ON THE ANTLER
STONE CITY
BEDROCK
A RUN OF BAD LUCK
HEART SONGS
THE UNCLOUDED DAY
IN THE PIT
THE WER-TROUT
ELECTRIC ARROWS
A COUNTRY KILLING
NEGATIVES
HAWKHEEL’S face was as finely wrinkled as grass-dried linen, his thin back bent like a branch weighted with snow. He still spent most of his time in the field and on the streams, sweeter days than when he was that half-wild boy who ran panting up the muddy logging road, smashing branches to mute the receding roar of the school bus. Then he had hated books, had despised everything except the woods.
But in the insomnia of old age he read half the night, the patinated words gliding under his eyes like a river coursing over polished stones: books on wild geese, nymph patterns for brook trout, wolves fanning across the snow. He went through his catalogues, putting red stars against the few books he could buy and black crosses like tiny grave markers against the rarities he would never be able to afford—Halford’s Floating Flies and How to Dress Them, Lanman’s Haw-Ho-Noo, Phillips’ A Natural History of the Ducks with color plates as fine as if the wild waterfowl had been pressed like flowers between the pages.
His trailer was on the north bank of the Feather River in the shadow of Antler Mountain. These few narrow acres were all that was left of the home place. He’d sold it off little by little since Josepha had left him, until he was down to the trailer, ten spongy acres of river bottom and his social security checks.
Yet he thought this was the best part of his life. It was as if he’d come into flat water after half a century and more of running the rapids. He was glad to put the paddle down and float the rest of the way.
He had his secret places hidden all through Chopping County and he visited them like stations of the cross; in order, and in reverence in expectation of results. In late May he followed the trout up the narrow, sun-warmed streams, his rod thrusting skillfully through the alders, crushing underfoot ferns whose broken stems released an elusive bitter scent. In October, mists came down on him as he waded through drenched goldenrod meadows, alert for grouse. And in the numb silence of November Hawkheel was a deer hunter up on the shoulder of Antler Mountain, his back against a beech while frozen threads of ice formed on the rifle’s blue metal.
The deer hunt was the end and summit of his year: the irrevocable shot, the thin, ringing silence that followed, the buck down and still, the sky like clouded marble from which sifted snow finer than dust, and the sense of a completed cycle as the cooling blood ran into the dead leaves.
Bill Stong couldn’t leave things alone. All through their lives there had been sparks and brushfires of hatred between Hawkheel and him, never quite quenched, but smoldering low until some wind fanned up the little flames.
In school Hawkheel had been The Lone Woodsman, a moody, insubordinate figure prowling the backcountry. Stong was a wiseacre with a streak of meanness. He hunted with his father and brothers and shot his first buck when he was eleven. How could he miss, though woman-raised Hawkheel bitterly, how, when he sat in a big pine right over a deer trail and his old man whispered “Now! Shoot now!” at the moment?
Stong’s father farmed a little, ran a feed store and got a small salary to play town constable. He broke up Saturday-night dance fights, shot dogs that ran sheep and sometimes acted as the truant officer. His big, pebbled face was waiting for Hawkheel one school morning when he slid down the rocks to a trout pool.
“Plannin’ to cut school again? Well, since your old man’s not in a position to do it for you, I’m going to give you a lesson you’ll remember.” He flailed Hawkheel with a trimmed ash sapling and then drove him to school.
“You don’t skip no more school, buddy, or I’ll come get you again.”
In the classroom Bill Stong’s sliding eyes told Hawkheel he had been set up. “I’ll fix him,” Hawkheel told his sister, Urna, at noon. “I’ll think up something. He won’t know what hit him when I’m done.” The game began, and the thread of rage endured like a footnote to their lives.
In late October, on the Sunday before Stong’s fifteenth birthday, an event that exposed his mother’s slovenly housekeeping ways took his family away.
Chopping County farmers soaked their seed corn in strychnine to kill the swaggering crows that gorged on the germinating kernels. One of the Stongs, no one knew which one, had mixed the deadly solution in a big roasting pan. The seed was sown and the unwashed pan shoved beneath the blackened iron griddles on the pantry floor where it stayed until autumn hog butchering.
The day was cold and windy, the last of summer thrown up into the sky by turbulent air. Stong’s mother pulled out the pan and loaded it with a pork roast big enough to feed the Sunday gathering of family. The pork killed them all except Bill Stong, who was rolling around in Willard Iron’s hayloft on a first shameful adventure. The equation of sex and death tainted his adolescent years.
As Stong grew older, he let the farm go down. He sat in the feed store year after year listening in on the party line. His sharp-tongued gossip rasped at the shells of others’ lives until the quick was exposed. At the weekend dances Stong showed up alone, never dancing himself, but watching the women gallop past, their print blouses damp with sweat under the arms, their skirts sticking to their hot legs. At
