Jonny Parshall
I am a writer of short stories, long fiction and nonfiction currently living in the idyllic Michigan north.
Jonny Parshall
I am a writer of short stories, long fiction and nonfiction currently living in the idyllic Michigan north.
I am a writer of short stories, long fiction and nonfiction currently living in the idyllic Michigan north.
I am a writer of short stories, long fiction and nonfiction currently living in the idyllic Michigan north.
I wake up.
Again.
Is it for the four-thousandth time? Or forty-thousandth? 400-thousandth? Maybe only four hundredth. I expected one day to crawl into bed to sleep perpetually and join my brothers who fell to sleep so long ago and sleep still, undisturbed.
They are not even a memory anymore. I cannot convince myself they were ever real, and that their faces and voices were but passing dreams of myself in multitudes and differing shades.
I walk from my bed to a small stand dimly lit by the filtering daylight seeping through the cracks above. I pour yesterday’s water into a wood bowl filled with dried oats. I remember now that I am at the Oatfields. This should be my fourth or fifth morning here. I must record my memories better here. I left my books … where was it?
I watch as the oats soak.
I hear no birds above. I recall there being birds at the Oatfields, but I noticed their absence at my arrival here some days ago.
The Holt. I had left my books at the Holt. I remember now. Perhaps I can make more here. I recall no good materials here, but a newer and wider search may fruit results. I forget expectation and its promises made; hope has lost its familiarity. I will make some record today, somehow. It will be “day one.” I try to count how many “day ones” I have before imprinted on paper, on stone, in clay. I chuckle.
My oats are ready.
I gaze toward the skylight. I carved it once to allow sun into my hovel, but no light comes through. It must be this sun has since changed its course. I need more light in here. How long ago that was I have forgotten.
Morning comes twice on opening day: secondly with the appearance of the sun’s virgin rays seeping through the branches, but firstly upon the sound of the first shots ringing through the November sky. These first shots are always far off, a desolate boom faintly echoing. You feel it more than hear it. Low frequencies ripple through the cold, still air. They’re usually miles away, and more likely the wasted premature efforts from a green hunter barely perceiving movement in the still-mostly-dark morning than any real attempt at killing anything. This solitary rumble to hearken the new day is often isolated, and followed by a prolonged period of silence. After ten to fifteen minutes, and the arrival of morning light’s first few ounces, more shots are heard, this time a tad closer and a notch louder, more of a brazen crash than a dull roar. Birds begin to pay more attention to their surroundings at this point. Squirrels slowly inch their way down the trunks of the larger trees. Everybody’s awake now, but the deer have already been up for hours and are fully on the move.
This is “be quiet” time. You’re done trudging your way through the snow and noisy leaves to your blind or tree stand. You’ve had two refills from your thermos, and you’ve since replaced its cup and stopper. If you smoke, you’ve since put out your cigarette. Your gloves and mask are on and you’ve moved your body into a comfortable position. So now you sit silently, still—the only moving organs in your body being are the tiny orbs of your eyes slowly scanning the treeline—east to west … pause … and then west to east … repeat—and the spasming of your stomach and intestines from the onslaught of that morning’s jitter juice.
The shots continue en masse for about an hour and a half. You hear one about a mile west in the cedar swamps. And then half-a-mile north in the pine groves. And then a quarter-mile south in the sandy hills near where the old logging road intersects the main road. And then three shots east of you where you’re half certain the fellas at Peace Camp set up near the beaver marsh.
The shots are chaotic at first, but as the early light waxes you begin to hear patterns. You’ll hear a shot three clicks to the southeast, and then a closer one two clicks southeast, and again one click south-southeast, and you can visualize the herd breaking its way toward you at full speed, meandering through the brambles and thickets, around trunks and downed timbers, across low trickles and down game paths forged by hooves since forgotten from maybe last year or 500 years ago.
Sometimes you see the flashes of brown heading your way and your hands tremble with too much eagerness (and caffeine). Sometimes they bound directly to you, land directly at your feet, and you earn the chance to finish the day early. Sometimes you hear the nearing shots cease, and nothing precipitates. “What the hell?” you mutter to yourself, insisting the herd has no doubt evaporated out of existence mere inches from your stand.
Sometimes the shots grow closer, and then further away again before you have the chance to see the subjects they’re shooting toward. Sometimes you think it's because you skipped showering that morning, and your downwind stank gave away your position, and you curse skipping wetness to save crucial time because you hit the snooze button too many times.
And then sometimes nothing happens at all. And you’re alone in the woods with funny clothes on.
