Anjelica Nelson

To Find a Deer

      The woods were always my favorite place. The dappled sunlight passing through the pine trees to land in varying patterns on the Manzanita bushes glittered and sparkled like a leprechaun’s gold. The shade-filled paths winding through the ancient redwoods led to the bear dens and fairy cities of my imagination. A rabbit warren of childish possibilities, it was the perfect place to hunt trolls and find snakes and explore for lost cities full of treasure. Twenty glorious acres of adventure were waiting just outside my door, waiting for me to discover the secrets hidden deep within the brambles and across the rippling creeks. A never ending series of secret hideouts and climbing trees, the woods were my heaven on earth; they were where I acted out my childhood fantasies, where I went to be free. I wasn’t very old when I discovered the hard truth; freedom is only ever truly in the mind, and fantasy and nightmare can easily intertwine.

      My brother Robbie and I were on a mission: to find a deer. At least that’s what our Uncle Paul had told my mother before ushering us out the door. So off we went, crossing through the garden full of okra and snap beans and cucumbers, careful not to step on any, knowing there’d be a switch in it for us if we did. We tiptoed through rows of corn so tall they blocked the sunlight and turned the world into a narrow lane of sinister shadows that rustled and moaned. At the end of the garden we slipped carefully through the lines of the barbed wire fence my Grandpa had put up to keep the “damned deer” out of his corn, and made our way into the afternoon shadows of the firs and pines that seemed, on this day, to loom over us like a haunted forest in a fairy tale.

      We started in along the winding path beneath the trees. My brother took the lead and, full of an eight-year old boy’s excitement, he was jumping over fallen trees and crashing through bushes, the blanket of pine needles crunching a rapid staccato beneath his eager feet. Uncle Paul kept hold of my hand, reciting to me in an almost sing-song voice: “it isn’t safe for a girl to go barreling off like that; girls are more delicate than boys and need more protection; there are bears; you’re only six, you might get lost.” I knew these were just words and that he didn’t really believe them any more than I did, but I made no protest and we walked on, looking for a deer.

      We had been walking for about fifteen minutes when Uncle Paul stopped in a small clearing no more than six feet across; encircled by a choking morass of Manzanita and scrub brush interspersed with Douglas firs, I felt the chill of the shadows surround me. Calling to my brother, Uncle Paul told him he was tired and wanted to smoke a cigarette. Robbie whined and kicked the pine needles around until Uncle Paul told him to go on ahead and we’d follow behind in a minute. I wanted to go too, but Uncle Paul said I had to stay and to come sit next to him. Robbie rushed off into the woods, whooping and yelling like a Comanche on the war path, looking for a deer.

      As the sounds of my brother’s exuberant pursuit faded, Uncle Paul took out a cigarette and lit it. Taking a long drag, he blew a series of smoke rings, a trick he said he picked up in the Army during Vietnam. The shadowy edges of the clearing seemed to draw closer with every smoke ring, causing a shiver to pass through my body. Looking over at me, Uncle Paul asked if I was cold and I said I was fine. His eyes hardened slightly when he said he didn’t believe me and I should sit on his lap to keep warm. Stomach churning, I walked over and carefully sat down. Uncle Paul shifted and pulled out his hunting knife, a wicked thing with a curved blade, sharp on one side with notches on the other and a thick metal handle wrapped in black leather thongs. He laid it in my lap for a moment as he shifted back and then picked it up slowly and turned it around and around in front of me. I hated that knife. He held it up for a moment longer, not saying anything, and then suddenly threw it into a tree at the edge of the clearing. I jerked as the knife struck home with the thud of a headman’s axe. Without a sound I got up and went over to the tree and laid myself down upon the pine needles. The smells of Christmas and sweat surrounded me as the shadows that had been creeping ever closer became one and blocked out the light. I could hear a woodpecker above me drilling a hole to hide an acorn he had found. I closed my eyes as the tears started and silently counted the taps.

      I counted and counted. Uncle Paul told me to open my eyes and I did, but I couldn’t look at him, so I looked to the woods and counted the taps. Through the trees I saw Robbie standing very still and quiet, watching and not moving at all. I counted some more. In the distance I could hear my mother’s voice drifting through the trees, calling for us to come back; it was time to eat. Still I counted, I couldn’t move. Finally Uncle Paul reached up and pulled the knife from the tree with a grunt and put it in its detailed leather sheath. He yelled for Robbie as I got to my feet, and a minute later I heard the crashing of my brother’s footsteps on the pine needle floor. I never looked up. Uncle Paul asked if he had found that deer and Robbie said no, it was too fast, he couldn’t catch it. Uncle Paul told him it was all right, that we should get back before it got too dark, and he led us back the way we had come. This time Robbie walked by my side with his head down and never said a word, he just reached out and took hold of my hand. Like Hansel and Gretel we passed through the forest in Uncle Paul’s wake, back through trees and over the fence of barbed wire, back through the corn and the okra and the beans; hand-in-hand we walked without speaking. There was nothing to say.

      Silently we walked to the door, the smell of fresh baked bread and beef stew wafting out to greet us. My mother’s laughter as she scolded Uncle Paul for keeping us out in the woods too long and his mockingly shamefaced reply enveloped us as we sat down at the table side by side. The bread was soft and chewy, slathered in butter, but with a taste like sawdust coated in tears on my tongue. As my mother closed the door behind Uncle Paul she asked Robbie if he had seen a deer. With a swift glance at me, Robbie said no, he hadn’t seen anything. Then she asked what I had done to myself and my pants and I told her I got caught on the barbed wire fence and tore them. She shook her head and told me to be more careful next time and let Uncle Paul help me over. I just nodded and kept eating, methodically dipping my bread into my stew.

      As she gave my younger brother another helping, my mother smiled at Robbie and me. She asked if we liked our stew and we both nodded, even though we hadn’t eaten much. I wasn’t hungry and my stomach hurt. Mom smiled at us again and told us Uncle Paul would be back tomorrow to take us looking for another deer. I started to shake and I could feel the tears pressing against the back of my eyeballs as I desperately tried to convince her not to make me go. I told her that I would rather stay home because it was cold and we had never even seen any deer. My mother just laughed and told me I needed to keep looking and one day I would. I nodded, unable to tell her the real reason I didn’t want to go. I knew I’d never see a deer. Deer were smart, they knew better than to come into the woods when there were monsters around.