7/02/2019
Dad and I have used this little town as our hunting base camp for years. We park our little RV at the park across from the school and drive out to the public lands every morning before sunrise. I always loved the small town charm, and part of that was the superstitions.
I remember the first time I got to tag along hunting with Dad, I was 8 years old and so excited to finally be included in the revered yearly hunting trip. When we checked in at the RV park the first day, the gentleman manning the desk peered over at me. As Dad was walking out, the manager motioned me over to him. I gazed up at him as he stared deep into my eyes and waggled his finger, intoning, “The woods hold secrets, my dear, and if you want to know only the good ones don’t disturb the fairies.” His eyes twinkled, and I was old enough to understand that he had good intentions. I thanked him for his advice and followed my Dad out the door. In the years to come, I would accompany my Dad yearly to the woods, but I never did see any evidence of fairies. I thought I simply wasn’t lucky enough to witness their magic.
As I got older, the town residents became more serious in their warnings about the fairies. It started small, as natives stopped telling me to take a picture if I ever saw a fairies. They started to warn me that the fairies weren’t nice. They didn’t like having their picture taken. Like, really didn’t like it. They started advising me to actively avoid the fairies. They told me what crystal I should carry to hide myself from their eyes. They warned me to leave a few berries if I ate any I found growing wild. They cautioned me to never let the fairies smell my blood. And they warned me to never forget my blaze orange. Apparently fairies really hated things that impersonate nature too blatantly, and prefer to be warned of a human’s presence. And last year one of the shop owners told me my blue eyes were too bright and asked if I had considered wearing colored contacts while out in the woods. It was admittedly a little creepy, but I thought it was sweet that they all worked to maintain the magic even as kids grew up and became harder to enthrall. The town was accumulating a rustic charm as more citizens placed little bells, windchimes, wreaths, and crystals outside their homes and shops. It was a little more hippie than the skulls and cowhides we were used to, but it was pretty.
This year I’m holding out for a really good bull. It’s my last hunt before I go to college, and Dad said he would pay for the skull mounting as a graduation present. When we check into the RV park, the same manager is sitting behind the same desk. We sign the roster, and as I head out the door, the manager calls out to me. I turn back. One blue eye stares darkly at me, no trace of a twinkle left. I try not to stare at the messy, gaping hole where his other eye should have been or the nasty scar that jags across his face and down his neck disappearing beneath his shirt collar, but it’s hard to avoid when he points right at it. “This,” he rasps, tracing the scar up from his shirt to the empty eye socket, “This is what happens. Don’t disturb them.” I mumble my thanks for the advice, and back out the door. “Too blue…” I can hear him muttering as I leave. Just as the door clangs shut he whispers, “Don’t let them catch your eye.”
I sleep uneasily that night, the windchimes echoing too loudly in my dreams. In the morning, Dad and I both silently load up, and in the pre-dawn darkness we drive off to the public lands. We hike for longer than usual, hoping to find better game deeper in the forest than most hunters usually venture. We find a good spot, and settle in to wait. The sun is just starting to illuminate our breaths when Dad nudges me. I perk up. He points to a spot down in the valley. “Movement,” he hisses. I pull the scope up to my eye and start scanning the area. I spot the movement, deep in the valley, but can’t tell what it is. We decide to move closer, and begin creeping down the hillside into the valley. As we stalk closer, I realize it’s human, and then I realize the human, (more specifically a balding, overweight male in his late 40s), isn’t wearing any blaze orange, which can be extremely dangerous on public hunting grounds.
“Sir!” My Dad called out. It would’ve been comical how fast the guy whipped around and stuffed it back in his pants, but I had averted my eyes to the ground and now saw where he had been pissing and was now standing. A gentle ring of late-blooming wildflowers and mushrooms surrounded him, a circle about 9 feet in diameter. A circle we were now 6 steps inside. I took a step backward.
“Good God you scared me!” The man was hastily tucking his undershirt back into his pants.
“Sir, where’s your blaze orange? You could get shot out here.”
“Oh.That. Ahh, don’t worry, I’m safe. And besides, if you wanna get a big one you gotta take a few risks, right?” He chuckled like we were all in on some joke.
“Well your risk is illegal,” my Dad spoke harshly as he squatted down and unzipped his pack.
“Awww, come on. You gonna report me? What’s someone gonna do about it way out here anyway?”
“They don’t like it when you masquerade as nature,” I whispered to myself.
“What?” The man looked at me quizzically.
“Here.” My Dad stood up with his backup blaze from his pack in his hands. He stepped toward the man as a biting breeze kicked up.
“Dad,” I started to warn him.
“What?” He stopped and turned to look back at me.
“Umm-” I was trying to decide how crazy I wanted to sound today when I saw a small flash of light behind the other gentleman.
“Look out!” I shouted, but I was too late. With a shriek the man went down.
It was one thing to hear that the fairies weren’t nice. It was another to see them attack a hunter and strip the flesh from his bones. My Dad instinctively took a step backwards as he tried to process what he was seeing. I stood, petrified, as tiny shapes swarmed the man’s fallen form and pieces of flesh started flying through the air. Tiny, unearthly howls joined the ungodly wails and screeches from the quivering mass of flesh and bones. Steam began to rise from the uncovered organs into the frosty morning air. Crimson bloomed on the damp ground, pooling around what used to be a man.
“Run.” The command was whispered urgently in my direction.
I started to turn, but as I broke out of my stupor a pair of miniature emerald eyes flashed at me from among the carnage. I whipped my face mask up over my eyes and turned my back. I had to make it 5 steps. I could only hope that if I wasn’t trespassing they might forgive my eyes. I ran blindly for the edge of the circle.
One.
I heard the whirring of a thousand tiny wings taking flight behind me as I pushed every ounce of energy into my legs.
Two.
The whirring grew to a roar as the swarm overtook me.
Three.
Ravenous. I could feel it in the air, and in the tiny, razor-sharp teeth that nicked at my back.
Four.
Something caught at my legs. I stumbled, and the packed earth smacked me on the jaw. A thousand furious beings immediately latched on. I felt my face mask starting to slip down off my eyes, and desperately tried to hold it up as I struggled to get up again. Something grabbed my hand. I didn’t scream for fear they would fill my mouth, but tried to wrench myself free. The ground started to slide underneath me, and I realized I was being dragged from the circle. I stopped struggling and instead used my free hand to hold the mask over my eyes. Soft petals brushed my cheeks. Slowly teeth started loosening their clamp and tiny claws released their hold. The hand let me go, and I lay gasping on the ground. I didn’t try to fight the beings, or make them leave. I was outside their circle, and they were slowly leaving me, albeit resentfully. Indignant huffs peppered the air, but I kept my eyes covered until the sun was directly above and the tiny punctures had melded into one relentless, pulsing pain.
We had survived, my Dad and I, and our wounds healed eventually. The emergency room doctor and nurse had looked at us knowingly when they saw the multitude of tiny stabs and cuts gently dripping. They disinfected each bleeding hole with a strange mixture from an ancient looking glass vial, but said they couldn’t give us anything for the pain. We asked why not, and they said they’d tried everything before, but nothing could take away the pain until the wounds healed. We didn’t go back home until the scars had covered the evidence of what had happened that day. Our bodies were covered in tiny white stars. School wanted to know why I had been gone for so long. We gave them a doctor’s note, but never said what it was for. Someday we may go back out and traverse the woods again. But not those woods. Never those woods. We will find a different spot. A different town. Somewhere where the residents who warn you about the fairies still have a twinkle in their eyes when they say it…
The music I wrote to:
Comments
Post a Comment