Featured Article » Fiction

Hunting Traditions

Written by Garrett W. Vance

Walt Dorrman looked up at the cold blue skies of an early October morning and knew that it was time to go hunting. He went to his small but well loved gun collection and held them one by one, as if greeting old friends. He had grown up hunting; it was a tradition in his family as it had been for most West Virginians; the roads from Grantville now leading to Rudostaldt and Saalfeld instead of Fairmont and Monongah didn't change that. Walt pondered the forests of the Thüringerwald, could they bring him the pleasure that the West Virginia mountain country had supplied in such bounty? Walt aimed to find out. One by one he approached his old hunting pals, trying to get a group together as they had done so many times before the Ring of Fire. One by one his friends apologized, they'd love to come but they were just too busy with all the new responsibilities and challenges the seventeenth century had thrust upon them, even for a weekend hunting trip. Walt came home and slumped glumly in his favorite chair. His wife Crystal found him there staring at the black TV screen.

"What are you doing, honey?" she asked cautiously. They were still newlyweds and their love was good but she had learned that Walt occasionally had gloomy moods and that it was best to lead him out of them gently. Walt was having a more difficult time adjusting to their new century than she was and there wasn't anything in the self help and positive thinking books she had collected about dealing with time travel.

"I'm pretending to watch a football game."

Crystal laughed, laying her hands softly on his shoulders. "Who's winning?"

"The WVU Mountaineers of course."

"Who are they playing?"

"The Dallas Cowboys."

"But that's a pro team!"

"Hey, this is my fantasy. If you don't like it make up your own TV show."

"Okay, okay!" She began rubbing his shoulders gently. "Walt, is something bothering you?"

Walt slumped back, blowing out a sighing breath of air. "Yeah, I tried to get the guys to go hunting but nobody can make it. Everybody's busy trying to build an empire I guess. Me, I just want to do some hunting and get out of town for a couple days."

Crystal kneaded her understanding into Walt's taut shoulders. "I understand how you feel, honey. Could I go with you?"

Walt chuckled grimly. "Crystal, you couldn't flush a dead goldfish down the toilet without tears. You do not want to go hunting, trust me. I'm just going to go ahead and go alone; it won't be the first time."

Crystal's massage stopped. "Alone? I don't think that's a very good idea Walt."

"Why not? I used to go out alone all the time, even when I was just a kid."

"Yes, but that was up-time West Virginia, not down-time Thuringia. Things aren't the same here . . . they're more dangerous."

"Oh come on, what's dangerous about it?"

"Well, remember those bandits that attacked your mom and Mister Gerbald up by the lake?"

"Crystal, that was a couple years ago. The police have got things under control now."

"You can't tell me the Grantville cops have got an officer patrolling every wooded hillside in the region. At work I'm out on the roads and I see maybe one cop a day once you leave the Ring and there are some unfriendly looking dudes out and about. I stay in the grader most of the time."

Walt rubbed his temples in an attempt to coax out some patience. "Okay, sure, there are some bad guys in the world. But look at it this way: I'll be a lot better armed. Crystal, I'm going nuts here! I need to do something familiar, something so I can just feel normal again. I love hunting and I know what I'm doing; please don't give me a hard time. Besides, it wouldn't hurt any to have some fresh meat on the table."

Crystal gave him a long worried look and then smiled weakly. "All right darlin'. It's just 'cause I love you. Thinking of you out there alone in the woods at night just kind of scares me."

"I know, but really, I'll be fine. It's totally safe."

The next day Walt bustled about preparing his gear. His pack and tent were a bit musty so he laid them out in the front yard to air them in the sun. It was getting cold at night but the afternoons were still fairly balmy; perfect hunting weather in Walt's estimation. He studied the tent for a few minutes, he had only used it a couple of times back home where he could put the canopy on his old Chevy truck and park it at the end of some back road, an easy walk to the hunting grounds. Here in the sixteen hundreds his truck had been sold to the road department because gas was so expensive (which still irked him) and was no longer his at all. He'd just have to hike and use the tent and reasoned that the joy of hunting would be worth the extra trouble.

