Ken Goddard - Chimera

“We’d even lend you a professional-looking camera, as long as you promise not to hit anyone with it,” Renwick offered.

“Sounds good to me,” Bulatt said with a shrug. “Do we have a phone number for the house?”

“That we do,” Reston replied cheerfully. “Here’s her address and phone numbers — residence and cell — and a map showing the way to her house.” She handed Bulatt a brightly colored map from her printer, and a second typed page. “Take I-Five to the Crater Lake Highway, and keep on heading north. You ought to be able to make it in three and a half hours, max, if the roads are still clear.”

“Or we could probably get Woeshack to fly us up there,” Achara suggested. “It might save some time.”

“Let’s not,” Bulatt said, “I try not to live quite that close to the edge.”

Sam Fogarty’s Ranch, Bend, Oregon

The young woman who came to the door looked angry and frustrated and depressed; and quite possibly ready to hit someone with the hand-sewn leather quiver of arrows she held in her right hand. To Bulatt and Achara’s surprise, she also appeared to be of Southeast Asian descent.

“Yes, may I help you?” The young woman said curtly, her mind clearly elsewhere.

“Uh, my name is Achara, I’m here to meet with Carolyn Fogarty,” Achara said. “I called ahead and she’s expecting us.”

The young woman blinked, first in confusion and then in surprise. “Oh, right, you’re that outdoor writer. You meant today?” She shook her head as if to trying to dislodge some dark, hovering cloud from her mind. “Sorry, I don’t mean to be rude. I’m just… upset today.”

“If this is an inconvenient time, we can certainly come back later,” Achara said soothingly. “But I really do want to interview you for the article. I think your interest in bow hunting is fascinating, and I’m sure my readers will feel that way also. It’s not something you find many women hunters doing these days. And now that I know you’re of Asian descent, I’m even more intrigued because I don’t think I’ve ever met an Asian women who bow-hunts. Would you mind if I asked you where you were born?”

“I — no, I don’t mind, I just don’t know where I was born, or who my parents are,” Fogarty said hesitantly, acting as if she wanted to slam the door in Achara’s face; but, at the same time, wanted desperately to talk with someone.

“You look as if you might be Thai, like me,” Achara said, pressing cautiously. “Were you an orphan?”

“Yes, I was adopted by Mr. Fogarty from an orphanage in southern Thailand. Their records indicated that I’d been found on the beach after a severe storm, but nobody seemed to know where — ”

Carolyn Fogarty shook her head again, looking more confused now than upset. “I’m sorry, please come in, I didn’t mean to leave you standing out here.” She stepped back inside the foyer and opened the door wider.

“Are you sure we’re not intruding,” Achara said as she quickly stepped into the doorway.

“No, not at all,” Fogarty said. “In fact, it would be helpful to talk with someone right now.”

“In that case, I will be happy to listen,” Achara said. “Oh, and this is Gedimin, my photographer,” she added. “I hope you won’t mind if he takes some photographs to illustrate my article.”

“Uh, no, of course not; he’s welcome to do so,” Fogarty said as she closed the door. “Would either of you like something to drink? Coffee? Tea? Hot chocolate?”

“Coffee, please,” Bulatt said as he took the strobe-mounted digital camera he’d borrowed from the lab out of its carrier bag and thumbed the power switch to the ON position.

“Yes, coffee would be wonderful,” Achara said as she and Bulatt followed Fogarty into the wide-windowed kitchen, and then stood at the window and looked down at the expanse of landscaped yard behind the house — a huge grassy area that butted up against a densely-forested area — while Carolyn Fogarty set the quiver aside and poured coffee into three earthen mugs. Near the trees, a man was doing something with a mounted bulls-eye target; one of three that extended out at increasing distances from the back porch.

“Milk or cream?

“Black will be fine,” Achara said. “What a beautiful place you have.”

“Spectacular,” Bulatt agreed as he accepted the steaming mug. “I see you even have a set of distance-targets for your bow. Do you think we could try to get a photograph of you from an over-your-shoulder view, with your bow drawn back, and the target in the distance hovering just over the arrowhead?”

“I’m certainly willing to try, but we’ll have to wait until my father gets finished with his practicing first,” she said with an audible edge to her voice. “I don’t want to interfere with his… preparations.”

“That’s your father down there?” Bulatt asked. “It looks like he’s throwing spears.”

“Apparently his new approach to hunting,” Fogarty said, the chill in her voice contrasting vividly with the fire in her eyes.

“Really? That seems like an odd choice for a hunting weapon, unless you’re hunting boar,” Achara said. “And even then — ”

“More odd than you could possibly imagine.” Fogarty nodded grimly.

“I’m sure he has his reasons, but I’m much more interested in learning about your choice of weapons,” Achara said hurriedly. “Could we see your bow?”

“Yes, of course,” Fogarty said, the fire in her eyes starting to recede again, if only for the moment.

She picked up the quiver and led them into a spacious, rosewood paneled den that was filled with the trapping and paraphernalia of sports hunting. On the left side wall, the heads of three mule deer with impressive racks were prominently displayed. Below the trophy heads and to the left, a modern unstrung re-curved bow and a machine-sewn leather quiver filled with factory-made arrows hung from a set of wooden pegs. To the right, a hand-carved single-curved bow hung from an identical set of pegs.

Fogarty started to hang the hand-sewn quiver of arrows next to the crude bow when Achara stepped up next to her. “May I,” she asked, holding out her hand.

The young woman hesitated, and then handed Achara the quiver filled with what were now clearly hand-made arrows. Achara drew one of the arrows out of the quiver and began to examine it closely.

“Did you make this?” she asked.

“Yes, out of turkey feathers and obsidian,” Fogarty said with an audible sense of pride. “I scraped the shaft, and even flaked the heads myself — out of obsidian, just like the early Indians used to do. It was one of my hobbies when I was younger.”

“And the bow?”

“Hand-carved from an Ash tree branch with an obsidian knife,” Fogarty said, smiling openly now. “It took me almost a month to make it. It’s nowhere near as powerful as a re-curved fiberglass bow, of course; and my arrows don’t fly as far or as straight as my aluminum broad heads. But I can still put an arrow in the black at thirty feet, two out of three times. Watch this.”

Working quickly, Fogarty strung the hand-made bow, pulled a home-made arrow out of the quiver, spun around and sent the arrow streaking across the room; the obsidian tip burying itself into the thick, wall-mounted target just inside the outer edge of the black bulls-eye.

“That is incredible,” Achara said as they watched the young woman stride across the room and yank the arrow out of the target. “Do you actually hunt with them?” Achara asked.

“I was going to,” Fogarty said bitterly, the fire in her eyes suddenly back again. “That was always my plan, but — ”

“Those are beautiful specimens,” Bulatt said quickly, deliberately interrupting the conversation as he moved in closer and began taking close-up shots of each head. “I can’t imagine taking an animal like that with a home-made bow. Did you hunt them locally?”