I sat at the kitchen table. It faced into the kitchen, not into the table. Leg room. I watched as the pot slowed its final drips. A watched pot never boils, and a Mr Coffee perhaps falls into that category, too. But I had nothing else to do but sit and prepare my nerves, so I spaced out while eyeballing the warm elixir visibly create itself into being, like the Egyptian god Atum from the dark expanses. Stare long enough and you can slow your heart rate, and watch life pass in slow motion. What appears a steady stream is actually a series of segments. Drip. Drop … drop. “G’mornin, kiddo.” Uncle Lars’ enthusiasm startled me with a jerk. “You’re supposed to drink the coffee with your mouth, not your eyeballs, y’know.” He grabbed a brown mug from the cupboard and poured the fresh pot. “Like so, eh?” Lars was the easy-going jokester of the crew. He took a slow sip to not burn his tongue. “Not bad, kiddo,” he said. “Needs milk.” He went to the fridge. “I’ve already had one cup,” I explained. “The rest is for my thermos.” “Then I’ll get another pot going,” he said, withdrawing the milk from the fridge. “There’s coffee in the mezzanine,” Uncle Bill stated as he entered. “No shanks,” Lars said. ‘Shanks’ was one of his many personal colloquialisms. “You perk that shit too strong. You’ll be shitting your pants before sun-up.” “Can’t see how you can drink that watered down milky swill,” said Bill. “You’re making it cold by adding milk.” “I’m making it palatable.” “There’s non-dairy creamer in the cupboard,” I pointed out. “Definitely no shanks,” said Lars. “That shit will give you cancer.” I unscrewed the cap to my thermos. My eyes fell floor-ward. “Crissakes, Larry!” Bill spat. Uncle Lars realized what he’d said. “We don’t use that fucking word here,” through his teeth. Lars smacked his lips after a particularly long awkward draw from his cup. “My mistake, Shy. I meant nothing … well … you know.” “It’s OK,” I assured him. “Your statement was irrelevant.” “It was very relevant,” Bill said, still fuming. “Here.” Uncle Bill walked to the table and finished unscrewing my thermos. “You don't want to pour the hot coffee directly into the cold canister. Unless you like it lukewarm like shithead over here.” He gestured to his brother with his right hand holding the plastic thermos mug and looked to me for confirmation. I shook my head. “Right. Then you’ll want to pour boiling water into it first and let it settle. Bill took the thermos through the archway to the woodstove. A cast iron kettle hissed by the stove’s flue collar. With a gloved hand, he withdrew the pot and poured its content. Lars sighed in annoyance. “Just … like … so,” he said as he poured. He replaced its stopper and screwed the mug back on. “Five minutes. Let it sit. Gives you enough time to brush your teeth and pray to St Hubert.” “Nobody prays to St Hubert,” said Uncle Lars. “Says the guy who never kills a deer,” retorted Bill.
Having done this before, I convinced myself that nerves were unusual but not unexpected.
I started the Buick after prepping the pots for another round, and then dressed. First long underwear, then T-shirt and sweatpants. Third, long shirt and jeans. Finally my orange bib overalls and orange camo overcoat, followed by hat, boots, etc. I save my gloves and facemask for when I’m actually in my blind. Thirty-nine degrees Fahrenheit was actually remarkably warm for opening day, but layers were still very much required. One grows especially cold when sitting still in the elements.
It was still dark when I set out from the cabin. It would remain dark for another hour or so. I took the track south across the tile and over several sandy bends. It was less than a mile, but moving slowly in the dark it felt more like six.
I parked where dad and I always park—a scrubby bank that marks the beginning of the ridge. Dad and I always hunted the ridge. Beside, the track beyond the ridge becomes a bit too much dicey—too washed out and greasy—for a lowriding LeSabre. The other guys’ trucks could clear it much easier.
I turned the ignition off to the White Whale (as I called it), and shut the door lightly. A barred owl greeted me as I stepped out and into the dark wood. We were regularly greeted by barred owls at the onset of the ridge. Sometimes they hooted gently, sometimes they screamed a cantankerous wail not unlike what some consider the whoop of a North American Sasquatch (according to those silly cable programs). It reminded me of the night dad died, and how I’d heard the hoot of a barred owl mere minutes after giving up on cpr while smoking a cigarette and awaiting the paramedics.
“You too, old friend,” I whispered back. “It’s good to see you too.”
I never was An early riser, But deer camp has that Effect on folks.
There’s a buzz in the air … a strange frequency that vibrates between gestures, glances, and ‘good mornings,’ passing unseen on invisible wires that leave you … wired. Even before coffee.
Days getting ready for work, school, even Christmas don’t begin this way. There’s something primal and programmed in readying for the hunt. It’s a combined allure of adventure, camaraderie, and ‘the kill.’
And coffee.
Exiting the den, you’re in the mezzanine. It’s not a proper mezzanine—just a tiny room. But it’s set an inch-and-a-half above the main entrance, and four inches below the kitchen so we call it the mezzanine.
In the mezzanine is the beer fridge, a taxidermied Trout from the 1960s, and a small white table.
Oh, and dad's gun safe.
Uncle Bill’s percolator sits on the table and perks away, its gentle splashing and rich roasty aroma greeting you as you pass toward the kitchen.
Through the kitchen and there’s two more coffee makers brewing away—drip machines belonging to Uncle Lars and dad, left and right on the coral formica-and-stainless steel counter, respectively.
