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THE HUNTER'S TALE (YAPPING DOG) (16/07/2023) back I lived in an unfriendly-looking shack on the outskirts of the town for the better part of my life. I spoke to the same group of people almost every day. We hunted together. We'd take our rifles and head off into the dark end of the woods, the mountains, wherever, And shoot whatever we could get our sights on. Sometimes they bothered me. They'd swing their weapons around carelessly, But I knew them well enough to know what to do if something went wrong. I got good at hunting. Really good. I could smoke just about anything with surprising finesse. For the first time, I was suddenly aware of my abilities. Maybe this was something to be proud of. I looked at my shack. I felt trapped living in that thing. I felt trapped living on the outskirts of civilization, The outskirts of reality, unable to really measure whether or not I existed unless someone could see me, And speak to me, hearing someone respond to me was like hearing confirmation I existed, Like an echo in a cave, calling back to me. Feedback loop. I stopped going hunting with my usual group. I took a ride to town every now and then. I wasn't at all used to being around so many people at once, hearing so many voices at once, Deranged babbling, maybe, I don't know, I couldn't make sense of anything I saw or heard, And the novelty of that drew me in. And so did the novelty of the groups of people I saw, Who all seemed to know each other with a strong, long-time-earned familiarity, And I recalled my shack, and my discordant group, and I felt a pang in my chest that kept saying "If someone else can't prove that you exist, who can, if not you?" The townspeople saw me hunt, sometimes, and sometimes they'd applaud me. They'd call me a good shooter, hotshot, good stuff. Nobody ever called me the best, but at this stage, Surely, I couldn't be the worst, so I wondered if this is where things would really "begin". I kept doing tarot spreads, asking what I should do, where I should go, And the cards always gave me the answer I already knew, deep down, but you know, I never really learned to trust my intuition, so I didn't trust the cards either. I kept putting on shows for the people and they kept applauding. Maybe this is where I would find the best spot to hear my echo, in roaring crowds, Calling back, calling my name back to me. I entertained groups of people whose company I'd rather avoid, I made friends I did not know, I frequented taverns that I never learned my way around, and wore trendy-looking clothes that didn't fit, Adorned with gold, so that I'd see it sparkle when I'd look someone in the eye and see my reflection. People knew me by name, but they did not know my name. I never learned anyone's names. It was busy work, but it felt good to be known (though not known), however, At the end of each day, I found my shoulders aching from holding my rifle, And I felt my senses aching for the cool silence of the outskirts of town, The outskirts bathed in the shadows of the taller trees, shadows avoided by most, Shadows that pooled on the floor like the primordial soup, shadows I crawled out of, Shadows that spun and twirled in my DNA. Bark, bark, bark. They gifted me a yapping dog. Presumably, it was to assist me with hunting. I didn't like this dog very much. It made a lot of noise. It followed me around, not by virtue of bond, But by virtue of that being what it was bred to do. I was responsible for this dog, now, But I had never asked for it, and the man who gifted me this dog had this tendency to grab my shoulder And give it a brotherly shove, even when I told him my shoulders were aching, and as well in spite of the fact That this man was not at all my brother nor friend, just as much as he called me his, I didn't even know his name. Bark, bark, bark. Oh, that fucking thing... Then came a day where I was invited to join a hunting club in town- I'd seen the types there, They were these barrel-chested sorts, some standing nearly seven feet high, They'd swing back these massive keg-like mugs of beer to celebrate their latest hunts, All the while wearing these tight pants, weird little boots, and stupid-looking hats. These men were incredibly wealthy and powerful. "You know," One said to me. "That's a fine rifle you've got there, but what do you say," "What do you say, we get you a finer one? Something that we think will really suit you." "Something like this one." He showed me his own rifle. The thing looked expensive. It looked a lot nicer than anything I'd ever owned. Surely it cost more than the entirety of my shack. Bark, bark, bark. And I'd get this shiny little medal-thing, a brooch, a badge, I don't know what it was, But it sparkled and shined and had a very aristocratic and dignified-looking emblem on it. "In fact," The man said. "Why don't you take this rifle?" He handed me an even finer-looking rifle. It was a gorgeous