Grantville Gazette.Volume XVI Page 13

  About fifty yards distant stood the majestic form of the biggest buck he had ever seen rising above the grass, at least four feet tall at the shoulder. Its coat was long compared to a whitetail and a bit shaggy, making nearly a mane around its thick neck. Its fur was a rich reddish brown on the head and neck fading to an orange-ish gray on the sides and hindquarters; it was likely in the midst of its autumn color shift to a winter coat. Walt nearly gasped as he saw its mighty branching rack; much thicker than a whitetail's spiky growth, almost like a moose's! As he slowly raised his rifle some part of Walt's ecstatic mind counted seventeen tines on the most impressive antlers he had ever beheld. It was a full-grown animal, a gorgeous thing to behold and as always Walt felt a slight tinge of regret as he positioned the rifle on his shoulder. His mother, despite their many rancorous disagreements, had managed to foster a deep respect, perhaps even love, of nature in him. He would end this magnificent beast's life today, but it would feed him and his wife in the coming winter and Walt would never, ever forget its grandeur. He sighted carefully, a clear shot, a perfect shot. He disengaged the safety, breathing out as he slowly put pressure on the trigger…

  There was a crash of branches across the meadow and the buck bolted just as Walt fired. With an echoing crack the bullet hit the moving buck's upper hind leg. The animal's hindquarters were pushed sideways by the blow for a moment but it regained its balance and continued bounding away, slowed by its injury but still moving fast; a stream of crimson running down its graceful limb.

  "FUCK!!!" Walt cried out. "I fucking grazed it! What the fuck spooked it?" Gerbald quickly scanned both the direction of the disturbance and the flight path of the wounded animal which headed into some trees at the meadow's edge. Walt wildly considered popping off a shot in the direction the noise that had scared his buck had come from but kept his temper under control. He then saw that for some completely mystifying reason Gerbald had drawn his shortsword and was using it to chop off a branch from their cover, then another, each about three feet long. He walked quickly to where the buck had been shot and began messing around with the sticks.

  "What the hell are you doing?" Walt asked, greatly upset by the botched shot. It should have been the perfect kill! "Let's follow that deer, it's injured goddamn it!"

  "Not your fault, Walt, I saw it all. I am not sure what startled the stag but we don't have time to go find out. Before we follow we must place the anschussbruch to mark the spot where the animal was hit." Using his pick to stab a hole in the ground Gerbald shoved one branch in so that it stood upright. "Now I must place the fahrtenbruch to show which way the animal ran. It is a stag so the cut end is placed in the direction of flight, had it been a doe the branch tip would show the way." He laid the second branch on the ground from the base of the standing stick, pointing toward the spot the buck had disappeared into the trees.

  "But Gerbald, why? " Walt felt frustration growing in him.

  "These will help us track the deer, or others who may follow if we fail. It is a sign the hunter must leave, a message to other hunters. It is our tradition." Gerbald's voice was calm and full of conviction.

  Walt regarded him as if he may be a lunatic for a moment but then the logic of the act sunk in. He took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down. "Okay, I get it. Nice tradition. Now, can we get after that deer before we lose the poor thing?"

  "Patience Walt, we shall not lose it."

  Walt bit his tongue and followed in seething silence, quietly despising traditions, patient old farts and things that go crash in the bushes at the worst possible moments.

  ***

  The trail was easy enough to follow, the profusely bleeding wound left a scarlet dotted line behind. Walt felt terrible; there was nothing worse than missing a shot and causing an animal to suffer. He silently cursed again at whatever had made that blasted racket and screwed up his shot, but didn't have time to dwell on it. Keeping pace with Gerbald in the brush required all his concentration and energy. After an hour of hard going they found their quarry slowly crossing a meadow in front of them, limping from its injury and breathing hard. They drew closer, reaching an angle for a clear shot. The buck looked at Walt but didn't increase its speed; its last power was spent. With a whispered apology Walt drew a steady bead on the wounded animal and ended its misery.

