Paul Doiron - Bad Little Falls

“Environmental studies,” he said.

“I call Kendrick ‘the Last of the Mountain Men,’” Doc said. “You wouldn’t believe the crazy things he’s done in his life-hiked the entire Appalachian Trail barefoot, paddled in a kayak he made himself out of sealskin from Nunavut to Greenland, discovered three new bird species in the Amazon, lived for six months with cannibals in Papua New Guinea-”

“The Asmat aren’t cannibals anymore.”

“The New York Times wrote a whole profile on him a few years back. Tell me, Kendrick, how many nights did that pretty reporter sleep in your wigwam?”

Kendrick didn’t take the bait. “That story made me sound like some strange hermit or survivalist because I choose to live in the woods and practice primitive ways.”

“That’s the name of the survival school he teaches in the summer,” Doc interjected. “Primitive Ways.”

“It’s not a ‘survival school.’ I teach basic wood skills-friction fire techniques, wildcrafting, tracking.”

“You have to admit that you’re something of a guru,” said Doc.

“I’m just a teacher who wants his students to question their assumptions about the so-called superiority of the modern world.”

I remembered the story Rivard had told me earlier that morning. “Someone was telling me today that you had a drug overdose at your university last year.”

Kendrick looked at me with a curious expression. There was something about his eyes that reminded me of a dog’s: a copper color you rarely saw in human beings. “Trinity Raye.”

“Did you know her?”

“Of course I did. It’s a small school.”

The sharpness of his response caused me to let the matter drop. We sat silently for a few moments, listening to the wind shake the clapboards and shutters. Out in the dark, one of Kendrick’s own dogs was wailing like a lost soul in purgatory. Then a buzzer sounded in the kitchen.

“I believe dinner is ready to be served,” said Doc.

At the table, Doc brought up the recent break-ins at Bog Pond. “You can’t see the lake in the snow,” he said, “but it’s right at the bottom of the hill. Those are my neighbors who got robbed.”

“Do you have any idea who might have done it?” I asked, remembering the contracted pupils of Barney Beal.

“Drug addicts,” said Kendrick. “Every crime around here is drug-related these days. I used to believe in legalization.” He didn’t elaborate. “If you want to make yourself useful, you’ll stop harassing good people like Bill Cronk and go after the real scumbags around here.”

Something I’d said had darkened Kendrick’s mood. I resolved to steer the conversation in what I hoped was a less controversial direction. “I forgot to tell you, Doc,” I said. “After I dropped you off last night, guess what I found waiting for me at my house.”

“A woman scorned?”

“A coyote skin nailed to my front door. There was a note with it welcoming me to the neighborhood, signed by someone who called himself ‘George Magoon.’”

Doc raised his eyebrows. “Is that so?”

“I understand that George Magoon is a character out of local folklore,” I said. “Sort of like Robin Hood.”

“Oh, he was real enough,” offered Kendrick. “Didn’t they teach you about the Down East Game War of the 1880s? When the state of Maine rebranded it as ‘poaching,’ it consigned hundreds of poor people to near starvation.”

“That’s one interpretation of events,” I said. “But I also know that two game wardens were gunned down in this vicinity in 1886 when they tried to seize a poacher’s dog.”

“There’s a book about it,” said Doc, rising shakily to his feet. “I’ll loan you Helen’s copy.”

“Does this Magoon character have some connection to the murders of those wardens?” I asked Kendrick.

“No, that was probably Calvin Graves,” he said. “Magoon never killed anyone. He preferred to use humor and embarrassment against his persecutors. Sort of like a nineteenth-century version of The Monkey Wrench Gang. ”

The veterinarian returned from his office with a dog-eared green paperback titled George Magoon and the Down East Game War. On the cover was a pen and ink illustration of a group of men with guns standing beside a dead moose, which was suspended from a tree. “You’re welcome to borrow this.”

“Thanks, but I’m more concerned with the joker who nailed a coyote pelt to my door.”

“I doubt he was joking,” said Kendrick. “It sounds more like a warning to me.”

“I agree with Kendrick,” said Doc Larrabee, stroking his beard. “The Game War might seem like ancient history, but people around here have long memories. If you don’t believe me, pay a visit to the little cemetery over in Wesley after the snow melts.”

I stopped flipping through the book. “Why? What’s there?”

Doc leaned his sharp elbows on the table. “The grave of Wilbur Day. He was one of Magoon’s band of rascals. I remember hearing about his exploits when I moved to this neck of the woods. One day I decided to visit his grave myself. A rifle bullet was set carefully atop the headstone. Every time I’ve been back, I’ve found a new cartridge there, and every time it’s made me thank God I’m not a Maine game warden.”

FEBRUARY 13

I have a BIG cut on my head where Randle hit me. Ma put OINTMENT on it before she tucked me into bed.

Do you think maybe someday Dad could teach me karate? I asked her.

She gave me the funniest look-like I just read her mind or something. Maybe someday, she said.

Dad is into mixed martial arts. He’s an Ultimate Fighter. He’s competed in octagons over in the Orient. I’ve seen him break a board with his fist… but it took a couple of tries.

Dad gave me a Bruce Lee poster for my room. It says DRAGON’S ROAR. I’ve never seen that DVD. But it looks pretty good from the poster.

He works over at the Shogun Karate Studio. I asked him once if he would give me lessons so I could kick the shit out of kids at school. He said that the purpose of karate ain’t attacking people. It should only be used in self-defense, he said.

What a load! Who would want to be a mixed martial artist if you couldn’t use your powers to beat people up? That’s the whole point of karate!

Try to forget about Randle, Ma said. She kissed my head before she closed the door.

Outside, the wind is really howling.

I forgot about the snowstorm. I’m worried SHE is going to come to my window again.

Every few minutes, a gust would come charging by the house, and you would have sworn it was a freight train from the way it rattled the windows and shook the pictures on the walls. I was both dreading the drive back to my trailer and eager to start out on my inevitable journey. If I had waited for Doc Larrabee to stop with the coffee and folklore, I would have been there all night. After a while I gave a false yawn and stretched my arms over my head. “I guess it’s about time for me to head home. In this storm, it should only take three or four hours.”

“You sure you don’t want another cup for the road?”

“My bladder will burst if I do.”

“How about you, Kendrick? I’ve got a collection of Helen’s cordials begging to be opened.”

Between them, the two men had already polished off the last of the Maker’s Mark as well as a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon. Doc had increasingly come to resemble Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, but Kendrick displayed no visible signs of intoxication. Even if he was a bit impaired, I figured his dogs knew the way home.

“Good luck catching your prankster,” he said in a not-unfriendly tone of voice.

Doc Larrabee followed me to the chilly mudroom and waited patiently while I laced up my boots. For the first time, I noticed that he was wearing thin little slippers, which made me think of Ebenezer Scrooge waiting for his ghosts on the night before Christmas.