Around four o'clock Crystal said goodbye cheerfully as she left to go visit his mother, Pam. This was her own business; Walt still wasn't very comfortable with their chumminess, even though their friendship had started before Crystal even knew Pam was his mom. Thanks to Crystal's gentle pressure he at least talked to his mother these days, albeit for very brief periods of time and relations were still strained. He didn't say much to Crystal on the subject since Crystal had lost everyone to the Ring of Fire, except her aunt who lived in town, and Walt knew she was kind of desperate to build a new family. If she could find common ground with his mom where he never could, well, he supposed he was happy for both of them. A few hours later she came home wearing an expression of being most pleased with herself. Walt thought about asking her what was up but then decided that sometimes it was better not to know and went back to fussing with his gear.

Just after dinner a knock came at the door. Walt opened it to find a man wearing a sage green long coat, a misshapen mustard yellow hat and a shortsword belted to his hip. It took him a moment to realize this was Gerbald, his mother's hired man, or more accurately, bodyguard. In any case it was about the last person (other than his mother) whom he expected to see at his front door. Even more surprisingly the man was smiling affably; the last time Walt had seen the ex-soldier he had worn a stony scowl that seemed permanent.

"Hello Walt. I am Gerbald."

"Yes, hello, Gerbald. I remember you. Uh, what can I do for you?" Before Gerbald could answer, Crystal's voice came from the kitchen.

"Walt? Who is it?"

"It's my mom's . . . friend, Gerbald, honey," he called back

"Oh, good! Don't just stand there, invite him in!" The woman was able to see through walls, one of many such super powers that Walt, after three months of marriage, was still discovering. He turned to the still patiently smiling visitor at his door.

"Sorry! Come in Gerbald. Can I get you a drink?"

"Beer, if you don't mind." This was something nearly all Grantville men, up-time or down, agreed on. It had taken some time to get used to the stronger flavors but the up-timers had now pretty much unanimously come to the conclusion that the local stuff was a damn sight better than that watery stuff in cans they used to get.

"Sure. Have a seat, I'll be right back." Before he could take one step toward their small kitchen Crystal appeared, carrying a tray with two tall glasses of golden Weissbeer.

"Hi, Gerbald! Thanks for stopping by!" Crystal favored Gerbald with her best smile, the one that could stop traffic; it came in handy in her job with the road crew.

"The pleasure is mine, Crystal." Gerbald sat carefully on a stool, to accommodate the sheathed sword that was his perpetual companion, the picture of a contented guest. He raised his glass to Walt, who still stood awkwardly in the middle of the room.

"To your health. It is so nice to see such happy young people." Apparently Crystal appeared happy enough for two. He drained his glass more than half way with the first swallow.

"Uh, thanks. Cheers." Walt joined his wife on the loveseat, where she sat beaming rays of sunshine from her freckled face.

"So, honey, why is Gerbald here?" he asked nonchalantly.

Crystal's penny bright eyes shone with satisfaction. "Well, you're going hunting next week and none of your usual crowd can make it and so I thought it would be nice for you to have someone to go with! I was talking to Pam and she told me that Mr. Gerbald here is a very experienced woodsman."

Walt stared at her. "So you invited him to go with me?"

"Yes! You two can go together! Gerbald knows his way around the Thüringerwald and he's an expert tracker, but he doesn't have a hunting rifle. So, he would trade his skills for a share of the meat, plus share any game birds he snares with us. If you guys joined forces it would be a lot safer, and you'd have a better hunt!"

Walt frowned. Gerbald smiled, contentedly making the rest of his beer disappear.

"Crystal, like I told you yesterday, I've gone hunting alone many times, since I was just fifteen! I know how to track a buck. Besides, I know what you're really up to. You're afraid of me going out alone so you're borrowing my mom's bodyguard."