  Gerbald walked over to the kill and took off his hat in respect. Next he took a sprig of spruce from a nearby tree and dipped in the blood from the killing shot. This he brought over to Walt who stood a few yards away feeling sad, tired and generally pissed off at the world. This was by far the greatest buck he had ever brought down and the joy was gone from it. He glared silently at the ground as Gerbald approached.

  The older man spoke to him in a concerned voice. "Walt, I am sure I know how you feel. You must forgive yourself. As I said before, this was by no means your fault. Missing a kill and wounding an animal happens to all hunters at some time, you have done the right thing by ending what you started. It is an excellent stag and you must feel pride in your kill if only as a sign of respect to this great beast who will feed you this winter."

  Gerbald reached out with his hand with the bloodied twig of spruce. "This is the schutzenbruch, the shooter's branch. I would like to place this in your hat to honor you and your kill. It is our tradition."

  A hot, irrational anger was rising in Walt, teeming with the many frustrations that filled him in this messed up time and place, spiked with irritation from a miserable night and the shame of a hunt gone badly. He growled at Gerbald. "Ya know what? I'm not interested in your weirdo traditions. Keep your bloody branch, I want no part of it." Walt turned and stalked off for the shelter of a nearby copse, already hating himself for losing his temper but too upset for reason. If he had looked back he would have seen nothing but understanding on Gerbald's face.

  ***

  Walt sat on a log and thought for a while. He had been wrong to turn on Gerbald, the guy was just trying to be nice. It was probably partly because his quiet manner reminded him of the countless soft-spoken fatherly lectures he'd endured from his dad over the years, to the point where they pretty much wanted to make him scream. Walt wasn't allowed to just plain old get mad growing up; arguments simply weren't done at the Dorrman house. Dad was always calm and correct and there was no reason for anyone to be otherwise. Come to think of it maybe that had driven his mom nuts, too. Interesting concept, that.

  With an effort Walt stood up and pushed thoughts of his family problems aside. He needed to leave all that old crap in Grantville, and preferably in the up-time past. He was here now, he was out hunting and he needed to get his shit together. Straightening his shoulders he marched out of the trees and headed to where Gerbald was gutting the kill. Gerbald saw him coming, smiled pleasantly at him and then went back to work.

  Walt stood awkwardly for a minute then coughed. "Uh, Gerbald, I'm really sorry about that. I've been in a piss poor mood on and off lately and I shouldn't have taken it out on you."

  Gerbald looked up at him with commiseration in his startling cobalt blue eyes. "It is quite all right my friend, no need to worry, I took no offense. Our hunting trip has seen more than its share of unexpected difficulties, has it not? Now, would you like to give me a hand with this? I believe you have some experience in preparing a fresh kill for travel."

  Walt smiled, feeling relieved, and respectfully set about the bloody but wonderful job at Gerbald's side.

  ***

  They made camp early in a nearby clearing sheltered by large venerable oaks. First they hoisted up their kill so that it hung from a high branch out of the way of night scavengers. Walt laid his tent out to finish drying in the meadow grass, then set about gathering firewood. The sky was still clear and they would have a nearly full moon tonight; it promised to be a pleasant evening. Once they had made camp Gerbald invited him to come along for some bird hunting.

  "Walt, please allow me to show you some old woodsman's tricks."

  A fair distance away from camp Ge
rbald proceeded to set up bird snares, producing a variety of twines and carved sticks from one of his countless inner pockets. He taught Walt the basic mechanics and Walt wished that he had pen and paper along to take notes. He tried tying a few himself but they snapped too easily; it was definitely a job that required skill and practice. Gerbald's snares were truly wonders, designed so that the animal would not be injured if Gerbald chose to release it. Satisfied with their work they went back to camp to relax for a few hours before checking to see if they netted anything.

  They sat quietly for a time, enjoying the tranquility of the valley. After a while Walt broke the silence. "So, Gerbald, what do you think about us crazy up-timers anyway? What's it like to have weirdos from the future land their town in the middle of Thuringia?"

