by William Bell
The buildings faced a compound about twice the size of a school gym. We drifted silently between the kitchen and one of the bunk houses, directly across from the rec hall. Crouching in the dark patch between the two log buildings we cased the noisy and brightly lit hall. Nobody came or went.
“Maybe we should try for a peek in the back window,” Mary whispered.
“Do we have to?” I tried to keep the shakes out of my voice but it didn’t work.
“Yes, I think so. Let’s go.”
Before I could argue, Mary turned and, still in a crouch, scuttled to the rear of the bunk house. What could I do? I followed her. It was a small building, maybe six yards long and four along to the back where we stood up.
“Follow me,” Mary whispered, and off she went into the black wall of trees.
A few minutes later we were behind the rec hall, hunkered down on the damp, needle-carpeted ground, up against the rough, peeled logs. There was only one small window in this wall, just above my head. From the raucous noises inside we figured two things: they were men, and they were drunk.
There were four of them, dressed very outdoorsy, like those dummies in the sports section of a big department store. Except these were mean-looking beggers. None had shaved for a few days and each was juiced to the eyeballs — you could tell from the way they moved with careful clumsiness as they played cards at a deal table before the blazing fire. One of them, the only one not overweight, damn near fell into the fireplace when he got up to poke the logs. Occasionally one would slam his cards onto the table with a roar, sending poker chips dancing all over the table and onto the dirty hardwood floor. The others would explode in braying laughter or shouted what were probably curses — I couldn’t quite tell. The portion of the room that I could see through that bathroom window was littered with beer and liquor bottles (I was too scared to be envious), boots, and a few cigarette packages.
In spite of my uneasiness I thought, what a bunch of jerks. Why come all the way up to a hunt camp in the middle of nowhere to get gunned up and play poker? Next morning they’d probably be barfing all over the landscape afraid to shoot a gun off for fear of cracking their aching skulls. Then after a couple of days of this stupidity they’d pile back into the city, bragging about their macho exploits and the quiet beauties of nature.
I got down off the splitting stump I’d been standing on and reported to Mary. She seemed pleased. In a few minutes we were back at the cook shack trying to jimmy the lock on the back door.
No sweat. We stepped into the dark store room and shut the door behind us — slowly — because the hinges creaked. Mary fished a candle stub out of her shirt pocket, placed it on the floor and lit it, shielding the match with her hand. The candle threw a weak, watery light in a small pool, giving just enough illumination for us to work.
We located a fifty pound sack of flour and hiked it into one of the canoe packs.
“Listen” Mary whispered, “I know where most of the stuff is kept so I’ll bring it to you and you pack it.”
“Gotcha,” I replied with phony enthusiasm. I wished we were out of there.
But on we worked, two little mice, sneaking food from the kitchen. I packed sugar, salt and six one-pound packages of loose tea. The first pack was full and I strapped it closed.
“Mary,” I whispered into the darkness.
“What’s the matter?” she sounded rattled too, now that I came to think about it.
“I’ll take this one out and hide it in the trees,” I said.
“Oh, yes. Alright.”
Easier said than done. That bloody pack was almost as heavy and awkward as mine were at the beginning of my trip. But I wrestled it outside and across the little yard behind the cabin and into the trees. For a moment I dreaded our walk back to our home, carrying the heavy packs. Then I remembered. I wasn’t going back.
I stood there, just inside the trees, staring through the clammy fog into nothing. It’s funny, but that’s when it hit me. I wasn’t going to see her again — ever. I’d promised I wouldn’t try to contact her or break her secret. I’d sworn an oath — very formally, too, with my hand on my chest and the whole bit.
Now I felt empty, yet at the same time full of sadness and loneliness. What the hell would I do without Mary? I began to cry, standing there in the black bush with the idiotic rumbling of the card players in the background. I wanted to stay with her more than anything I had ever wanted in my life. But it just wasn’t going to work out that way.
