Grantville Gazette.Volume XVI Page 12

  ***

  They hiked up through corridors of giant grey-barked trunks, some well over five feet in diameter. The constant shade kept the undergrowth low but the footing was tricky due to loose rocks hidden by a carpet of rusted pine needles and Walt suffered more than a few scrapes from low branches and brambles as the visibility dimmed. At times they had to skirt around rocky outcroppings and lichen painted cliffs. Finally, at a somewhat level and open flat area on the wooded mountainside Gerbald declared that it was time to make their camp. Walt was too tired to cheer. Gerbald collected some rocks and constructed a simple fire circle under the cover of a six foot deep depression in an exposed granite wall; not quite a cave but enough room for them and the fire to stay mostly out of the rain if it came. Walt looked on, exhausted but knowing that he had better set up his tent before darkness fell. He made himself get up and scout for a good spot.

  Walt soon found a lovely patch of small gravelly stones in a narrow bed. It was by no means flat but wasn't at too steep a pitch, either; just right for his one man tent. It was a camouflage lightweight hunter's model, a classic pup tent with a rain-fly. Walt lay down a plastic ground tarp, spread the tent down on it and then pounded the stakes into the gravelly ground with the back of his camping hatchet. He had quite a struggle erecting the ungainly structure but eventually the tent was up. Walt inflated his heavy duty air mattress with a small foot pump. He unrolled his foul weather sleeping bag and, sitting comfortably on it, took his waterproof gun and ammo bag out of his backpack.

  He had brought along only two weapons since he knew there'd be a lot of hiking involved on this trip-no more driving his truck out to the hunting grounds, and guns and ammo were heavy. On his belt he wore the Smith amp; Wesson. 357 Magnum revolver that he had inherited from his granddad, a Viet Nam vet who had passed away before the Ring of Fire. Since joining the army reserves after the horror of the Croat raid on the high school he rarely took the thing off, figuring it was better to be prepared. Facing those medieval fuckers and their swords with just a baseball bat had removed any inhibitions he might once have had about going about his daily business armed.

  After some debate he had chosen one of his favorites for the hunt; a 1963 Winchester Model 94 chambered in 30-30 he had found in a pawn shop in nearly perfect condition. It had been a real steal, and was considered by his dad's grizzled old hunting buddies to be a better rifle than the ones produced in later years. He had been tempted to get a scope for it but the older guys had laughed him out of it, scopes were for overeager kids who wanted fancy toys and wouldn't do him much good in West Virginia's narrow valleys anyway. Besides, Walt was gifted with keen eyesight. This rifle had been his companion on a number of successful hunts in the comfortable old woody hills back up-time; it should serve him well in these still foreign-feeling forests. The current circumstances made him treasure his guns all the more. He carefully hung the bag by straps in the inside peak of his tent to keep it off the ground and out of his way.

  Satisfied with his accomplishments Walt crawled out of the tent. He found Gerbald looking on dubiously.

  "You will sleep in that?"

  "Yes, that's what it's for."

  Gerbald walked around it. He lifted the edge to peek under it.

  "Do you mind if I look inside?" Gerbald asked, pointing to the entrance.

  "Go ahead." Walt said, amused at the down-timer's first encounter with a modern tent. Apparently he knew how to use a zipper and soon half of him disappeared within.

  "You will sleep on the ground?"

  "No, I'll sleep on that air mattress. It will keep me off the ground and warm."

  Gerbald extracted himself still looking dubious. He gazed at the darkening skies visible through the lacework of pine and spruce branches.

  "Big rain tonight, Walt. Better not to sleep on the ground, even with a mattress." Gerbald indicated the flat area Walt had pitched his tent in. "You will surely get wet here."

  Walt felt irritated by the older man's questioning of his camping skills. "No I won't get wet, this thing is waterproof. It's kept me dry in some real humdingers back in West Virginia proper. It's you who ya oughta' be worried about rain, I'm gonna be as dry as a Sunday school picnic."

