There you are. As the fur-coated head popped into her infrared scope, Eunice’s heart pulsed in growing excitement. From behind the tree, the deer showed itself again for the first time in thirteen minutes. She sat upon a hill, hidden between thick bushes. A clearing with slight tree coverage sat in her sights. She hoped that some prey would wander through to graze, but everything that passed through went straight for the trees behind the clearing. After staying up half the night, she feared that she’d end her hunt without any prize to show off. Nothing was more embarrassing than having nothing to show off.
When this last deer appeared, a beautiful buck with fine horns, she felt her heart leap inside her chest. Sweat broke out on her palms. She took her time wiping her hands across her green-stained pants, taking care to not jostle the rifle or make too much noise. The buck stood clear in her night vision sights. Her heart pounded so loud in her ears that she feared the deer would hear. Clenching her teeth, she took the shot. The gun drove into her shoulder from the recoil. Sharp pain stabbed through her arm but she was used to it. Having a long history with guns, recoil was an old inconvenient friend.
Her eyes narrowed at the clearing, expecting to find a deer carcass ready to be skinned and its meat processed. To her chagrin, she saw the white tail flapping behind the deer as it darted back behind the tree coverage. Choking down a curse, she pumped the rifle barrel to load another shot in the chamber, but she was too late to line up another shot. The deer was gone. I was too tense, she realized in bitter regret. She forced down the urge to scream her frustrations to the uncaring forest. The hunt was as much a game against herself as with the prey. If she threw in the towel, any chance she had of bagging a buck was gone. Besides, a single cry would alert half the forest of her presence. Forget even taking a squirrel home. The only path to victory was silent patience.
As the minutes passed, her pillar of resolve edged closer to crumbling.It was possible she’d never get a clear shot. Desperate to keep her mind off her doubtful annoyance, she recalled her father’s second favorite movie. “You gotta ask yourself one question. Do I feel lucky? Well do ya, punk?” she muttered hoping the buck would take up her quiet challenge. She wasn’t Clint or Harry, nor could her rifle take the buck’s head clean off. Still, one shot was all she needed.
Her patience was about to pay off. The buck poked his head around the tree, hoping to spot the attacker. She grinned, knowing that he would find nothing in the dark but bushes where her rifle rested. Moving with muted precision, she tilted her scope to keep its neck in her line of fire. He was still too far behind the tree. She didn’t bother aiming for the head. It wasn’t a good target. Every time she went for a headshot, she missed. A bead of sweat dripped down her forehead. She didn’t bother wiping it away. She became a statue, watching the deer with narrowed eyes. C’mon, just a little further.
Unaware of her presence, the buck edged a couple of steps beyond its assured safety. His neck was on full display. She took a slow, deep breath. All her tight nerves relaxed. A tense shot is a missed shot, her father’s voice recited. She pulled the trigger. A shot resounded. For one tense moment in time, she feared that she aimed too high. If the bullet flew over her target, she knew she wouldn’t get another try. She was lucky to get this second chance. Time came to a crawl as a spurt of blood and flesh shot from the deer’s neck. With a cry, he sprang around, attempting to flee the scene.
His head smacked straight into the tree, discombobulating himself. Dazed, he staggered from side to side, desperate to find an escape route. His predator watched with bated breath. She slid back the chamber, loading another bullet into the long barrel. This buck wouldn’t get away. Though she hated to waste another bullet on dying prey, she couldn’t afford for him to get away. A second shot resounded, taking the buck lower in the neck. Fresh blood exploded onto his fur. Crying out one final time, he staggered another step before his legs gave out.
She stayed on the hill, waiting to see what the buck did next. If he tried to get up, she had to shoot fast. He didn’t rise again. She released her tight breath in an excited sigh. “Yes,” she blurted, pumping a fist in the air.
The black handheld radio squawked on her shoulder. “Papa Lion calling Little Lioness, over,” a man called over the radio. “Hearing a lot of fire. Eunice, you make the shot?”
Pressing the call button, she answered, “Little Lioness to Papa Lion. Yep. I got him, Dad.”