Well, there it is, I thought. Why stand around, wishing it was otherwise? It’s decided. So get your ass in gear; get moving; don’t think about it. Just do what has to be done.
Back I went, having wiped my face on my sleeve. A pile of dry goods was waiting for me and I began filling the second pack. Mary was waist deep into one of the cupboards across the room.
“Eureka!” she said in an excited whisper.
“What? What’s the matter?”
She had emerged from the cupboard and crawled into the tiny pool of light to show me four large tobacco tins.
“Oh, great,” I said without much feeling. Although I was almost finished the tobacco Mary had brought with her to the bush, smoking was the farthest thing from my mind. It was just like her to think of something like that right in the middle of what I thought was a dangerous caper.
A shout from across the compound saved me from having to say anything else. I went rigid, instantly. Mary spun on the balls of her feet and scuttled over to blow out the candle. We kept still, straining to hear. A quick hiss told me she had wet the candle wick with her fingers.
There were two voices, now. They were talking, half hollering. But the harsh voices came no nearer.
Without really thinking, I said, “Stay here. I’m going to take a look.”
Before she could answer, I crawled to the back door, opened it slowly to prevent squeaks, and slipped out, leaving it ajar. I ran silently across the wet ground to the corner of the bunk house and stopped to take a look. Nothing. Nothing but noises. In a crouch, I stole along the side wall, brushing the logs lightly. I was almost to the front door before I could get a full view of the rec hall.
They were still trying to light up the countryside. Two of them, the skinny one and the short, pudgy one, were standing on the deck that ran the full width of the building, leaning on the railing. I could hear only part of their conversation, just enough to pick up a lot of obscenities — another requirement, I’ve noticed, when men get together to rough it — and a few snatches of sentences. The skinny one had a laugh like a mule with one of its ears caught in the barn door. Pudgy guffawed with a deep, harsh laugh.
They both stood up and a few seconds later I heard water striking the ground, like a leak in an eaves trough. Skinny brayed. Then another stream of water could be heard. They were pissing off the deck, six feet or so to the ground.
“Ha, ha! Mine’s farther. I win!” Pudgy shouted triumphantly. He followed this delicate statement with another guffaw.
Skinny kept silent. He turned slowly toward his companion. Then he laughed hysterically.
“You son of a bitch!” yelled the fat one. “Godammit, I’m soaked!” Then he stepped into Skinny and drove his fist into Skinny’s throat with a vicious uppercut.
So much for friendship in the great outdoors. The two companions crashed onto the deck in a heap of clumsily flailing arms and legs. Their loud curses echoed all over the courtyard. A minute or so later the two other drunks stumbled out the door and in a chorus of shouts, curses and bursts of laughter, broke up the fight.
Just as things began to calm down, a big, dark German shepherd ambled through the doorway.
I turned stone cold. “My god,” I heard myself say.
Where had this damn dog been when I checked out the rec hall through the window? How did I miss him?
Every molecule in my body focused on that animal. If it smelled a stranger, we were done for.
As soon as it came onto the deck, the shepherd bega
n to growl and snap and bark at the scuffling men. When the men quieted down, so did the dog, but not before one of the drunks yelled, “Shut up!” and cuffed it a few times.
After about five minutes (I think I held my breath for that long) the four friendly outdoorsmen began to go back in, I crossed a few fingers and toes, and I heard myself whispering, “That’s it. Take the dog in with you. Go on, take him in.”
As if obeying me, the fighters went through the screen door letting it slap behind them. So far so good. The other two spoke a few sentences, laughed. Then one of them went in. Slap, went the door again.
Three down, one to go. I was rigid with tension.
I groaned inwardly when I heard water again. Then it stopped. The guy must have had a bladder the size of a cow’s udder. He was a big man, broad shouldered and heavy around the middle. He turned, finally, to the door and opened it.
But the dog didn’t move. It stood still, dead still. With its nose up, it turned toward the cook house. I was sure I could hear it sniffing from where I was nailed to the ground in the shadow of the bunk house.