  "If you say so…" Gerbald replied in a less than convinced tone and with a shrug wandered off into the woods. Walt set about gathering more firewood and kindling, albeit in a lackadaisical fashion; he was about purely beat from the day's long, long walk.

  After a while Gerbald returned with a huge arm load of conifer boughs. He looked around for a minute and then headed to a fairly large oval mound formed by a group of big ferns; a raised but very uneven surface. He proceeded to lay the boughs crisscrossed over the mound to form a natural mattress spring, the green branches smoothing out the gaps. He went back into the woods. Walt got the fire going with his Zippo and some dry wood shavings. Gerbald returned with another armload. Now the mound was a lot less bumpy looking, having come to resemble a giant bird's nest perched about two and a half feet off the ground.

  Walt tried not to look too interested in Gerbald's project and nonchalantly whittled a stick with his Bowie knife by the crackling fire. Gerbald disappeared into the darkening woods again. Walt heard chopping sounds.

  Gerbald came back with three fairly straight wood poles that he had cut the small branches off of, except for a forked branch at the end of one five feet in length, the other two were both eight feet. He produced a small but sharp looking pick from an inner coat pocket and made a six inch deep hole in the ground at what must be the top of his bed-nest. Into this he drove the bottom of the pole with the forked end, placing several good sized stones at its base to secure it further. Now he stuck the ends of the longer poles in the fork and secured them tightly with twine, their bottom ends placed to either side of the nest's foot. Gerbald had constructed a tripod lean-to. One more trip into the forest and the structure was soon covered completely in green boughs. Walt had to admit to himself that it was a pretty solid looking arrangement.

  "Won't the rain get in there?" he asked.

  Gerbald grinned, pleased with his work. "No, the rain will run off the branches away from me. I will be quite dry." Gerbald looked confident.

  "If you say so…" Walt commented wryly, returning to his whittling. Gerbald just smiled.

  ***

  They ate a quiet meal of fat juicy sausages roasted on sticks over the coals. Another good thing about Germany, the sausages sure beat the hell out of the crappy processed weenies back up-time. This was some good eating! Walt noticed even his seemingly indefatigable expert guide was looking a little ragged around the edges from the day's work. After the meal they both found themselves nodding off and soon said sleepy goodnights before heading to their respective shelters.

  That night Walt found himself on the deck of a frigate in a surging sea, hurricane wind and rain slapping the sail's sheets in a black fury. Lightning flashed to reveal an enormous wave- before he could react he was washed over the side. Somehow he caught hold of a loose timber to ride, but it was unstable and threatened to spill him into the tumbling seas. Another wave swept over him and he clung to his makeshift raft desperately. Lightning flashed again, revealing still more massive waves barreling toward him and a glimpse of the ship sinking fast into the roiling sea. The next wave would surely be his end, a black wall of roaring sea rose over his head and… Walt woke up. Although the sinking ship and deadly seas had faded into the mists of dream, the wind and rain were real enough and, to his shock, dark water was still very much in evidence. With a gasp he realized his air mattress was actually floating! He tried to turn over and slipped from his float into nearly a foot of icy water, which rushed to fill his warm sleeping bag with biting swiftness. He managed to extract himself from its sopping weight to sit freezing his cotton-brief-clad ass off in the floodwaters. What the hell was happening? Walt was stunned and disoriented.

  The increasing cold serving as a slap in the face, he found his wits again. With a rush of concern h
e checked his hanging guns; they were safe in the tent top, the water must be entering from below. Walt fumbled around to find the submerged flap zipper which he pulled up sharply. This opened the way for a new surge of ice cold water, which washed cruelly across his belly! He finally realized he had pitched his tent in a dry runoff: No longer dry! The heavy rains had transformed his perfect flat spot into a swiftly moving creek! Worse yet, since there was no place for the water to exit in the bottom of the tent it was filling up like a water balloon, now nearly to his seated chest. By a stroke of luck Walt's hand fell on his floating flashlight, mercifully it was a waterproof fisherman's job. Working as quickly as he could in the increasing chill Walt started to relocate his gear from the flooded tent over to the dryness of the campfire's rock shelter. First he brought out his pistol belt; thank God it had been hung up with the gun bag. He carefully placed it in a crevice that he hoped would keep it dry. Next came the waterproof gun bag, he placed this as far back in the hollow as he could away from the fire circle. Last came his backpack, its contents were completely soaked and heavy with water. He thought about trying to take the tent down but was afraid it would wash away from him so he left it where it was, a bloated water filled sack. Gerbald had tried to warn him. He felt like a total idiot.

