurted out, moving halfway around the fire toward him. “When did it come? What does it say?”

  “It says she’s not coming, that’s what it says.” Livi stopped. “Oh,” she said, her voice dropping to a whisper.

  Tucker shook the letter at her again. “It says that she has told you over and over again that she and Dad will never get back together; that they would never be able to get along; that she doesn’t want to live with a man who can’t do anything with his life. It says”—he choked on his words, tears welling up in his eyes—“it says she could never love him again. She probably means me, too.” “Oh, Tucker, no,” Livi said. “YES!” he yelled, shaking the letter at her again, half crumpling it in his fist. “I let myself believe all that talk about Mom wanting to get the family back together. You’ve been lying to us all of this time. You got Dad to believe it. And you finally got me to, too. I knew I shouldn’t have believed you. It was all a lie!”

  Livi took another step forward. Tears were running down her cheeks. “It wasn’t a lie, Tucker. I wanted more than anything for us to be a family—” “Stop saying that!” he screamed at her. “It’s not going to happen! Go back to Kentucky and leave us alone. You don’t belong here. We were doing fine on our own until you came! I don’t need a sister! Can’t you see that?”

  Tucker crumpled the letter into a tight ball and threw it into the fire.

  “No!” Livi gasped. She reached into the flames, trying to save the letter. The heat made her pull her fingers back. Smoke billowed around her. She began to cough. She tried to cover her eyes and reach for the letter again. It had caught fire. She finally backed away, coughing and crying at the same time. She stood and looked at Tucker, her face streaked with tears and soot. Her lips stilled for a moment, as if she were about to say something, then began to tremble. Livi turned and, sobbing, ran from the clearing.

  Tucker stood, watching the letter burn. Then, without even glancing in the direction his sister had gone, he picked up his bow and arrows in the tipi and walked directly through the path of the drifting smoke and out into the woods.

  16

  Tucker eased over a log and approached the birch tree behind the meadow. There was just enough light to see where he was going, but not enough to pick out any detail on the forest floor. He looked up through the steady rain at the fork in the tree. I have cleansed myself with smoke. My bow and my arrows are ready. Here is where I will become a hunter for The Tribe.

  The breeze picked up, blowing the treetops back and forth, knocking large splatters of water from the branches. Tucker reached into his pocket and let the carving of the chief slip into his hand. This is my final test. He slung his bow over his shoulder, stuck the arrows in his belt, and climbed. Quiet now, more than ever. A brave must move with all of the skill of a great hunter and keep a clear mind.

  Tucker reached the fork of the tree and looked down. The darkness was quickly giving way to dawn. An open view of the buck’s favorite patch of clover lay below. He tried to get more comfortable. The scrape of his jeans on the curly bark of the birch tree made him wince. But what if the buck heard or saw me coming? Or what if he just doesn’t come here today? There are probably lots of places he goes to graze.

  Tucker shook his head, then pushed the wet hair on his forehead to the side. A clear mind. I have to keep a clear mind. Taking the bow from his shoulder, he pulled one of the arrows from his belt. He fit it onto the bowstring and sighted down its length. This is my day. One shot to the chest, using all that I know and have practiced. A true test of skill and worthiness. Alone. I WILL become a hunter for The Tribe. With a deep breath he pulled his jacket collar up around his ears, and began his wait. I am ready.

  But Tucker’s eyes soon began to roam away from the woods. He gazed between the branches of the birch tree, across the meadow. Although no lights were on, he could make out the outline of his house in the half-light of near dawn, the faint glint of rain on the tin roof, the rectangles of dark windows, in particular his bedroom window. It’s Olivia’s fault if I don’t get a deer. Things were fine until she came. Now Joe Allen doesn’t care about anything anymore except clarinets, Jessica Wagner, and his dirty-word list. And Dad fell off the barn. He could have gotten killed. He was up there because he wanted to show her he could get work, so she’d write good things to Mom about him and then the family would be together again. It was all lies. And we believed it. All lies. Mom never told her that. The only tribe I need is what I have right here in this tree with—

  A muffled snap of a twig underfoot pulled Tucker’s attention back. Despite the continued patter of light rain on the leaves and branches, the sound jumped out at him like a cannon going off.