weapon. Sleek, perfect. It was extremely heavy. They had engraved my name on it. They spelled it wrong. The rifle was cold and heavy in my hands. The badge looked like it weighed a ton too. I thought their boots looked stupid and their hats stupider yet. I blushed at the thought of wearing any of it. This engraved name was definitely someone's name- it was supposed to be mine, but wasn't, But it could be, if I wanted it to be. If I allowed it to be. Bark, bark, bark. They had given me too much beer. My stomach was sick. I didn't like this beer. They knew I didn't, but it was all they had on tap, and I didn't want to be rude. I slumped in my chair, the rifle fell from my hands. It hit the floor with an excruciatingly loud thud. I had a head as big as Texas and a stomach filled with a sea that was rocking ocean liners back and forth. Bark, bark, bark. I swear, had I been the sort of hunter these men were, I would've shot that thing. But I didn't, because it was just a dog, and even more, it wasn't really my dog, And the man who had given me the dog wasn't my brother nor friend at any time of the day, And these guys wore stupid-looking boots and stupid-looking hats, And this beer was horrible, and deep down, I felt a stab in my heart every time someone called me Not by name, but just by an overly-familiar "hey you", and a slap on the tired, aching shoulder, As if we had known each other for years, as if I were slapping the shoulder of my friend Who never deigned to carry his rifle safely while we patrolled through the woods In search for a boar we'd all miss, and blame each other for missing, But we'd forget about it once we shared a little wine and winded down for the night by a fire Just big enough to warm this group and myself, who had been sorely missing From this once-frequent activity in my life for a few months now. My body ached, no, screamed, for the cool silence of the shadows. Bark, bark, bark. I slid off my chair, drunk, thudding onto the floor to follow the rifle. I was making a fool of myself in front of these men, but at this stage, I didn't care. I crawled pathetically out of the tavern, on my hands and knees, then hand and stomach, Then knee and elbow, then out the door, into the street, groaning sickly as the townspeople watched. The dog did not follow me. I managed to get myself back onto my feet, and from there, I staggered away from the tavern. I walked past people who had become fixtures in my life in this town, but were no more familiar to me Than they were the first time I saw them. I walked until the sounds behind me grew hushed. I walked until they were swallowed by the chirping of crickets, and the swaying of trees. I walked until the dark of night drank up the remaining light from the town. Eventually, I was walking down the winding path that lead into the dark, quiet, "Don't-go-there" parts of the woods. Up amongst the pine trees was an unfriendly-looking shack. And a little further down to the east was a cliff that overlooked a valley. I had been here before. Many times. I used to sit on this cliff edge and overlook the valley, thinking about how small I was Compared to those enormous mountains and trees, how alone I was compared to the stars That littered the sky, the crickets that screeched their song in a chorus. It was so dark here that there was no light to dilute the sky. I saw the Milky Way. Finally, I decided to scream. I don't know why I screamed, but it was a very loud, visceral scream, That came from recesses of my being so deep and dark that I didn't even know they went that far down, Until my throat went hoarse and my lungs were depleted of air. The scream that echoed back to me sounded like no animal I had ever heard in my life, Like something not of this planet, I couldn't tell you, But it was my name that my echo screamed back, and the rustling trees applauded me. I retired to my shack. I wrapped myself in coils of blankets, and hugged my pillow to my chest. The room was pitch black. That too was a blanket that lay over me and protected me, The dark waters from which I emerged. I knew that tomorrow would come. The sun would rise. All the men who I knew-but-didn't Would be wondering where I was. I wondered if I should return, to tell them, to give a heads up, To let them know I was finished with this, and that none of them knew my fucking name anyway. I wondered if it would be worth it. I wondered if it was the polite thing to do. I wondered what it would give me. I wondered what it would give them. Couldn't help but wonder about tomorrow. I slept heavily, and better than I had in months. I needed the rest. I had things to do tomorrow, after all. I was going to go out hunting, in the dark end of the woods, Scold my friend for waving his rifle around carelessly, And share wine by the fire. I hoped that dog wouldn't find me and follow me again. Hunting dogs don't forget scents.  |
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