“Whoo. That’s my girl,” her father yelled back. “I’ll be there in two shakes.”
Within half an hour, a bright flashlight appeared behind her. In the dim light, a large form of a man waved the light in greeting. Popping from her hiding place, Eunice shot up her flashlight in answer. Her father raced down the hill, rifle and pack slung over his shoulders. “Where is he?” he asked, breathless from his jog.
“Over there,” she pointed. Together, they traversed the hill. When she was younger, Eunice had a tough time walking the rough terrain of the forest with a rifle in her arms. She often looked at her father, who toted his gun over one shoulder with ease. A twinge of envy stabbed into her childish heart. How many daughters want to be just like their fathers? Eunice wondered.
Upon reaching the deer, her father quickened his pace, taking a knee beside Eunice’s kill. “Beautiful shots darling,” her father praised, examining the body in their handheld lights. His grin flashed through his thick beard. Its dark color matched his daughter’s hair. Both shots went clean through the neck. Despite hitting the tree, the deer failed to mare its pelt too much, leaving a beautiful prize for Eunice’s efforts. “You’ve been practicing at the range without me?” he asked, raising a dark eyebrow.
Eunice raised her hands in defeat. He caught her red-handed. Whenever he wasn’t at home, she went to the range by herself, mastering her marksmanship. “If I’m gonna match you one day, I have a lot of ground to cover.” Her father fired his first gun at seven, two years before she did. Forty years later and he had to be the greatest marksman on the island. She wanted that title one day.
With a laugh, her father shook his head, thick beard waving. “Why are kids in such a hurry to grow up? It only seems like yesterday you were playing with your imaginary friend...what was his name again? That flying cat of yours. Rusty.”
“Dusty,” she replied with a giggle. “I can’t believe you remember that.”
“You can thank your mother for that,” he said sighing. “She wrote everything down in a journal. Every diaper rash. Each little cut. She kept record of it all.” A growing sadness thickened in his throat, forcing him to trail off. It was six years since Eunice’s mother died. Sometimes it seemed a lifetime ago. Other days it appeared to happen the night before.
“Do you think we can mount this one on the wall?” she asked, hoping to lighten the mood.
It had the intended effect. Flashing a grin, he returned to his chipper self. “I believe so.” She remembered her first hunt, when they both sat in a makeshift base. At eight years old, she believed that she was big enough to go sit in her own hut and bag a deer. Her father insisted otherwise, ignoring her arguments to the contrary. He reviewed all gun safety rules and aiming techniques half a dozen times. Whenever he spoke, his voice was thick with pride, despite her failing to shoot anything. Though she was older and didn’t need her father by her side to hunt, that pride still resounded in his voice.
As they made their way back to the campsite, where the truck awaited them, Eunice carried her father’s pack and rifle, as well as her gun and supplies. She lit the path with their lights. Walking ahead, her father trudged on with the buck slung over his shoulders. While she was glad that she had some independence on a hunt, she was glad her father came along. She lacked the upper body strength needed to carry a buck through the forest’s rough terrain. No doubt, bad luck would strike her and she’d end up trapped beneath the deer’s weight.
“Darling, ever told you the story of Hermit of the forest?” he asked in breathless puffs.
“Don’t think so,” she replied in the same breathless gasps. When faced with a laborious task, her father loved to regale her with a tale. After seventeen years, she was sure that he’d run out of new stories but he always had a fresh yarn. The way he unwound the threads of his narratives, she wondered if he came up with them himself or if he read them all a long time ago. Not one book in his current library had any such accounts. If life was different, she was certain her father would’ve been a novelist.
“Child, everybody worth his salt knows about the Hermit of the Forest,” he huffed, struggling with the deer. “Old Hermit was the one that summoned the ole dragon o’ the deep.” Eunice paused, staring at her father with a raised eyebrow. Whenever he started bringing up dragons, she wondered if he still saw her as a little girl. “Keep that stink eye to yourself and listen,” he laughed without turning around. “You might learn something.”