  Tucker scanned the area, moving only his eyes. Although it was getting lighter by the minute, the normally sharp lines of tree trunks, logs, and branches were still fuzzy. Nothing moved. Tucker’s heartbeat quickened. My buck is here! I know it! Still nothing moved or gave itself away with noise. The rain suddenly began to slow. As Tucker listened, it soon faded to only drips from the trees. The quiet increased. Tucker strained his hearing, searching for the sound a hunter needed to hear. Nothing. Maybe he’s not there. I wasn’t paying close attention. My mind wasn’t clear. It’s all her fault. Why can’t I forget about her and all of her—

  This time he saw it—a flick of brown and white to the side and quickly down again. It was a nervous movement, the movement of a deer’s tail when the animal sensed something wrong. Tucker held his breath. Yes! Yes! Yes! Please be him! Please!

  What seemed like forever went by. Then slowly, as if testing thin ice, the buck moved from between two trees. It’s him! He’s here! Three or four steps, stopping still as stone, then forward. The buck moved slowly toward the patch of clover beneath the birch tree. The tail continued to flick out to the side. Flank muscles twitched. Nostrils flared. Ears rotated like radar.

  This is it! I’m going to get my first deer! He stole a quick glance at his bow and arrow. But did I fit the arrow in the center of the bowstring? Can I raise the bow and pull the string back without startling him? I can hear my own heart pounding in my chest. Can he hear it, too?

  The buck stood as still as stone again. Tucker slowly released stale breath through his nostrils, paused, and then began to breathe in. My breath is too noisy. He’ll hear it and be gone in a flash. Or Olivia will show up again, sticking her nose where it doesn’t belong. Why can’t she just go away and stay away?

  The buck dipped his head and took a bite of clover. His antlers—four points on either side—gleamed wet with rain. The tips were white, sharpened on saplings for the fights of the breeding season.

  Look at that! The size of his neck! He looks like a king!

  The massive head came back up, eyes and ears searching the woods for danger. Tucker held his breath again. He’s so close. I’ll have to raise the bow and shoot all in one motion. It’ll have to happen before he has time to move. Clear mind. Clear mind. One shot to the chest. I will be a hunter for The Tribe. If he would just put his head back down and give me a little extra time …

  The buck lowered his head to take another bite of the sweet green clover. Taking another quick breath, Tucker raised the bow, pulled back the string as far as he could, and let the arrow fly.

  Zipping through the stillness of the dawn, the fire-hardened tip of the arrow covered the cool, misty distance between Tucker and the deer in a fraction of a second. With a loud thud, it slammed into living flesh and bone. I got him! In the chest! The buck wheeled around, trying to sidestep the sudden pain, then reared up on his back legs with a loud grunt
, staggered backward, and fell wildly kicking to the ground. The arrow was buried half deep, just behind the front leg. Tucker stood up in the fork of the birch tree, almost losing his balance. Oh, no! He’s still alive. I thought only one shot to the chest would kill—He watched spellbound as the buck rose, staggered a few steps forward, and crashed to the ground again. Blood, bright red and frothy, blotted the buck’s heaving chest as he repeatedly tried to get back up in vain.

  Tucker dropped his bow to the ground and slid down out of the tree. He put his hand to his forehead. Sweat was beading on his forehead despite the cool of the morning. His hands were shaking. He held them tightly together for a minute. Calm down. Calm down. Act like a hunter for The Tribe. Clear mind. He took a deep breath and picked up his bow and pulled another arrow from his belt. Quickly he fit it to the string, pulled back, and released. The arrow missed completely, sinking deep into the ground near the buck’s head. The buck thrashed frantically, grunting and snorting. Tucker tried to swallow and found he couldn’t, as if something were blocking his throat. This is my final test of worthiness. I WILL be a hunter for The Tribe. He grabbed his last arrow from his belt. It was broken; it probably happened when he slid out of the birch tree. He threw it and the bow to the ground. The buck snorted loudly, bringing more blood to his nostrils. Tucker’s breath came in quick gulps of air. Reaching to his belt, he pulled his knife from the sheath. I WILL BE A HUNTER FOR THE TRIBE. He took a step toward the buck. The buck raised his head and looked Tucker straight in the eyes for the first time. Blood dripped from his nose onto the wet grass.

  “Oh, no,” Tucker whispered, his voice trailing off into nothing.

  The buck’s chest heaved, dark and wet from the wound. He choked, then slowly lowered his head back to the ground. There was a rattling sound from deep inside his body, a gurgling in the throat, then nothing.