Nick Easler
The snowmobile chopped and whined as it wound between trees and up and down hills. Father and son shook together as the snowmobile bounced over a fallen branch concealed by the snow. An early November storm was laying a white blanket over the hardened earth, and it threatened to conceal the drops of blood the man used to track the deer he’d wounded moments before. He wiped snowmelt from his eyes and squinted against the setting sun.
“Papa,” the boy yelled, but the man didn’t hear. Wind whipped his scarf into the boy’s face. The boy struggled to keep his grip on his father’s slick coat. “Papa, can we slow down?”
When the blood became too faint to see from the snowmobile, they stopped and the man looked back at the boy. The boy’s face was covered in wool his mother had wrapped around him before the man picked him up for the day. Two small blue eyes, barely visible between the folds of his scarf, blinked away crystals that collected on the boy’s eyelashes during the ride. His hand-knit mittens fumbled around his mouth until a little red nose escaped with a sniffle. The man smiled. “Think we can track him on foot?” he said. The boy looked at the white earth, striped by the skeletons of dormant trees, and said nothing.
The man slung his rifle over one shoulder and helped the boy from his seat. The boy’s boots, bought on special the week prior, were already cracking from moisture and cold. The boy lumbered about for a comfortable place to stand while his father tried to find the blood trail again. When he noticed the boy staring awkwardly up at him, he pointed aside and said, “See these little bits of blood? He couldn’t have got far.” The boy looked at the ground. “They get tired after the shock wears off,” the man explained.
The boy followed closely behind, jumping from one crater to the next as they formed under his father’s long strides. The boy clenched his fists and tried to ignore the ache of his numbing feet.
The man spoke casually as he scanned the snow for blood. “I heard you picked up the trumpet at school.”
“Trombone,” the boy said. “Mom got a Trombone for me.”
“Right. Do you like music then?”
The boy shrugged.
The man looked up to meet the boy’s gaze. “You didn’t always like music,” he said. “Whenever I played it in the kitchen during lunch, you’d tell me, ‘Papa, please turn it off.’”
“I just don’t like that music, papa. I like music. But not all music.” The boy tried to scratch his head with one mittened hand but only succeeded in pushing his knit cap to one side. His father adjusted the hat till it covered the boy’s ears again.
“Okay,” the man said, and went back to his search.
“Papa,” the boy said. “David said you won’t be at my birthday next week.”
“Well,” the man said, “I’m sorry, bud. I’ll be out of town.”
“Where are you going?”
The man knelt beside the boy and pulled the scarf from his face. “Have you ever been around an animal that’s been hurt?”
The boy shook snow from his pant leg. “I don’t think so,” he said.
“Well they get real scared. And they get desperate, you know.” He watched the boy’s face as he spoke. “Sometimes, they lash out. And the best thing you can do is stay clear if they do that. You understand?”
The boy nodded.
“You just let the bleeding do the work,” the man said, and he rubbed the top of the boy’s head as he stood.
“Papa,” the boy said, and he grabbed the man’s hand with both mittens.
The man led them onward till they approached a drift that lay between pines. A depression in the snow led to a break in the brambles where the trail of blood became wide and dark.
The man tried to pull his hand free of the boy’s grip, but the boy held tight. “Let go, Mike,” the man whispered.
The boy held tight and stared at the gap where the wounded creature had passed. He peered into the shade of the evergreens until he saw silhouettes within: dark figures, superimposed, bowing and heaving shallow gasps. Their bodies steamed from the exertion of their escape. A sudden feeling of loneliness came over him.
“He’s in here, Mike. Stand back.” The man finally pulled his hand free, leaving his glove in the boy’s mittens.
“Don’t let go!” the boy yelled.
The man hissed as he unslung his rifle. “Stop making noise!” The boy wrapped his arms around the man’s waist and squeezed.
With his rifle in one hand, the man tried to pry the boy from his body with the other. The boy pulled to resist, and they lost balance, falling backward into the snow as a buck erupted from the brambles. It arced gracefully through the space the man and boy had occupied before tumbling into the clearing behind them. The two turned to watch the animal flee, but it had already collapsed, too tired to run any longer. The boy heard the deer’s labored breathing but could not see its face.
“God dammit Mike,” the man said as he sat up. “Are you okay?”
“Don’t shoot him papa,” the boy pleaded. “Please don’t, papa.”
A concerned look came over the man’s face. “He’s dying Mike,” he said. The boy didn’t respond but continued to stare at the animal helpless in the snow. The man placed himself in the boy’s face and said in a hushed tone, “He’s already gone, Michael. We can’t leave him here like this. It wouldn’t be right.”
“I don’t want you to do it.” Tears formed in the boy’s eyes. “Don’t, please.” He wiped his nose and sniffled.
“It’s not right to let him suffer.” The man searched for his rifle in the place where they had fallen, when a rhythmic pounding caused the boy to step back. The deer, rising in halting jerks, found its footing and stood. The man forgot his search for the rifle and turned to watch as the injured creature started a syncopated canter across the clearing. In a moment it was swallowed by the shadows of the treeline.
“You okay, Michael?” the man asked.
“I want to go home,” the boy said, and he reached for the man’s bare hand.
The man nodded and took the boy’s hand. Together they retrieved the fallen rifle and traced their steps back to the snowmobile. ❦