Crystal rolled her eyes, and then narrowed them. "What if I am? Ya know, back in West Virginia there weren't people with swords and a general lack of guilt about killing other people roaming the countryside, either. Sure, things are better since we got here, but there are still wars going on all around us, as you should know mister army reservist, and a guy out alone is an easy target for bandits, deserters, the black knight, whatever. Gerbald was a soldier, he knows what's going on and he knows these woods like the back of his hand—pretty basically the best possible guy to go hunting with in these times, comprende, Bucko?" Her arms were crossed, which was a bad sign; reasoning would be futile.

Walt looked to Gerbald. "Gerbald, help me out here. I've been hunting since I was a kid, I don't need a baby sitter. In your opinion is there any real danger in hunting the Thüringerwald?"

Gerbald looked thoughtful. "Well, I am sure you are an able woodsman Walt, most Grantvillers are. You have faced dangers in the woods and handled them, I have no doubt. But, even though your excellent police have driven the worst sorts from our roads and towns, there is still the possibility that such men are about and the woods are still a good place to hide. In any case, bandits or not, I would be glad to have your gun at my side; I'm afraid all I have are a couple of pistols of the kind we had before Grantville appeared and I'm sure you are aware of their shortcomings. Your up-time weapons are much better."

Walt swallowed those salves to his wounded pride. He had seen the pistols of the day and they were like something out of an old pirate movie. Not seeing an easy way out he decided he might as well go along with it. Gerbald seemed like a pretty decent sort for an older guy and his English was nearly as good as a Grantvillers, he had even a developed a hillbilly twang in his accent. It would be kind of like going out with his dad's old chums like he had done when he was a little kid. Also, Walt very strongly wanted to show his bewitching new bride that he could put food on the table with his own hands and he reckoned it would be useful having a guide who knew the territory. He looked to Gerbald again.

"Well, let's do it then. It's early October now, when do you think we should go?"

"How about this weekend? My schedule is flexible. I know an excellent place as well, a wilderness under the control of an old friend, a most excellent hunting ground."

Walt nodded while Crystal's face filled with obvious relief.

"Oh, thanks for agreeing, Walt. I'll feel a lot better knowing you aren't out there alone." Crystal's mission was accomplished. "Here, let me get you guys some more beer."

****

After Gerbald's departure Walt sighed and shook his head. "So, I get to go hunting with Rutger Hauer as Daniel Boone. That's just wunderbar."

"Walt honey, I'm going to sleep a lot better knowing you aren't alone out there. I'm a little old city girl, remember? I'm a'scared of the big bad woods!"

"Yeah, right, Farmington was a huge metropolis. And from what I've seen so far you ain't scared of nothin'."

Crystal smiled, a beatific expression gracing her face. "Maybe so, but I can be scared for people I care about. Now come here my mountain man, we got some cuddling to do."

****

Friday afternoon Gerbald came up the road with only a simple leather bag strapped over his shoulder. Walt was out in the yard with Crystal who was trying to help him and pretty much only getting in the way. He was now regretting agreeing to this team-up and was just wishing to be left alone.

“Waidmann’s Heil!” Gerbald called out cheerfully. "That is the traditional hunter's greeting."

"Well, howdy do. Ya know, West Virginians have a traditional hunter's greeting as well: Hey dude, let's kill some shit!" Walt answered back in a slightly mocking tone.

Gerbald looked at him with a keen eye. "Ah, so I see, of course you have your traditions as well. Very well then, let'skill some shit, dude."

Although Gerbald was smiling broadly, hearing the older man repeat his sarcastic words made Walt feel rather small. Crystal saw his discomfiture and joined Gerbald in gazing on him with the patience of the wise and ancient.

"Walt, we must be respectful of traditions," she whispered at him chidingly. Walt scowled at her, his face growing hot. She was only two years older than he was and could hardly be counted in the ranks of the traditional.

"Well let's get going then." Walt turned and started marching down the drive. Crystal caught his arm and swung her arms into an embrace around his neck.

"Not without a hug, bucko." As Crystal jumped on him Walt looked around to see that Gerbald had managed to wander over to the garden's edge and become very interested in the stone border's construction. Walt hugged her back.