The man yelled over his shoulder, “Get in here, dammit,” But the shepherd was on the move, along the deck and down the steps in a flash. Then it stopped. Up went the nose. I prayed that the stink of their urine would screw up the dog’s scenting apparatus.
But it trotted to the centre of the compound and stopped again.
By this time the owner knew the mutt was onto something. He was drunk, but not that drunk. He came down the stairs, hand on the railing for balance, silently because he had no boots on.
“‘Samatter, boy, smell a bear or somethin’?” he said excitedly.
I thought I couldn’t be more scared — until I saw the pistol in his hand. What the hell was he doing with a hand gun? I wondered. Even I knew they were illegal.
He stalked across the compound after that damned dog, which had now begun to cast about with its nose to the ground.
Over in the cook shack Mary must have moved — I know I didn’t — because that animal stopped dead, snapped its head up high, perked its ears and stood frozen for a second. Then it took off at a run straight as a spear toward the log cabin where Mary was trapped, alone. The owner stumbled along after.
And I did nothing. I was numbed with indecision, in shock. Every horrible sound that stabbed my ears - growling, the slam of a door, a scream, shouting — was another nail that fixed me to the spot.
The other three drunks piled out onto the deck in time to see the dog man shoving Mary across the compound at gunpoint. The mutt was jumping around her snarling and snapping at her heels and the hem of her shirt tail. Mary stopped suddenly and caught the dog on the head with a quick, sharp kick and sent it yelping.
“Bitch!” the dog man shouted as he brought the gun through a clumsy arc and slammed it into the back of her head, at the same time shoving her forward. She pitched onto her face and the dog attacked again; going for the back of her neck.
By this time the other three were down the stairs trying to out-yell each other. The dog man pulled Mary to her feet and kicked the dog himself to keep it away. “Lookit here, youse guys,” he announced. “Caught this bitch in the store room, stealin’ food.”
I could hear them plainly now, practically smell their boozy breath.
“Well, well, well,” said Skinny. “Best lookin’ thief I ever saw.” His voice was slurred, high pitched like a finger on a chalk board. He brayed.
The other two were too juiced up to really know what was going on. They kept asking the same stupid questions over and over, and when the whole bunch of them went into the hall, pushing Mary ahead of them, they barely made it up the stairs.
The last slap of the screen door snapped me out of my trance. The first thing I did was start to shake. The second thing was to sit down, lean my back against the cabin, and force my brain to work.
I turned and stared at the rec hall. I had to do something fast. I didn’t even want to think of Mary in there with four drunks, and cruel ones at that. But: do what?
I couldn’t barge in there and fight four of them plus a huge, vicious dog. I’d never get her out that way.
No thoughts came. I stood, my hands clenched at my sides. I felt powerless.
Until I saw a burst of sparks erupt from the chimney.
Then a whole bunch of puzzle pieces fell into place. But I had to act fast. I ran behind the bunk house, across to the cook shack and into the dark bush behind it. Selecting a fat, tall birch right near where I’d left the pack, I yanked my knife out of the sheath and, holding it with both hands, cut a long vertical slit into the bark. Around the base and at head height I girdled the tree with two more slits. Forcing the blade into the vertical slit, I lifted the bark all down the cut. I resheathed the knife and, taking the raised edge of the bark in both hands walked around the tree, peeling off the cylinder of bark as I went. It sprung free easily.
I zipped into the cook shack, which the dog man had left open. Once inside I peeled strip after strip of birch bark, forming a loose pile just inside one of the cupboards along the side wall. For good measure I flashed back outside and scooped up a big handful of pine needles from under the shack. They were light and dry. I put them at the base of my pyramid of bark.
Next, I opened the huge, walk-in refrigerator, hoping the four outdoorsmen were as greedy as they were alcoholic. Sure enough, I found about a ton of steaks and ground beef. I ripped open the cellophane wrapping of the ground beef and stuffed as much as I could into my pants pockets. I grabbed three or four of the steaks and stepped outside the ‘fridge, leaving the door open to give me light. Still moving fast, I rummaged around in the half-filled pack and found the one-pound box of black pepper I had put there earlier. This I stuck inside my shirt.