Saving her harsh gaze for later, she continued on as the orator began his tale. “Now, this didn’t happen no ten years ago. No ma’am, not even one hundred years ago. This here is a story right out of the world that time forgot.” He cleared his throat, as was his custom. “Once, there was an old man. History doesn’t remember his name. All we recall is what he was and he was an old hermit. The Old Hermit was a lonesome creature, wild as a cougar. He lived deep in these very woods, dwelling in a shack in the heart of the forest. Townspeople of the time feared him. They believed that he communed with demons. When men went hunting, they found traces of strange fires sprinkled through the forest. In the late hours of the night, the Old Hermit’s voice reverberated through the village, speaking in a tongue not known to man. His odd ramblings stirred the townsfolk into a frenzied mob. Furious, they sought the old man out but they never found him. This persisted for years until a fateful day that changed the destiny of the island forever.”
As his story progressed to unfold, Eunice found that her footsteps were a bit lighter. He knew how to make grueling tasks fun. “A beautiful woman was known to bathe in Serpent’s River during Sun’s Peak, what we now call noon. She was one of the oldest women in the village, but her beauty eclipsed the vibrancy of youth. No one understood how the hands of time hadn’t touched her. Her time of bath was a well-established habit. One fateful day, at the appointed time of her cleansing, the village elder’s mischievous grandson prowled around the river, slinking behind a tree to gain the best view of the woman. To his surprise, he found the woman’s empty clothes, but no woman. Her garments laid in tatters. Despite his youth, he knew that there was a struggle. Once the village was alerted of the scene, and the elder beat his grandson, a party of men searched the forest.”
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“They found her body at the bottom of a grove. She lay broken in a cluster of elegant flowers, stained red by the dead woman’s drying blood. Gobs of flesh were torn from her corpse. It looked like an animal had devoured her, but the wounds spoke of cruelty unknown to animals. Only a man was responsible. Enraged, they knew who was to blame. The flower grove belonged to the Old Hermit. Rallying together, they stormed through the forest. They would not rest until he was dead.”
“It was true that the hermit was to blame for the woman’s death, but he had his reasons.” As a child, Eunice remembered the first time her father told her a story of moral ambiguity. She was eleven. It was a story about a family feud that happened on the mainland. After that day, those kinds of stories became more frequent. He loved tales filled with grayness. She thought elders were rigid in their beliefs, not wanting to deal outside of black and white values. Meanwhile, her father reveled in the middle ground, speaking with no authority. When he spoke, it was as if the story was helping him make sense of the world. “Supposedly, the woman stole his flowers. Crushing them for their juices, she smeared them into her flesh to rejuvenate her skin, sparing herself from the cruel hands of time. The hermit caught her in the act, killing her for her theft.”
“That’s a bit extreme, isn’t it Dad?”
“Never said he was justified,” he replied, pausing to grin at her. “They had no trouble finding him. He returned to his flower grove to find every precious blossom trampled underneath. One party awaited him, beating the old man within an inch of death. Seizing him, they dragged him out of the forest that shielded him. No one realized that in the downtrodden grove, he left a blood-filled mark in the dirt.”
“I don’t think I like this story,” she said. She could not remember a time when her father’s yarn had been woven out of such dark fabric.
“They dragged him into the sea’s surf,” he continued, paying no heed to his daughter’s protest. Once he got himself rolling along, nothing could stop him. “Once dead, his body would be dragged out to the ocean. No one wanted his cursed body buried on the island. Before they killed him, he cursed the islanders. He vowed that his fury would come to fruition with his death. Refusing to heed his warning, they slit his throat, pushing his body into the surf. Raising to his knees, blood gushing from his throat, he lifted his hands to the heavens. In a fit of dying fury, he called out to the sea in his choked, gurgling voice. No one could make out his cry, but one word rang true in all their ears. It made them tremble in fear. Lotan. With his final words declared, he passed away into the sea, never seen by another living soul.”
