Ike Hamill - The Hunting Tree Trilogy

Eventually, his trail was broken by another similar trail, running perpendicular. Crooked Tree evaluated the merits of the new possibilities, but decided to continue straight. The landscape changed as his path wound down a hill and the trees on either side opened up to patches of grassland. He slowed to a walk and considered the animals trapped behind sharp wire fences, draped from post to post. Crooked Tree slowed even more at the first dwelling he encountered. Reaching out with his senses he established that the inhabitants were fast asleep. His ability to be surprised was quickly waning. By the third encampment he passed, Crooked Tree moved casually. He ignored the foreign sights and smells and kept his focus on the boy.

As he approached a nearby cluster of people, Crooked Tree found it difficult to maintain his focus on the boy’s distant mind. He sensed grave, infectious diseases, and suboptimal lineage in the people around him and wondered why they survived in this world. He managed to ignore them while they were still in the distance, but once he was surrounded by distractions, he found it impossible to continue his hunt.

To the north, a burning infection called to him. He knew that if he could just snuff this beckoning, he would have a better chance of resuming his quest. He took a deep breath, confirming that the person was in his vicinity, and changed his direction to seek and eliminate the abomination which clouded his senses.

Off the hard-packed trail, over a fence, and on the other side of a small hill, Crooked Tree found a two-story dwelling, dark beneath tall oak trees. The swift-moving animals, like giant deer, penned inside the fence were unfamiliar to Crooked Tree, but he disregarded them as they sprinted off into the night. He stepped easily over another fence and found himself in a small yard adjacent to the house. Creeping slowly to the nearest window, he knelt down to peer inside. Strange angles met his eyes, but he recognized these new things as works of man. Circling the building, navigating over fences and around bushes, he surveyed the lower floor completely, but saw no sign of inhabitants. The windows of the second floor were just out of range of his curiosity.

Finding no obvious entrance, Crooked Tree laid his palm across several mullioned panes and pressed. The window creaked and buckled under his pressure, shooting a jagged crack from top to bottom of the glass. Its snap startled Crooked Tree. He removed his hand and studied the transparent surface. To his left, a small porch led to the kitchen door. He lowered his face to the boards and studied the wear of thousands of tracks. He deduced the purpose of the door and pressed his hand against the worn brass door-handle.

The wood snapped and splintered, swinging the heavy door inward and revealing a rectangular portal into the house. Crooked Tree nodded to himself, absorbing these new details as easily as he had rehydrated earlier. He hunched into a crouch and moved inside the house, experiencing the new sights and smells as the floor bowed under his weight. As he made his way down the center hallway, shoulders brushing the walls on either side, he heard labored breathing from the second floor.

His mind locked on the disease that had drawn him to this place, but another sound suddenly overshadowed the heavy wheezing—tiny claws chattered across a hard floor above him, padded down the upstairs hall, and revealed diminutive, yipping dog at the top of the stairs. Crooked Tree smiled at the miniature hunter, bouncing and barking above him.

When the dog saw that Crooked Tree refused to flee, it bounded down the stairs. Before it could begin its futile attack, Crooked Tree reached out and swatted it, sending the dog flying towards the banister uprights. The dog flopped down the stairs, rolling and squealing, its front paws waving frantically while its hind legs stretched taught, but useless. The dog’s back had broken.

Crooked Tree silenced the dog’s screams with his foot as he ascended. The staircase, two hundred years old but thousands of years younger than the giant who climbed them, groaned and sagged with his weight. At the top of the stairs, Crooked Tree sat on his heels, uncomfortably crowded by the low farmhouse ceilings. He turned his head and located his target. With a few sliding steps he reached the half-open door of the inhabitant.

“Oh, good lord,” gasped the gaunt man tucked in to the bed.

Crooked Tree smiled. He had no need for words to understand the sentiment. A wave of urine smell crashed through the room as the man panicked.

“Are you an angel?” the dying man whispered at the naked mammoth.

“SERIOUSLY, I JUST FELT A DROP!” Davey exclaimed.

“Oh shut up,” said Paul. “You probably just spit on yourself.”

They pushed themselves on the swings with their feet, achieving only tiny arcs. At the other side of the park, Paul’s brother, Kris, sat in a small circle with his friends, passing a joint one direction and a basketball in the other.

“If we wait for it to be completely raining, then we’ll be all wet by the time we get back to your house,” argued Davey.

“My mom said it wasn’t going to rain at all,” said Paul. “Besides, if I get home before my brother then my mom is going to be pissed at him. Then he’ll get pissed at me. That’s the last thing I need.”

“He probably wants to go too,” Davey waved in Kris’s direction. “He’s not going to want to get his pot all wet.”

Paul waved a hand towards Davey, trying to smack him on the shoulder, but missing and hitting the heavy chain of the swing. “Ow!” he yelled. “Don’t talk about him smoking anything. If he knows you’re talking about that he’ll kill you.”

“Whatever,” said Davey. “If he cared he wouldn’t be doing it right out in the open like this.”

“Just don’t say anything,” said Paul.

“What’s with you? We should go play that game at your house. It’s not even fair. My mom won’t let me have it, and you won’t let me play it at your house. What the hell?” asked Davey.

“You just can’t,” said Paul. “I’ll get in trouble.”

“How come?”

“My mom doesn’t want me to hang out with you right now,” Paul admitted after they had swung back and forth, passing each other several times.

“What? Why?” asked Davey. “Sophie loves me. Who doesn’t?”

“She said you’re a bad influence,” said Paul. He dragged his feet in the dirt, skidding to a halt.

“Me?” asked Davey. “How am I a bad influence?”

“I don’t know,” said Paul. He stood up from the swing.

“She must have said something ,” Davey insisted, he rose and followed Paul in a slow walk across the playground.

“Well, there was that day you got hurt ‘cause we were away from the school. Then, the other day when I got in trouble because you put a mouse in Ted’s book.”

“You didn’t get in trouble,” said Davey. “ I got in trouble.”

“My mom heard about it though, and she figured I got in trouble because of you. I almost did, you know.”

“That one wasn’t even my fault,” said Davey.

“Whatever,” said Paul. “She thinks it was…” he trailed off.

Davey stuffed his hands deep into his pockets, unconsciously imitating Paul. He kicked a big rock and it bounced off the metal pole of the jungle gym. A piece of the brittle rock snapped off and ricocheted up, hitting Paul in the arm.

“Ow,” said Paul, rubbing his arm. He looked up at Davey with accusing eyes.

“That was an accident,” Davey said.

Paul sat down on the edge of a big spinning platform they had named the Barf Machine on a sunnier day. Davey gave it a small push and plopped down next to Paul.