The bark and needles caught fire immediately when I set a match to them. New birch bark gives off a fear some crackling, black, smoky flame. Outside I darted, pausing to drop one of the steaks at the door. Another I lobbed right in front of the cook shack as I ran by; the third in the middle of the compound. I hoped they’d keep the dog busy, or at least distract him. The hamburger meat was insurance.
I ducked under the deck. The top of my head grazed the damp planks. There was lots of light still spilling from the windows but I was in shadow. While I waited I selected a heavy but easy to handle piece of hardwood from the wood pile under the deck.
The cook shack didn’t take too long to be noticeable. Within five minutes the whole side wall was aflame. Great, wicked looking yellow-orange flames lapped up the long wall, encouraged by the breeze.
Shouts. Pounding feet. Furious barking from inside. Slap of the screen door. Two men, Skinny and the dog man, tumbled down the steps and ran across the compound.
But just two. Dammit!
No time to wait. I bounded up the stairs, club in hand, reaching into my jeans for a handful of meat. I threw open the door.
There were two large couches in the rec hall, one on each side of the big stone fireplace, and each held a sprawled, snoring drunk. The crack of doom wouldn’t wake those guys, I thought. The card table between them had been knocked over, spilling poker chips, ash trays, glasses and bottles over the round carpet and hardwood floor. The place stank of sweat, smoke, dog and stale beer.
I crossed this main room in a second, tense, expecting the shepherd to attack. But it had been shut into one of the rooms off the main hall. I could hear it in there, going nuts, barking, whining and scratching. I dropped the meat.
“Mary! Mary!” I called in a low voice.
“In here! In here! Oh, thank god!” came a muffled voice from down the hall.
I crashed open the door to find her lying on the bed, hands tied behind her back. Her bush shirt had been ripped open down to her elbows and her T-shirt yanked up to expose her breasts. When I saw her I hoped the bastards would die in the fire.
I rolled her over, cut the ropes, picked up her coat from the floor and led her out of there. As we shot down the stair
s I took a look at the fire. The two idiots were running back .and forth, hollering at each other. They hadn’t caught on yet, but they soon would.
Mary and I ran around the rec hall and dove into the trees as a great, earth-pounding slam of thunder cracked the sky open over the lake. Lightning lit up the compound.
It wasn’t more than a few minutes before we circled the camp and got off that peninsula. I stopped at the shore.
“Still got your compass?” I said as she struggled into her jacket.
“I - I think so.” she stammered. She was really rattled.
I took a bearing, hung the compass around my neck, got out the box of pepper. I sprinkled half of it in an arc at our feet.
“What’s that for?” she asked.
“For the dog. Let’s go.”
I figured they might hunt us, if not that night, the next day. As long as that dog was in working order, we were in danger.
I checked the bearing again, grabbed Mary firmly by the wrist and struck off into a bush as black as the blackest coal.
What a night that was! After awhile I calmed down and concentrated on leading Mary by compass back through the bush. And, I’ll tell you, the compass was in control. A short but nasty cloudburst had soaked us and darkness and fog got together to reduce our visibility to a couple of yards. It was like being caught in a wet, black bag. Every once in awhile I’d blunder into a spruce or the trunk of a maple. I was completely disoriented and that compass was my only link with reality.
Mary was acting very strangely. One minute she’d be panic-stricken and in a big hurry. The next, calm, as if she’d forgotten what happened to her. Her face had a wasted look when we had left the rec hall. I was glad I couldn’t see it now.
On and on we trudged in an impossible attempt to go quickly; tripping, slapped by dripping branches, tired, wet, very cold. I never let go of her except when I fell, or she did.
After a lifetime, the soggy air around us gradually changed colour, from black to slowly lightening shades of grey. We kept moving and the terrain began to get rougher.