You need a lot of coffee to fill seven thermoses.
Er, I guess it’s only five now.
Still.
I cast a salty glance at the second machine. A simple permission would have suited me, but that was probably more my morning brain talking than any true sincerity.
Dad wouldn’t have minded one bit lending his dripper.
Uncle Bill entered the kitchen through the living room archway to refill his cup. He’d been up since five a.m. watching the farm report. “Curtis will be up this afternoon,” he said as poured his warmup. Curtis was Dad’s best friend from Livonia, since high school or junior high or maybe earlier.
“Is he bringing Lukas?” I asked.
Lukas is Curtis’ nephew. Curtis has two young daughters who decline any interest toward outdoor sports, so bringing Lukas is a cherished value. Plus, Curtis is the closest thing to a father Lukas has ever known. He’s a half-orphan like me I guess.
The road north was a quiet drive. It would have been quiet, anyway. Cars were few and my 97 Buick LeSabre hummed gently on the bare roads. There was residual snow in banks on the land, but the road had since cleared and dried. It wasn't actually quiet, though. Metal Mix 21 spun freely in the stereo, belting anthems of war and betrayal by the likes of Dio, Slipknot, Avenged Sevenfold and Type O Negative. Each group had lost a member previously that Spring. It was the Spring of Loss, and it had also claimed my Grandfather. Dad died the following fall. I got to the cabin, ears still ringing, at a quarter after midnight. I was last to arrive. Everybody had long since gone to bed—you hit the hay early at Deer Camp. I struggled with the lock for a minute. It was an old number, probable left over from the days of Grandpa Wilhelm Sr. The mild commotion may have stirred Uncle Bill, because he emerged from the darkness to let me in. He spoke to me in hushed tones. "We've got you set up in the den." Normally I would have passed through the kitchen door, through the living room and to my usual room off the living space past the wood-stove, but I guess Paavo had taken that bed. I was late and so I was stuck in the den—the furthest room from the wood-stove. The coldest room. "We have some things laid out. We weren't sure what was yours and what was your dad's, but most of the clothes should fit. You can borrow my thirty-aught for now, until we find the combo for the safe." Dad never shared the combination. Not that he didn't trust his sister's brothers. He just didn't see the need. We rarely prepare for death so young. I set my copy of Holy Blood, Holy Grail on the night stand, as well as half a can of Full Throttle energy drink. The room was cold, but Uncle Bill had layered the bed with several blankets and a sleeping bag. Despite the Full Throttle, I was ample tired. I placed my glasses on top of the book, switched off the light, and slipped into bed fully clothed. Except my socks. Only weirdos sleep in socks.
There is a place. It is a place in my dreams. The place is just down the road, probably off the corner of Walnut and 14 mile. It's always off a corner, never adjacent. The place is in the woods, or rather, it is the woods. It’s close but it “contains multitudes” (to quote Whitman, or better yet, Bobby D). I have entered it off Walnut and emerged near Bent-tree, Bennett Park, and even upstate Washington. (These places aren’t near each other.) I’ve wandered The Place and discovered friends from grade school, likewise wandering. Sometimes they’re my age, sometimes they don’t age. Sometimes they’re long dead. But not in The Place. In The Place, they are fishing. Or building a tree fort. Or sword fighting with sticks — very much alive. One time there was a dinosaur. I was four and terrified. That’s how long I've visited this place. Describing the place overlooks its importance. Because The Place is not a place. I mean, obviously, it is a place, otherwise why the name? But the place is also a person. He is my dad, and he’s almost always with me there. The whole purpose of The Place is to spend time with dad. Sometimes we are cutting and gathering wood. Sometimes we’re hunting. Sometimes we say we’re hunting but we’re just walking with no guns. (It’s funny how in dreams we can forget something important but act like nothing’s wrong.) One time we entered off Walnut and discovered an illegal lumber operation — logging, cutting, and storing lumber. It was illegal because The Place is always public land — either state or federally owned. We helped ourselves to some firewood and fucked off home. We could hear the trucks and skidders and harvesters beeping and grinding in the background. Machines are not welcome in The Place because their cacophony disrupts the natural sound of the forest. My dad passed recently and I’ve looked forward to visiting him again in The Place. That’s the corner of my subconscious he dwells. It’s a safe and quiet place where we can share coffee from a thermos and catch up. But I haven’t been back since that day. I’ve meant to, but I haven’t managed to find myself there. It’s free to visit, but I bought a ticket anyway. And it's been burning a hole in my pocket ever since.
It was midnight on October 13. Linda and Steve were dining together as they did every Friday. Steve opened the Chianti and Linda prepared the salad. “Babe, could you grab the aerator?” Steve asked. “Sure,” said Linda. She made for the closet. Steve returned to the counter but did not hear the closet door open. He looked again behind him. Linda was gone, but the closet door creaked slowly open.
And then a skeleton popped out.