  Gerbald smiled. "Well, I am quite impressed of course. Not just with the wonders you have brought us but with your ideals as well. You are free people and now you are giving that gift to the Germanies. You have brought us peace. I was a soldier for most of my life and have seen much suffering. You Americans are doing many good works and personally I am grateful. Do not tell my wife but I am not much of a believer in God, certainly not in his mercies, a heresy, I know. And yet it seems you have come with a great purpose and even an old soldier like me must pause to ask if it is somehow divine."

  Walt chewed on that for a while. Heavy stuff, divine saviors from the future? A bunch of hillbillies with better guns than anybody else around was more like it. But still, if he looked at things from a down-timer point of view he could see it. Medicine, science, freedom of religion. Walt was beginning to feel like a patriot in this new nation they were building, something that he had never really considered back home in the big old USA. Here was a place and time where small-town folks like himself could make a big difference. He felt pride in that. It was pretty heady stuff and a sense of excitement in the possibilities ahead had already begun to grow in him, slowly but surely replacing his extended mourning for the life left behind.

  Gerbald continued. "Also, I like movies, very much. Especially Clint Eastwood films. He is the coolest."

  Walt laughed. "Well, there's something we have in common. I love High Plains Drifter. 'This is my gun, Clyde.' When he made them paint the town red, that was trippin'."

  Gerbald nodded his approval. " Ja, that was good. For me it is Dirty Harry. 'Do you feel lucky? Well, do you, punk?' I love that guy."

  Walt applauded Gerbald's imitation, the guy was a natural mimic. "That's pretty good, dude! If we put a cowboy hat on you instead of that overgrown Smurf hat of yours you may just have a career as a replacement for old Clint-once we get around to making movies again, which I bet we will in a few years."

  "Walt, that is my dream. I hope that it shall be; I very much want to be a movie star. Meanwhile let us see if our dinner has presented itself."

  They found they had snared a male ring necked pheasant, a species that had come through the Ring of Fire. Gerbald gently let it go loose. "To honor your mother's wishes we do not hunt creatures from up-time."

  Walt nodded in agreement; it was good to see so many familiar critters had come through the Ring of Fire with them and were thriving here. They made it feel more like home. There, something his mother and he agreed on, how rare.

  "It's funny, those pheasants actually came to America from Asia. It looks like they're doing well here in Europe."

  "A true American then," Gerbald grinned "All coming from somewhere else."

  That evening they dined on something Gerbald called an auerhahn, to Walt it looked like a cross between a grouse and a turkey in blue-black feathers. Gerbald proved to be an accomplished camp cook, he produced a bottle of dried herbs and salts from one of his many pockets to give the feast some flavor. They stewed the bird with potatoes and carrots they had brought with them and some wild mushrooms Gerbald had collected. Walt was a little nervous about eating the mushrooms but determined that Gerbald was someone who knew what he was doing; they were delicious.

  After the meal as they relaxed beside their campfire Walt reached into his pack to pull out a flask. "Hey, Gerbald, how about a nightcap?"

  "A hat for sleeping? I just use this one, thanks." He pointed at the monstrous mustard mass that constantly occupied his head, apparently even when he slept.

  "No, I mean some booze before bedtime. I got some quality moonshine here!" Walt produced two plastic camp cups and an unlabeled bottle of amber fluid. "This is a West Virginia hunting tradition."

  "An excellent one indeed! We have a similar one-" From yet another inside coat pocket Gerbald pulled out a large flask made from some kind of a horn. " Barenjager, or 'bear hunter.' It is made from honey and a favorite of hunters."

  They poured each other a cup of their respective poisons then raised their glasses in toast.

  "To a successful hunt!" Gerbald offered.

  "To tradition!" Walt replied.

  They both drained their cup in one gulp and screwed up their faces in unison at the strange tastes.

  A few rounds later Gerbald remarked "I think I am acquiring a taste for this moonshine. I shall have to procure a bottle back in town."

  Walt regarded his cup of Barenjager thoughtfully. "I think… you are trying to kill me with this crazy poison. Hit me with that horn again please."

