The Hunted

Rob let out a sigh of relief after hanging up his cell phone, though he couldn't quite put his finger on why. Was it relief? Or contentment? He took a moment on the side of the road to appreciate the line of sugar maples in the distance from the drivers seat of his car. Their leaves were bursting with crimson at the centre, and fiery amber at the edges, perfect for this new new assignment he'd just been given. He was thankful for the opportunity to photograph the backcountry, but more so relieved that it would get him out of another dreadful hunting season with his brothers and father. That was it, that feeling he couldn't quite place. It arrived in his mind without warning and his mouth puckered at the sour feeling. As if to shake it from his thoughts, he started the car and turned back onto the road again. He tried to think positively, to keep his mind on the new task, just as his therapist had recommended. As Rob drove towards home he held images of red foxes, discarded moose antlers off the beaten paths of the woods, and conjured up an image of a migrating pine warbler. He'd never been able to photograph one, but the thought of their bursting yellow faces camouflaged with the oaks shedding their leaves allowed him a moment of safety from his other thoughts.

Back in his apartment, Rob moved about the space almost manically. His therapist had reminded him to keep his tasks small and manageable. He scribbled a to-do list consisting mostly of what to pack for his weekend assignment in the woods. He would be staying in the woman's cabin alone, which he welcomed. He always felt at-ease in nature. When she called, she mentioned she was a dear friend of his mentor and photography teacher, Mr. Fraser. She wanted to have someone photograph the property before she gets ready to sell, and his old mentor had recommended Rob for the job. The woman described the place as a quaint cabin, nothing special, but the nature surrounding it and the small lake (a pond really), was a draw for anyone wanting to fish or paddle around the little lake by canoe. She had asked that he capture some images of any wildlife he sees and of the cabin itself with the changing leaves around it, and of course, the lake itself. She would leave the key under a rock at the entrance for him.

Before Rob could leave for the assignment he hesitantly called his father. After two rings he could hear silence as if someone had picked up the receiver. "Dad?", Rob cleared his throat, then repeated it louder.

His father coughed a few times then spoke in his usual raspy voice. "Robbie, that you?", he mumbled with his mouth too close to the receiver. "Yes Dad, it's me. I have a photography assignment this weeke-", his father cut him off.

"Here we go...such a sissy. Just like a girl... you always were, Robbie. Anything to get out of a weekend doing manly things," his voice trailed off in a wheezy laugh. Rob tried to steady his hand and keep his breathing calm.

"Well you know it's never really been my thing, and this opportunity came up, so...," Rob's sentence petered out. A few moments of silence fell between them. He could hear his fathers laboured breathing, his rattle in his throat, yet words weren't coming easily to either of them any longer.

"Give my best to Dean and Grant and I'll see you after you come back," Rob hung up the phone before his Dad could insult him any further. He went to the washroom sink and splashed cold water on his face. His hands were still shaking and he could feel the vein in his neck pulsing. He tried to remember the tips his therapist had given him. Look around the room, find three things and name them. So he said aloud, "light switch, tap, shower curtain." He repeated them until his hands stopped their shaking. He couldn't bear to look himself in the eye in the bathroom mirror. He kept his gaze downward, almost excusing himself from the empty room as he slunk out the door, and then slamming the door to his apartment as a way to shut out any lingering feelings before his trip.

The last of the evening light slid into the lake as Rob approached the cabin. It appeared perched on the edge of a mostly-granite hillside with unkempt gardens sloping down towards a floating dock. A bright red canoe was tied to the dock throwing the whole image off-kilter with it's shiny fibreglass exterior. Like the last good apple on a dying tree, it clung to the moldy dock tethered by a thin rope. Rob easily found the key under the stone at the front door and entered the small cottage. The place was cluttered but tidy, with little loon trinkets and moose paraphernalia everywhere he looked. Old National Geographic magazines towered in stacks on pine coffee tables and bookshelves. The place had a damp smell that was slightly sulphuric, likely from the well water. He dropped his camera bag beside the little plaid couch and looked out the windows, past a little deck and down to the water. It was too late to get any images of the place now, but Rob planned to set an alarm and head out with the early light of the following morning. The best creatures stirred at that hour.

The windows rattled from the bedroom where Rob lay awake in the single pine bed. He pulled the quilt up to his chin and listened as a light rain tapped on the window panes. He checked his cell phone for the time, 3:48 am. He closed his eyes but the tapping became irregular and a little unnerving. He decided to make a tea and sit at the window by the fire place, and prepare for his morning shoot. Outside the rain began to subside and a hint of light started at the top of the hill behind the cabin. Rob could make out the shadows of the trees across from the lake, like ink spilled on a painting, their dark blobs swayed back and forth as his eyes adjusted to the dark. In the distance, Rob could see flash lights bobbing through the woods. He knew all too well what that meant. "Hunters," He rolled his eyes, saying it aloud to the empty room. That sour feeling bubbled up inside again. His heart sank for the sweet, innocent deer that were being stalked and hunted. He wanted to save them all, and also felt like he was one of them. Just a gentle, quiet soul that wanted to live out his days wandering in peace. As he watched the flashlights bob through the trees on the far side of the lake, his mouth set in a frown. His hairs on his neck stood up and while he could hear his therapist's words in his mind, he brushed them aside. For once he'd like to become the wolf. To prey upon the hunters, make them the hunted. To protect the deer, perhaps in some twisted way, he could feel he was protecting himself too.

