Adam Johnson - Parasites Like Us

While Trudy spoke, I pictured her hands working the quartz, holding the point up to the light to search for imperfections, then testing its edge with her thumb.

We both reached the same silent conclusion, then set out after Eggers, following his tracks in the snow, though the vaporous trail of his body odor left no doubt as to his course. By the time we reached the dean’s garden, we were abreast of him.

Trudy stuck her hand out.

“Let’s see this so-called spear,” she said.

She inspected the spear by pointing it toward the moon and turning the shaft to see if it was straight. Then she examined the blade. “It smells like mint,” she said.

“It does not,” Eggers said.

“Is this dental floss?” she asked. “You tied this point onto the shaft with dental floss, didn’t you?”

I was only half listening. In my head, I was animating Clovis points. They flew and flew, waves of them. What had seemed like abstractions were coming clear. I saw a spear fly from dark hands into a gleam of bright light before passing into the haze of its victim.

Trudy said, “Dental floss, unless I’m mistaken, is made from wax-infused monofilament, which is derived from modern polymers. Did the Clovis use petrochemicals, Dr. Hannah?”

“Listen,” Eggers said. “Do you know how long it takes to dry and string catgut? I’ve done it. I know.”

By now, we were in the Old Main’s colonnade. Across the street was Parkton Square, and the locked gates of the Glacier Days carnival. Eggers neared the tall fence and appraised it. With one hand, he shook the chain link, and a shower of ice beads rained down on him. He tried to climb it, but in fur booties could get no hold.

Trudy crossed to the gates and went to work on the lock that held the chain. “This is just a combo lock, like the kind for your school locker,” she said. “It would be easier if I had my tools with me. I could just pop it open with a prybar.”

Trudy knelt on the cold sidewalk and put her ear to the green-faced lock, while I looked through the fence to the dark carnival inside. From somewhere kept coming the keening of ravens, and though I couldn’t be sure, I felt I saw a flash of black wings. The raven was a medium-sized bird, with a great curving beak that drove straight into a heavy brow, giving it a look of constant judgment. I can’t think of many birds that were physically dangerous to humans, but to those with a guilty conscience, the raven could be a troubling omen.

“Voilà,” Trudy said as the lock opened, and it wasn’t until we were through the gate that the stillness of the place gave me the shivers. In the dark, all the funhouse faces were more personal, like people from your distant past. Each game seemed to stand waiting for its perfect customer, which wasn’t me. The Hammer Blow sat ready for a stronger man, and the Gypsy dared me to purchase its dark fortune. In the moon, all the overdrawn devils and clowns seemed cut from maroon-and-blue plastic, and I wished someone would shut those ravens up.

Eggers led us down a stretch of midway bordered on both sides by shooting galleries. At counter after counter were rifles and pistols mounted on rods, all pointing into dark tents toward rows of bears who stood when shot, ducks who fell back into nothing, and wolves who would grab their asses and howl at the moon when plinked.

We passed darkened trailers that dealt in Indian fry bread and twin funnel-cake carts that folded up like campers, and then we came to a huge pile of the night’s leftover popcorn, which had been thrown out in the snow. This is where the ravens were, pacing in the moon, gulleting down cold popcorn.

“God, I love popcorn,” Eggers said. “That’s one of the things I really miss.”

“Maybe Doritos will come out with a popcorn-flavored chip,” Trudy told him.

He said nothing, only steered us under the old roller coaster, the kind that packed up onto a couple of flatbed trailers. Its name was no longer visible, but Dragon or Sidewinder would be safe bets. Underneath, a lattice of shadows passed over our faces, and we could see the stains of oil that had dripped down the supports. When the light filtered down just right, you could make out the occasional flash of the nuts and washers that had worked themselves loose and now littered the ground.

Finally, Eggers came to a stop before a temporary corrugated shed the size of an aircraft hangar, hastily assembled on a bare parking lot. “Here we are,” he said, and we all looked at the sign above the great sliding door. It read “4-H.”

Inside, a single propane heater kept the room just above freezing, though the asphalt floor was certainly colder. The room was lined on both sides with pens of varying sizes, some with straw on the ground, and others with little shelters inside. Maybe half held animals. We walked down the row in the dim fluorescent lighting, stepping over the hoses that were wound everywhere to spray down the waste. A little llama came out of its shed and nuzzled up to the rail. Its pen had a large blue-and-yellow handicapped-parking icon on its floor, and the furry little guy seemed intent on sucking everyone’s fingers. At the end of the room, where the heat barely reached, stood a pen larger than the others with what looked like a child’s fort constructed in the back. There was a piece of masking tape affixed to the rail in front of us, and on it someone had spelled “Sir Oinks A Lot” in straggling letters.

“Oh, you’re kidding me,” I said. “This isn’t right.”

Eggers clapped twice and whistled.

Something rustled in the fort, and its tiny walls shook.

“This isn’t happening,” I told them. “This is a child’s pet, that’s a name a child would think up.”

A giant brown-and-gray hog emerged from the fort, its head big as a beer keg. It was a pork-belly hog and must have weighed eleven hundred pounds. It snorted twice, and each time it exhaled, its white breath cleared circles of dust and straw from the floor. Its head floated, cranelike, from Trudy to Eggers to me.

Harder to describe than any bird is the pig. There was no animal quite like it. What defined it most were not its enormous dimensions, but the clack of its cloven feet on hard surfaces, the guttural horn of its squeal, the smack of its jowls bouncing as it walked, and the way the tugging weight of its face revealed the yellow undersides of its eyeballs. But what truly comes to mind when I think of the pig are sunsets over the river after the sky was blackened with the kerosened smoke of towering pyres of burning hogs. It’s true that I haven’t seen a pig in thirty years, but lately I have turned to petroglyph art in an attempt to document those events, and what I have discovered is that, despite its simple oblong shape, the pig is the most difficult figure to convey to a rockface.

Eggers bent over and touched his toes. Then he held the spear over his head with two hands, leaning forward and back, stretching side to side. Finally, he jumped up and down to get the blood going. “All in the name of science,” he said.

“Wait a minute,” I told him. “We should talk about this, we should realize what we’re doing here. At least let’s find some consensus.”

I turned to Trudy for a dose of sanity, but there was a wild look in her eyes.

“No one’s hunted with a Clovis point in twelve thousand years,” she said.

Eggers added, “This is the hunt. This is what connects us to the ancient ones, to the lost peoples of the world.”

Trudy touched my coat. “Look,” she said, “I know your critics think the last chapter in The Depletionists is New Age — y, but when you say that the reason we are drawn to the artifact is to know, without judgment, the heart of another, I believe it. That’s the whole reason I look at Paleolithic art. That’s why I came here to study with you.”