He fell quiet, allowing the tension to rise. All Eunice could hear was their own puffing and the soft jolting of the deer’s corpse and backpacks. “For six days, nothing happened, lulling the village into peaceful ignorance, but on the seventh day, on the day of the Lord’s rest, they awoke to find the sea bubbling. It caught the eye of the entire village. Gathering around, they gazed into the troubled sea, pondering what caused the disturbance, but too foolish to recognize the danger rising toward them. Bursting from the ocean’s depth, a savage roar declared the arrival of a creature most foul. Towering above the poor village, hot rage in his gullet, bloodlust in his eyes, stood a dragon.”
“Answering the dead hermit’s call, he wreaked havoc upon the village. The sea ran red with the blood of the villagers. Survivors fled in terror, scattering to the far corners of the island. Many dared to cross the ocean, sailing for the mainland. No one knows if they made it or not. It is said that decayed remains of splintered boats and rafts can be found on Canary Beach. The rest fled into the Ashen Man’s Cave. Hiding deep within the island, they listened in fear of the harbinger’s fury.”
As the last words tumbled from her father’s lips to slap into her eardrums, Eunice felt a shudder trail down her spine. In its trembling wake, her body felt cold. She waited for him to reveal some happy ending. Perhaps a hero would arise from the masses, unveiling a hidden lineage of heroes. He waited on the island for this occasion. Mighty sword in hand, he’d slay the beast and bring the nightmare to an end. To her disappointment, her father said nothing.
“Is that it?” she asked. “Kinda lame way to end it.”
“History doesn’t always have happy endings,” he answered in a measured tone.
“History?” she laughed. “Dad, not a single one of your stories is real.” Storytellers loved to obscure the line between fact and fiction. Despite the genuine nature of her father, Eunice realized a long time ago that all his stories were pure fantasy. Did he expect her to believe that a story with a dragon had any place in reality?
He stopped, not looking at her. “Have I lied to you?” His words stunned her into silence. The tone of his voice was stern, just like when he scolded her as a child. Glancing around the deer carcass, she found her father’s face set into a stony mask. It unsettled her. This was not the first time she admitted that she didn’t believe his yarns. She was clever enough to confront him at the age of ten. By then, she had abandoned the childish beliefs in Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy. The Easter Bunny never had a prayer against her. If such a creature existed, she would’ve told her dad to shoot it if she didn’t get to the rifle first. When she told her dad she didn’t believe something, he never argued with her. He knew there was no need to keep up any pretense. This was the first time he challenged her unbelief. That shook her down to her very soul.
They walked on. No words were exchanged. Neither had anything to say. Though they were closer to their destination than before, it was a small eternity before they reached their campsite. The previous night’s campfire was moist ashes. Their remaining gear rested in the blue Toyota truck’s cab. Eunice’s grandfather gave that truck to her dad back when she was three. How long the old man it before was anyone’s guess.
“Dad,” she puffed as he dropped the deer in the back of the truck. Laying her load into the truck cab, she could stay quiet no more. Mustering up her courage, she demanded, “Why do you keep feeding me that bull?”
“First, don’t say bull. It’s not ladylike.”
She rolled her eyes. “And bagging deer is?” Sometimes, he had such backward views on men and women. If he wanted her to be the ideal lady, teaching her anything most considered boyish was a mistake.
“And second, I can prove my story’s true.”
Her jaw dropped. Proof? That’s a first. She searched his face for any signs of his usual hidden smile. On the few occasions he tried pulling her leg, he had a wisp of a grin at the right corner of his lips. To her shock, it was as stern as the rest of his face. Has the world gone crazy? Without waiting for her, he took off into the woods. Gathering her breath, Eunice chased after him. Her father was the kind of man that often lost his way in the forest. It had nothing to do with lacking a sense of direction. The forest captivated his imagination. He could wander around, staring at the simple wonders of nature for hours on end. It would never occur to him that someone was waiting for him at the truck. If she wanted to return home by daybreak, she needed to stick with him. Besides, what was this proof he found?
He passed through their usual hunting grounds, leading her over the Flintmatch Hill. She remembered trying to climb the black hill as a child. Her father chastised her, saying that it was too dangerous, forbidding her from going anywhere near the dark mound. After that scolding, she gave Flintmatch plenty of space. Climbing the hill now, she realized how small it was. Calling it a hill was an insult to termite mounds. What was so dangerous that her father felt the need to place the fear of God in her?
