Ike Hamill: The Hunting Tree Trilogy

Tiny lines crept out from the black circles as she watched, and covered her son’s hands.

“No, Davey! No!” she said. She held his hand up, like it was something he was trying to steal from her. Roland looked up, still keeping pressure on Morris’s wound. He dropped his cousin’s leg when he saw Davey’s hand.

“What’s it mean?” Susan asked, face filled with fear and awe.

“Davey,” Melanie said, sobbing. She held her son tight against her body while using her other hand to hold his black hand away. “No, baby. Fight it. You’ve got to fight it.”

Roland approached fast and pulled a long knife from his belt. “We’ve got to cut it off,” he yelled. “You saw how fast it happens.” He reached for Davey’s hand.

“NO!” Melanie screamed, pulling his arm in tight. “We need a doctor. GET A DOCTOR!” she yelled. Davey’s head flopped around as she shook.

“Mom,” Susan pointed.

Davey’s eyes were lidded, hiding his pupils. Tendrils of black streaked up from his collar and encircled his face.

“DAVEY!” Melanie wailed.

Morris stirred and moaned. Merritt ran back towards the group, casting long, dancing shadows in the headlights.

Melanie pulled her son even closer, hugging him tight.

As she clutched his motionless body, his skin turned black and dried out. Her tears fell on his face sending up puffs of ash into the beams of the headlights. His sagging lips revealed his shiny dry teeth—the only part of Davey that hadn’t turned black. Melanie pulled one of his limp hands to her face and kissed his palm. Her lips were stained black with the residue of his burned skin. She sobbed and tried to rub the ash from his cheek. She found only more blackened skin underneath.

Roland knelt next to mother and son.

“I think he’s gone,” Roland said.

“No,” said Melanie. “You’re wrong.” She bent her head and heaved with sobs.

Roland reached out and took one of Davey’s wrists between his fingertips. Davey’s skin crackled under the pressure.

“He’s got a pulse,” said Roland.

THE PARAMEDICS RUSHED DAVEY to the pediatric burn unit where they placed him in a special tub to evaluate his wounds. When they cut away his clothes, Gerald—a nurse with fifteen years experience treating horrific burns—fainted at the sight. The boy’s entire body looked like a piece of chicken that had been left under the broiler all night, Gerald later told his sister.

When the remaining staff first started to clean Davey’s skin, one of the doctors sighed and said, “Oh, thank God.” With minimal effort, the blackened skin wiped away, revealing clean, healthy skin. In disbelief, they sent one of the aides to fetch a camera halfway through the procedure.

Davey regained consciousness while they cleaned the bottoms of his feet. He squirmed and laughed until they finished.

After visiting with his mom and sister, Davey wanted to see Morris. He had to settle for thanking Roland and Merritt; Morris didn’t regain consciousness until later that week.

Both Davey and Melanie warned the hospital staff that Davey might be contagious, but tests revealed no known pathogens. He was released three days later with a clean bill of health.

Thank you for reading. I hope you enjoyed “The Hunting Tree” as much as I enjoyed writing it. The ideas for this book came from a couple of sources. I read somewhere about a tribe of Native Americans committing mass suicide by jumping off a cliff and I wondered if they might be exhibiting the same behavior as marine mammals (who occasionally beach themselves for no apparent reason). Around the same time (as reading that piece about suicide), I had a dream about a kid who was constantly dirty, and I wondered if he was somehow marked by nature. When I put those things together, I ended up with Crooked Tree and Davey.

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