  Walt huddled shivering in his cold wet underwear under the leaning rock face trying to get the fire going again. After an interminable period of suffering he somehow managed to reignite the dampened coals by fanning them with his damp baseball cap and adding more dry wood shavings from the back of the almost-cave. At last he basked in the glow of a hearty fire but it was four in the morning and the marshmallow had not been invented yet. Walt tried to calm down and make the best of it as he wrung out his clothes and draped them over sticks planted beside the fire to dry in the flickering orange light and soothing heat. He sat staring numbly into the darkness waiting for the dawn to come, listening to the rushing of the heavy rain.

  Eventually the downpour slowed and then stopped and Walt was left alone with the silence of the forest. He used this quiet hour to curse roundly the Ring of Fire and the benighted backward century it had brought him to, full of troubles and trials and responsibilities that he wouldn't have had to face until he were much older-if ever-back in the comfortable modern times he'd been stolen away from.

  Gerbald woke just before sunrise, arriving at the fire dry as a bone and looking supremely rested. He saw Walt in his underwear huddling under a semi-dry coat, then looked at the drooping tent pitched in a run off and then looked back at Walt with a concerned expression.

  "You can say I told you so. " Walt mumbled sullenly.

  Gerbald spread his hands in a gesture of piety. "I must apologize for not being clearer. I thought your tent must truly be waterproof. I am very sorry."

  Walt could see that the man was sincere and so decided to spare him his life. He returned to his dark thoughts as beams of golden light began to shine through the sopping wet forest.

  "Want some coffee?" Gerbald asked very gently.

  Walt nodded solemnly. "That would be good."

  They drank it in a silence punctuated only by the irregular music of dripping water.

  ***

  The morning sunshine proved to be a cure for the night's travails. They lingered there somewhat later than they might have waiting for Walt's possessions to dry. Around nine they broke camp. Walt wore the Winchester rifle on his shoulder, ready to take a shot if any thing presented itself. They left the rocky slopes behind as they climbed over the ridge to descend into a wide valley. Reaching its bottom they tramped through dew sparkled glens and airy meadows. There were a lot of open spaces and Walt mentioned that it looked like good deer country. Gerbald concurred.

  "We may find the rothirsch here. In English it might be called 'red deer'. A stag would be a fine thing to bring home to your lovely Crystal, let's see if we can find one."

  "Too bad we don't have any dogs with us," Walt said gloomily. His had died before the Ring of Fire and not been replaced.

  "Yes, dogs would make lovely company," Gerbald agreed heartily. After a moment he added "Let us see what we can do with our own eyes and ears. Here, do you see this tree?" Gerbald pointed to what might be an oak along the meadow's edge. Walt walked over to examine it. The bark on the lowest branch had been chewed up-a good sign! Walt looked down to see a bare patch of ground which a buck had scraped away with its hooves.

  "A buck has been marking his territory. He chewed on the branch here, leaving his saliva and musk on it, and scuffed up the ground."

  Gerbald smiled and nodded. "Yes, indeed. I see that you have experience."

  Gerbald ambled over to the tree, looking casually around. After a moment he began speaking softly. "This branch has been used more than once. The bark has grown back a few times here, and you can see older markings amongst the new. Do you see anything else?"

  "Well, the grass is pretty thick here and I don't see any tracks leading away. Hard to say where he went from here."

  "Take a look at the bare place."

  Walt looked down. There were many tracks, laid one over the other. These red deer must be big critters; the hooves were nearly twice the size of a West Virginia whitetail. "These suckers are big," Walt remarked, impressed.

