John Casey - Compass Rose

She worked back from the crumpled snow along the trail of zigzag leaps, of creeping and nibbling. Then back to the edge of the woods. The undergrowth was too thick to go through on her skis, but she followed the trail with her eye. A crisscrossing of rabbit tracks in there. Had the senior rabbits claimed the rights to the nearby food and forced junior out into the field? Were rabbits less cooperative than geese? Or was junior just a silly rabbit?

She’d ask Eddie. He knew more about animals, at least edible animals, than her colleagues. She missed running into Eddie out in the woods. She wondered — was Phoebe Fitzgerald ruining his life or was he happy making his fortune? How odd it had been to see Eddie and Phoebe walk in on her, along with Jack and Mr. Salviatti. And then Jack almost leering about her and Johnny Bienvenue. So everyone got to wonder about odd couples. Eddie surprised her. She’d known him as capable in the woods, almost tongue-tied with most people and thrown into a complete tailspin by Miss Perry, or even the mention of her name. But he’d spoken up to Jack and Mr. Salviatti with assurance, almost in asides, as he looked over the building problem. Phoebe had turned this way and that, and every male but Eddie had taken it in — the willowy sway, the pleated skirt brushing her pretty calves, the wide eyes and slightly parted lips. This would have amused Elsie if she hadn’t noticed a flick of Phoebe’s eyes toward her, a snapshot assessment of Elsie bundled up in sweatpants.

And yet here she was on a cold winter’s day hoping that Phoebe was preening for Eddie and that Eddie was taking a step forward. Now that she was out of the wind, she was full of goodwill. No question about it, when she was moving around out here she was nicer than she was anywhere else. Unless, of course, she ran into an offender against her territory. Part of it was fresh air, sunlight, maybe endorphins. But most of all it was her eyesight ranging out, going from wide focus to narrow when her eyes lit on a detail that led to another. Another part was more elusive. Once in a great while she was released from figuring things out, from knowing or not knowing, and she felt herself displaced by a wordless humming alertness beyond well-being.

Not today. Today was okay. Low end of well-being. Too cold for more.

She set off again, a few long strides in her own tracks, then had to break trail. She was grateful for this snowfall, not just for the pleasure of ski touring but for the benefit of other animals. A foot or so beneath the snow, voles were having a fine time in their grass-lined passages and rooms, insulated from the cold wind, hidden from foxes and feral cats. Their only alarm would be as they felt the vibrations of her skis across the top of their world.

By noon she reached the railroad embankment, which served as a windbreak for her when she turned northeast. No need to patrol the Great Swamp Fight site, somebody on duty there. Even from inside the building they could keep an eye on things.

At the northeast corner of the reservation there was a rise of open ground. It fell away more steeply to the east, enough shelter from the wind for a deer yard. The low ground was bordered by the Chipuxet River — shelter, water, enough vegetation by the stream for browsing. Elsie was of two minds about deer — admirable runners and astounding leapers, but now that there weren’t any natural predators, there were too many deer munching on young trees. She wouldn’t mind more guys like Eddie — like Eddie used to be — stalking the herd with his homemade crossbow. What she didn’t like were the guys spraying buckshot or slugs that could go through a car door, too wired with buck fever to wait for a sure kill and too ignorant or lazy to track a wounded deer. The only time she’d fired her own pistol had been to put down a cripple. She’d hauled the deer out and brought it to Eddie. He dug a trench with his backhoe and buried it. Explained that unless the deer was killed quick the meat was more than likely spoiled. “Adrenaline or something. You know how when you almost have a car accident your mouth tastes funny? Like zinc. A wounded deer tastes like that. If a deer doesn’t know what hit him — if it’s just lights out — then you get some sweet meat. Course you got to hoist him on the spot, gut him, and drain the blood.” He’d said “him,” but she knew he took a doe as often as a buck. Fine with her. Even a few surviving bucks could service the does. To reduce the herd you had to kill does.

Elsie slogged up the hill, the wind at her back. She crossed to a fringe of brush and picked her way to the edge of the eastern slope. She saw trampled snow in the dell, then fluffs of vapor farther back in the scrub, and then some movement.

She’d noticed on her own — and Eddie had confirmed — that the way deer spotted a human was primarily by the movement of arms and legs. They also seemed to see something alarming in a face. Maybe just the eyes. Most wild things were alert to eyes — butterflies and fish often displayed large eyelike patterns on their wings or flanks, just enough of a fake to make a predator hesitate. Was that bite-sized prey or the head of something big and dangerous?

Elsie pulled her wool cap over her eyes, stretched tight so that she could see through it. She pushed off downhill, then tucked her arms and poles behind her and squatted. She’d done this a couple of times before, got to within twenty feet of a deer before it bolted.

She was sliding fairly slowly, the powder snow pushing up around her ankles. Two or three deer lifted their heads. With their large sideways eyes they could see in a greater arc than a human — they could even see a bit behind them — but they had little depth perception unless they focused both eyes to the front.

When she’d first skied up to a deer herd, she’d pretended it was field research. Logged it in: deer, close observation of. Now she was having fun.

Halfway down the slope she heard a shot. She saw deer start to run, a stream of brown dotted with white tails. She heard another shot. Through the knit of her hat she saw with eerie clarity a white streak across the bark of a tree just ahead of her. She tossed herself sideways, slid on her hip and hand. She had to gasp a breath before she could shout. No idea what she said. Maybe just “Hey!” She pulled her hat up off her face. Another breath. She yelled, “Don’t shoot!” She didn’t lift her head. She was still uphill from where the shots came from. Somewhere off to her right. She pulled herself toward a tree trunk with her hands. The straps of the poles rode up her forearms, tugging her sleeves up. Her mouth tasted like zinc — Eddie was right about that. Her web belt had twisted so her holster was in the middle of her back. Her skis were anchored in the snow.

She wriggled backward so she could reach the bindings, head down, ass in the air. She was pushed onto her side as if someone had kicked her. Her right buttock stung, then hurt like hell. She pulled herself to the tree trunk. Was she behind it? Where was the gun? She tried to yell. It came out a bleat. She took a breath and yelled, “No!” She took off her gloves, reached back where it hurt. The seat of her pants was shredded. Her hand was wet. She looked at it. A smear of blood. Goddamn fool shot her. Shot her in the ass. Okay, she wasn’t dying. But the dumb son of a bitch could have killed her. Still out there with his gun. She held her breath so she could hear. Nothing. Had he heard her yell? She felt her ass again. Touched her holster. She pulled out her revolver, fired a shot into the air.

A man’s voice shouted. “Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!”

She yelled, “Don’t you shoot!”

Now that she heard where he was, she pulled herself to her knees. She peered around the tree trunk. Whoever it was was lying in the snow, waving an orange glove. She holstered her revolver. Even that bit of twisting hurt. Trying to ski hurt. She put her weight on her left ski and poled herself toward the man. The more it hurt the angrier she got. The anger didn’t make it hurt less but helped her keep moving.