Rob camouflaged himself the best he could. He wore a brown sweater and a sandy colored toque that hid his salt and pepper cropped hair. He put on olive green corduroy pants and his hiking boots. Anger rolled around in his nervous stomach. The more he thought about the innocent animals being tracked and hunted for sport, the more he felt resolute in his feelings. He would spook them a little, become the forest and make them feel unwanted. Perhaps it would be enough to give up their hobby. He exited the cabin quietly, and untied the canoe before stepping into the bow. It was still early and the fog was lifting off the water. It would be near-impossible to spot the red canoe at this hour. He gently let the boat glide across the water as his eyes fixed on smoke from a bonfire across the bay.

The hunters finished their breakfast of canned beans warmed over the fire in a camping pot, along with slightly burnt bread rolls. They discussed their route and the animal droppings they'd been tracking from the previous day. There were three of them, joking and shoving each other while they cleaned up their campsites. The taller one walked towards the lake with the pot to wash it out. His shaggy dark brown hair came out at all angles from his orange toque. As he bent low to wash the pot out he heard a splash in the water down the shoreline. He strained his eyes. Often deer and moose will come to drink from the shore in the early hours. He saw nothing but then a splash from behind him made him turn his head. Suddenly he felt a pebble hit him square in the forehead, the stone bouncing off of his hat and rolling into the water, pinging off the pot in his hands "What the...", he mumbled, then yelled up to the makeshift campsite, "quit messin' around!"

He clawed his way back up the hill with the pot dangling in his hand at his side, purposefully trying to make noise with it clanging against his pocket knife. He glanced back to the lake and peered behind the birches and oaks as he made his way back, but saw nothing.

The men made their way through the thick woods, wearing their bright orange suits and holding their rifles pointing to the sky. They had found remnants of deer droppings and some white and beige fur that had rubbed off on tree stumps. They knew they were closing in on the animal, and so the shorter one went on ahead, a ploy to push the animal back towards the other two that were propped and waiting. The shorter man was huskier than the others, with a greyish stubble of a beard that clung to jowls coming up out of his zipped-up vest. He walked with a slight limp, but made a good and quiet pace lurking through the brush. The two that stayed behind were crouched low in position along the edge of a ravine. Their rifles pointed north where the deer should come running towards them. They waited about twenty minutes then suddenly a single gunshot rang out, echoing through the woods. They panicked, looked at one another and readied their rifles. That wasn't the plan, but with hunting the plan could always change, they understood that. They waited awhile but nothing happened. No sign of a deer or the hunter coming back. After a short discussion that mostly resulted in shoves and shoulder shrugs they decided to go investigate. They walked north looking for signs. They used their whistles and yelled out. The sounds echoed over the landscape and alarmed birds to take flight. The taller one pointed to a clearing where leaves looked tousled and the forest floor newly disheveled. A puddle of bright red blood had pooled in the centre of the leaves. They exchanged glances and looked around for any other signs. It's possible the deer was injured and had taken off. They decided to continue in the same direction, following the path around the small lake, searching for drops of blood or foot prints, anything to give them a sign.

The two hunters continued their way around the lake, and finally the taller one pointed, "a cabin," he nodded towards the little cottage and they quickened their pace. On the ground leading up to the place there were drops of blood along the pathway. They both took notice and began to run.

Rob panicked holding his side in pain. He'd been stupid to wear colours that resembled the very thing the men were hunting. He had run back to the cabin to fix his wound but could hear the hunter running behind him, though the man was slower because of his limp, he knew it was a matter of time before the pain would slow Rob down and he'd be caught.

As the two men ran towards the cottage another gun shot rang out. They quickened their pace, and climbed the slope from the water up towards the deck. The taller one saw it first. There hanging from the tree the way you string an animal up, was the hunter. "Dad!", he screamed. There was a wound on the hunter's chest spilling blood down the front of him. On the side of the cottage in blood was written THE HUNTER BECOMES THE HUNTED.

The two hunters pulled at the rope to get their father down, but he was already dead. They frantically looked around to see where the killer could be. The shorter one had his rifle ready, listening for any branches snapping in the nearby woods. "Isn't that Rob's car?" The taller one pointed.

Rob held his side with one hand while he held his other hand over his mouth to keep him from screaming. What had he done? The silvery sky was lifting now with sun streaking through the heavy clouds. He bit his finger as he ran, weaving in and out of the birches and tripping on fallen logs. He remembered what his therapist had said, and so he started repeating three things he could see out loud as he ran. Though his voice was shaky, he called out, "leaves, branches, clouds." He could feel his throat tightening, his hands began to shake violently. He tripped on a log and fell to the earth, yellow leaves sticking to his sweaty cheek where he had fallen. In the clearing ahead, a lone pine warbler rested on a nearby branch. Rob held his side. The last thought he had was how he'd wished he had his camera to capture such a beautiful creature.