  "I believe they resemble an American elk. They are quite large compared to your whitetail deer-which I understand have increased their numbers and spread quite widely out of Grantville, much to the dismay of certain vegetable farmers." They both laughed. "A mighty creature indeed, the rothirsch." He looked at the tracks "It seems the stag usually stands facing this direction. I'll wager he travels this way often and always marks this place on his way. How old would you say these are, Walt?"

  Walt examined the scraped area again. Some of the tracks were still sharply defined, the edges hadn't yet crumbled. "Hey, they're new! Fresh after the rain stopped this morning!"

  "I agree. I think we should go in the direction of his tracks; it should bring us to the stag." Gerbald began walking. Shortly he stopped at an opening in the thick brush that formed a hedge along the tree line.

  "We have found a path. Let's see where this takes us."

  "How do we know he went in here?" Walt asked.

  "We do not know for sure. However, game trails such as these are the highways of the forests. Many creatures use them; just like people they prefer the easiest route. They don't like to hit their heads on low branches or travel through thick brush anymore than we do. These paths always lead somewhere-perhaps to where our stag beds down."

  They entered the forest and began following the winding path. With a bit of care it was easy going; the path of least resistance.

  After a while Gerbald paused. Walt came up beside him to see deer droppings. Gerbald spoke quietly.

  "These are fresh, Walt. We are following this stag most certainly."

  Walt bent down to poke and prod at the droppings with a stick.

  Gerbald grimaced. "Do you wish to see what it had for breakfast?"

  "No, I'm just trying to see how fresh these are." A trace of annoyance crept into Walt's tone.

  "I am sorry, Walt. Of course you are right to do so. I am a lazy enough fellow that if the shit looks moist and shiny as this does I am content to call it fresh." Chuckling, Gerbald continued on. Walt scowled at him behind his back. The spoor was indeed moist and shiny, and there was no doubt it had been left after the morning rain had stopped. Walt threw the soiled stick into the weeds and marched on.

  The path led them into a narrow vale lined with bracken and brush. Walt realized that he had an eerie feeling he was being watched. It was beginning to bug him. Every time he turned around to scan the trees and thickets there was nothing to be seen but bark and leaves. He decided that it was just rattled nerves from his ruined night's sleep and tried to ignore it but the feeling was impossible to shake. At last he decided to mention it to Gerbald, even though he felt kind of silly.

  "Uh, Gerbald? It's probably nothing but I feel like we'
re being watched." Gerbald nodded without looking at him.

  "Yes, I feel it, too. Ever since we entered this valley."

  Walt was surprised, and a little worried. Tales of cruel and desperate men lurking in the Thuringerwald were many and usually grisly; his wife had been collecting them for him all week. Certainly most were untrue or at best exaggerated, but still…

  "Do you think it's… people?"

  "I don't know yet, Walt. Let us continue our hunt as if we don't think anything is wrong. We will stay together and, how do you say? Keep our eyes peeled; a rather painful thought, makes me think of potatoes."

  Walt didn't feel terribly comforted and forced himself not to look around again.

  The game trail led them out into another region of open meadows striped by narrow copses of trees. They stayed near the cover as best they could, following the tree lines and watching for signs of big game. The feeling of being watched faded now that Walt had gone into his hunter mode; he now carried his rifle in his hands ready for quick action. It had become a matter of getting lucky and finding where their quarry had wandered to in this maze of grassland and trees; they both sensed they were getting close. Gerbald pointed at a rumpled spot in the tall amber grass.

  "Look. I believe our stag has passed this way, the grass is bent down. Let's follow."

  They stayed low. Moving as quietly as they could across the open meadow. Walt's pulse quickened, he was itching to bring down a nice buck; the thrill of the hunt sang an ancient song in him and all thoughts except locating his prey fell away. A tramping sound came from beyond a thicket of gorse. Gerbald paused and looked back at Walt, a wide grin splitting his face. He motioned silently for Walt to move ahead. Walt edged around the side of the thicket crouching low. Peering through the thorny branches he was rewarded with a wonderful sight.