Ike Hamill - The Hunting Tree Trilogy

“What’s this?” he asked aloud. He knelt down, feeling a sharp stab in his tender ankle, and peered at the dark lumps between his shoes. Grabbing a twig, he rolled one of the lumps while he waited for his eyes to adjust to the shadow of the rock. The furry lump included a leathery appendage. He brushed it with his stick until the wing of the bat was stretched across the scree. Something about the shape of the dead bat didn’t make sense. He poked another until he figured it out—the bats were missing their heads.

“Ozzy? Did you do this?” he asked under his breath. The corner of his mouth turned up at his slight joke.

Mike tossed aside his stick and picked up the first bat by its tiny hands. He spun the body to see the neck. He poked at the dry wound and wondered why no scavengers had picked up the easy carrion.

Diseased , he thought.

He dropped the bat and wiped his hands on his jeans. His curiosity won out and he stepped back so he could lower his head to examine the bats further. Spinning around the decapitated, desiccated corpses, he counted five animals and got an unexpected clue as to why nothing had carried them off. A breath of cool air flowed out from under the big rock. Mike noticed that the deep shadow continued much farther than he had first thought, and the air emanating from the deep shadow harbored a disgusting, malevolent odor.

Mike pushed back frantically to get away from the smell. It was the stink of death mixed with an unidentifiable stench that made him think of evil, hate, and murder. He couldn’t imagine a crow or raccoon being hungry enough to ignore this smell for a free meal of dead bat.

He backed away even farther, and sat on a low rock that faced the cave. From his new vantage point he noticed that the color of the rocks surrounding the cave entrance didn’t appear as bleached and dry as the rest of the clearing. One of the rocks had been flipped on its back, exposing its bottom—stained dark brown with moisture—to the sun.

Mike stood and considered the possibilities: perhaps a bear had moved the rock, eaten the bats, and then crawled in the cave to die? Perhaps a rabid wolf? Either way, Mike found himself ready to get back to “The Ledges” trail, and back to his car.

He turned away from the bats and the small cave and almost managed to miss the most interesting feature of the clearing. Just two paces further, Mike spotted a footprint in a patch of loose sand. In the lee of a rock, the details of the footprint were unsullied. He counted five toes, spread wide to distribute the considerable weight associated with such a giant imprint.

Mike put his own foot down next to the print. Even with his shoes, the mark in the sand dwarfed Mike’s feet. Balancing carefully, Mike put his other foot directly in front of the first. The length from the print’s naked heel to toes reached past the arch of Mike’s second foot.

He uttered a low, barely audible whistle and squatted next to the enormous footprint. He reached around to the back of his belt and unclipped his cell phone. He pressed the button on the side to activate the camera.

“What the hell?” he asked. The phone’s display was black. None of the buttons had any effect.

Batteries must be dead, he thought.

Mike straightened up, clipped the phone back on his belt and took one last look at the giant footprint before the long hike back to his car.

CROOKED TREE WATCHED THE SKINNY MAN washing the animal skins in the shallow pool. The river took a sharp bend just downstream where it squeezed between tall rock walls. This natural dam created some still, but reasonably fresh, shallows where one local family liked to wash the skins of their fresh kills.

The skinny man, Crooked Tree’s prey, stood no more than a hundred paces from where Dr. Mike, the failed paranormal researcher, would eventually splash cold water on his face, thousands of years in the future. Crooked Tree only cared about the future in terms of the next few moments; the ones leading to him culling his sickly man from the pack. Even at this distance, Crooked Tree could smell the man’s disease. It was the worst kind of sickness, passed down between generations and not affecting the person until he was already of breeding age, already passed on to his children. First, Crooked Tree would remove the source, and then he would be free to take out the man’s offspring. He might remove his wife as well, as she had not shown enough instinct to avoid this man’s poisoned seed.

Crooked Tree tilted his massive frame, moving in rhythm with the waving trees and silently covering the distance to the busy man. He had studied this man from a distance for several days, noting his habits. The man routinely broke away from his family at night and found chores to do away from their camp so he wouldn’t wake them with his racking cough.

Crooked Tree wasn’t surprised to find him washing in the middle of the night, but stopped halfway to his prey and sniffed the air. He smelled fear. This man washing his skins in the moonlight shouldn’t be fearful, at least not yet. Considering this development for several seconds, Crooked Tree realized the source of the man’s fear—this man must be a coward, afraid to die of his cough. With that explained, he resumed his stalk and drew to within a few paces.

The skinny man stood up quickly—he must have sensed Crooked Tree’s presence—and spun around, wielding a short flint blade. Crooked Tree was stunned by the man’s defiance. Having judged this man a coward, he fully expected the man to run downstream or dive into the pool. He smiled in the moonlight and rose to his full height while spreading his arms wide.

Thrusting his short blade towards the giant, the skinny man uttered a sharp “Yip,” to the night.

Suddenly the forest exploded with noise. Faces emerged from the shallows of the river, spitting reed breathing-straws as they stood. From the forest floor, men materialized from the soft pine-needle carpet, scraping dirt from their eye sockets. Spinning his massive head, Crooked Tree gauged the team to include at least twenty attackers, carrying spears, knives, and clubs. They sported the colors and markings of several area families and consisted of the strongest and most skilled warriors of their clans. The circle tightened on Crooked Tree, cautiously, but deliberately.

Crooked Tree lowered his torso, crouching, ready to spring on the first to reach him. The circle tightened their ranks until they stood shoulder-to-shoulder, just past Crooked Tree’s massive reach. The first attack whistled through the air and stung the side of his head, just behind his ear. He spun to see a man on a nearby rock, reloading his sling. The next jab hit his calf, and he spun back to see the retreating spear. He decided to waste no more time waiting.

Crouching slightly closer to the ground, Crooked Tree exploded force through his thick legs and launched himself up and back. Another rock whistled by his face as he flew through the air, easily clearing the circle and landing behind a thick-muscled boy who carried a long sharpened bone. The young man spun to face Crooked Tree, leading with his weapon, but by the time he turned to face the giant, Crooked Tree connected with a single, skull-crushing blow. Crooked Tree ran north, along the river, hoping to break up the hunting party so he could kill them one-by-one without needing to cope with flying rocks. Several of the men whooped and gave chase.

The river curved left, and as he followed it to the west, he sensed more men converging on his position. Crooked Tree stopped to asses their numbers. Clearly more men had joined the party; from the sound and smell, several dozen had formed a line and were sweeping through the woods.