Her father rounded the top and she followed. Letting out a surprised yelp, she jumped back before she walked off the ledge. The ground dropped below, revealing herself to be standing atop a small-mouthed cave. Glancing from the entrance, her father asked, “You coming?” She couldn’t fathom what the old man’s intentions were but she had come too far to let him slip away from her now. Grimacing, she scrambled down the ledge and followed him into the cave.
The tunnel was small. Despite her shorter size, she had to hunch forward to make her way through. Her father had to almost double over, yet he led the way with no complaint. The air was thick with stagnation. Her father kept the path well-lit, keeping his daughter from tripping over a stalagmite or knocking her head into a stalactite. Eunice walked along with her hands running along the walls. Part of the way, the right side fell away, causing her hand to follow. Reaching out, she found nothing. “What?” she gasped, withdrawing her hand to avoid losing her balance.
“See why I didn’t want you playing over here?” he asked, waving his flashlight off to the right. His light trailed down a long chasm. She nodded. One fall and he’d have never seen his little girl again. She dreaded the day she became a mother. Keeping up with rambunctious children had to be a constant headache.
Continuing on their way, the tunnel opened, with the right being a sheer drop. She kept close to the left side but refused to trust it. No matter how the path changed, her father didn’t slow down. Her father marched ahead as one possessed by a single goal, with a surefootedness that left her a little uneasy. How many times had he come down into the cave? The thought that he could’ve lost his way or fallen to his demise made her anxious. It was even worse when she realized that she never would’ve found out why her dad disappeared.
At last, he came to a sudden stop, so abrupt she almost slammed into him. His flashlight revealed a steep hill of slick rocks. “We’re not going down there, right?” she asked, her voice squeaked despite herself. They lacked the proper gear for such a climb. She couldn’t believe that both of them could scale the rocky surface without plummeting to the unknown ground below.
Instead of answering, he dropped to one knee, flashing his light along the rocks until he reached a stone wall at the bottom. Staring over the ledge, she followed the trail of the flashlight. The flittering beam revealed a strange illustration on the wall. Squinting in the dark, Eunice caught the flashing glimpses of old paint, cracking and peeling. Her father guided the light along the faint lines to reveal a small man, raising his hands in worshipful surrender. Moving the light a little further, a giant winged beast towered over the man. Its eyes burned with an infernal rage, with jaws open to consume the world.
Gasping, Eunice withdrew from the edge. It was the same hermit and dragon from the story. “You made that,” she accused breathlessly. She drew back in disgust. What had gotten into her father? He was not the kind of man to go to such extremes to maintain a lie. Since telling this story, he revealed a side of himself she’d never seen before. Eunice felt as if her world was turned upside down, disrupting the status quo she accepted as unchanging.
“Now why would I do that?” he answered with complete calmness. He still refused to admit that the story was made up. “You know I lack any talent for art.”
His words stunned her into the depths of shock. The stern expression never left his face. If this story was a falsehood, he believed in it. Was it possible that this was true? At least it was a legend written long ago by some island dweller. Was this a case of a man confusing a force of nature for some mythical creature? If such an event birthed the tale, what terrible natural disaster was a dragon? Still, within the core of her soul, she felt the clutching grasp of doubt. “Answer one question,” she said, hesitation trembling in her voice. “If such a creature existed, what could anyone do about it?”
Her father was quiet for a long time. He maintained his stony expression, but in the dim light, his eyes couldn’t hide the creeping despair. When he found his voice, it was low and tight to the point of breaking. His words drug Eunice down into the abyss of fear. “‘And the kings of the earth, and the great men, and the rich men, and the chief captains, and the mighty men, and every bondman, and every free man, hid themselves in the dens and in the rocks of the mountains; And said to the mountains and rocks, Fall on us, and hide us from the face of him that sitteth on the throne, and from the wrath of the Lamb: For the great day of his wrath is come; and who shall be able to stand?’” Deep within the cave, Eunice trembled at her father’s words as the fog rolled in.