"I 'm sorry I've been so moody lately, Crystal. I'm still getting used to how things are here in this time, I can't help it. I never thought I'd be living in a world like this. Having to go hunting with our local representative of The Merry Men for a guide is just kind of hard to swallow."

"I know, Walt. We all feel that way sometimes, but this is our world now, this is where we're going to grow old and raise our kids. I want you around for all that."

"Kids? Jeez, Crystal, don't even say that word yet! We just got hitched a few months ago."

"That's plenty of time! Well, don't you fuss about our future joy right now, sweetness. Just go out in the woods and shoot some shit for me and have some man fun. I'll be here waiting . . . in those cut-offs you like so much." Walt felt his head starting to spin, raise our kids and those cut-offs held hands and danced dizzily in a circle around him singing tra-la-la. He kissed her quickly and disengaged himself- the Thüringerwald now beckoned as a refuge for all free men of the land, and those who used to be.

"Hey, Gerbald, let's go! Bye, honey!"

"Have fun, fellas." Walt glanced back to see her still standing in the yard with a serene smile. He waved and hurried his pace.

Raise our kids . . . US!?

****

Walt was still wrestling mentally with the concept of his not so blushing bride growing large around the middle and a future of diaper changes and late night bottles. For God's sake, someone had better reinvent disposable diapers before that happy event! They left the smooth but slowly cracking roads of Grantville for the more primitive surface across the Ring of Fire's rim. Crystal had most likely graded this stretch from a rutted wagon track to something resembling a modern road herself. A sense of pride in his hard working and very damn pretty wife swelled up in him; yes, he had done exceptionally well. If becoming a father was inevitable he at least knew he had made the right choice for a partner in that difficult venture. His own folks had divorced as soon as they thought he was old enough to take it and Walt had long ago solemnly vowed not to be like them. His love for Crystal was fierce, what she gave back was the same and sometimes the intensity of it nearly scared him. Walt decided to give his mind a break and tried to concentrate on the scenery instead.

They passed fields and farms. He saw a clanky up-time tractor working the same field as a team of oxen. Later they passed by an advertisement for "The Best Cheeseburgers in Thuringia" painted bright red in modern block letters in both English and German on the side of a barn that looked to have been erected in the Iron Age. These were evidence of the spread of America into their new time and country. It occurred to Walt that some of his usual resentment at missing out on the comforts of the 1990s had been replaced by a fascination with the new nation they were building here. If—no, better make that when—he did become a father this would be the world his children would live in. Looking at the pure blue skies and amber fields of a German fall he thought that maybe it wouldn't be so bad. At least they would have cheeseburgers.

They walked a long time through the pastoral storybook countryside, the leaves all the cheerful red and gold of autumn; then walked a long time again. Walt was now too tired to mull over his future complications or enjoy the scenery and simply concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. After a short rest near a muddy field in which Gerbald visited some bushes they continued to walk a long time again. The straps of Walt's pack, heavy with his hunting rifle and ammo, began to chafe his shoulders even through the thick material of his baseball jacket. His feet were beginning to hurt in his light hiking boots. He had born this long walking in stoic silence but enough was enough. Finally he asked: "Are we there yet?"

"Nope." Gerbald's tone was irritatingly contented.

"That's what I figured you'd say . . ."

After a further extended period of sore-footed ambulation the afternoon was growing late indeed. At last Gerbald came to a pause; he and Walt stood at the edge of towering pine woods sweeping up into brooding hills. Unsurprisingly the forest was dark, damp and inhospitable looking beneath the needled canopy.

"So, is this where Hansel and Gretel got lost?" Walt asked while regarding the intensely primeval quality of their destination with a doubtful expression.

Gerbald chuckled, the sound nearly swallowed by the enormity of the hushed woodland. "No my friend, that is a few miles west. This is the wood where Little Red Riding Hood met the wolf!" Gerbald laughed merrily at the jest, not making Walt feel in the least bit better.

****

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 & 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 he 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 ...