  Yet a few rounds later they were swapping hunting stories, most of which were true or nearly so. Gerbald was interested in Walt's guns, a subject on which any hunter can wax poetically on.

  "I got my first real gun for Christmas when I was eight years old and had been through seven years of extensive gun safety training from my dad. It was a Cricket bolt action 22 rifle, a real purdy little thing. I still take it out to plink cans in the backyard once in a while; a boy's first love never really fades. My mom told me I could shoot all the damn cans I wanted but could kill only what I was gonna eat, she didn't want me out popping off her precious songbirds. Naturally I disobeyed her and a few weeks later she caught me with a purple martin I'd canned. That night she had plucked the little sucker and served it up to me for dinner, fried with a side salad. It tasted pretty crappy but my dad made me eat it anyway, and gave me an 'I hope you've learned your lesson, son' speech-he's good at those. The funny thing is I actually respected Mom for that one. Cruel and efficient. Most of the time she was kind of a marshmallow, except when she was on me about doing my homework. Anyways, I never shot anything I wasn't going to eat again."

  Gerbald smiled broadly at this tale. "Yes, your mother is a clever woman and not to be trifled with. I am pleased to count her as my very good friend."

  Walt regarded Gerbald through squinted eyes. It was kind of hard to imagine his mom with friends. "So, you really like my mom? You don't just work for her?"

  Gerbald cocked his head toward the young man next to him. "Very much so! Dore and I love your mother as we would our own little sister. She is part of our family now as well as yours. We know that your mother has great heart and vision. She cares about nature with a passion I have never seen before and wishes to protect it, selflessly. She has made me aware of how such things so often went in your other time… I do not wish to see all the Thuringerwald fall to the axes of progress. As hunters we should help your mother in her work so that we shall always have places like these to enjoy, and for your children to enjoy."

  Walt looked a study in amazement. His mother? Pam Miller? With great heart and vision? Still, he had to admit to noticing something of a sea change in her over the last year; she certainly wasn't sitting around eating bon-bons and feeling sorry for herself anymore. Walt knew she was actively trying to protect wildlife, putting up posters and stuff, and was writing some kind of a nature book; all of it quite surprising to her only son. His mother had managed to win the love and respect of an interesting person like Gerbald whereas back uptime they usually forgot to invite her to the office parties.

  Gerbald smiled broadly at him. "Ah, you see there is more to your mother than you might have thought. Strange times can bring o
ut the best in people. I hope you will get to know her as she is now. She certainly thinks the world of you; and yes; she is enough like you that she wouldn't say it but we can see it in her eyes whenever you are mentioned. Now forgive an old man for talking too much, that moonshine has rattled my brains. Have a good night, my friend." And with that he rose from his place by the fire, clapped Walt amicably on the shoulder and headed off to his nest in more or less a straight line.

  Walt stared into the flames and thought on these things late into the night.

  ***

  Walt woke up to the sound of something moving through the camp.. . something large. There was a snuffling sound and a clatter as cookpots fell over. A bear? He wondered if Gerbald was awake, most likely he would be. The moon was high and cast a ghostly white glow even through the fabric of his tent. Shortly the sounds stopped so Walt slowly unzipped the bottom of his tent to peek out. He found himself looking at an enormous head with a mouthful of wicked four inch tusks and two beady black eyes. Hot, fetid breath filled his face. A great boar, a Wildschwein… a monster. This, this was what had been watching them, what had disturbed his buck. My God, it's HUGE! With a trumpeting snort the head swung, tusks catching in the zippered door. The thing's strength was incredible and Walt rolled helplessly as it uprooted the tent pegs and dragged the tent sideways. Tangled in his fallen shelter Walt struggled to get free. A glancing blow hit him in the side knocking the wind out of him. It felt like a sledge hammer and despite the growing panic at being trapped he realized it must be the great boar's hoof-if it had been the tusks he would be bleeding to death now. He heard a muffled shout through the tangle of tent canvas and the boar roared in outrage. A scuffle began and was moving away from his position.