An Old Troll Cruises Jack as a Bear Hunts Back
The Bear and the Slaughterhouse Boy, 2
A few hours after setting up his bear-hunt tree stand, Jack bit into a salty, greasy burger. He wiped dribbling juices off his chin as he thought about Glen Miller, the creepy old man his dad had hired as a guide — before his dad got laid out with an infection and had to miss the trip.
Glen was so silent, Jack thought he must hate his job. Or hate people.
A coarse voice jerked Jack out of his musing. “So this is your first time here,” said the iron-haired matron who’d seated him — who ran the hunting lodge. “How ya likin’ the Crossroads, young man?”
At least somebody was talking.
Jack shrugged. “Beautiful, but where is everybody? You could fit a hundred people in here, but there can’t be more than 10 with you, me and the cook.”
She grimaced and managed to look more wrinkled than ever. “Best bear hunt in North America, that’s what we got here, but it does scare some off.”
Her eyes grew bright and Jack could have sworn she half winked.
“Scare some off? You mean scare the bears? I don’t understand.”
“Never mind, young fella. Just never mind. You’ll do fine, any luck at all …”
“I hope so, it’s a five year wait to …”
She chopped off his words. “You workin’ with old Glen? Yup, you’ll get yer bear. Yes, sir, you will. Week from now, you’ll be drivin’ on outta here, bear skin in the back of that truck. Any luck at all …”
She reminded Jack of Glen right then, the way her eyes raced away from him as she spoke.
She snapped out of it, wiped her hands on a towel and kept going. “My family’s been putting up hunters here since Teddy Roosevelt come up to the Crossroads to take him a bear. My gran was a Indian girl married a Cornish copper miner. Yes, sir. Built this place when the State put the roads in.”
Jack toyed with a cold french fry. “That’s why they call it the Crossroads?”
“Some say. But my old gran, she said her people called it by an old name meaning about the same thing. Called it that for pretty much ever.”
She shot Jack an appraising stare. “Yes, sir. I’ve seen hunters come and seen em go. You got the look of one who’s gonna end up fine. Just fine.”
Jack wondered why she sounded like she was trying to convince herself.
She cleared her throat. “We don’t get many like you up here, though, unless they’re just passin’ through. If you don’t mind me sayin’.”
Jack sucked in his breath. “Like me? What on earth?”
“Honey, don’t take offense at an old woman. We get the TV and the movies. And it’s not such a long drive to Houghton. I’m just speakin’ plain. I ain’t never seen a gay man up by himself to hunt bear. Keep me company at the bar one night and tell me your story?”
With that, she snapped a dish towel at a fly and stalked into the kitchen.
“Greg!” shouted Jack into the ancient pay phone. “It’s gorgeous up here. You GOTTA come next time. Some of the people are a little weird, but listen, it’s not as podunk as you think. I just got clocked by a woman so old she probably served Teddy Roosevelt. She wants to gossip about me being gay!”
“Mary,” drawled Greg. “We live in Chelsea. Fag hags take turns holding down corners. I think they buy licenses. But forget the women, how are the MEN? Anybody tasty at your motel?”
“Got me, Doc. It’s really more a crumbling hunting lodge than a motel. Place is so big you could rattle around for an hour and never bump into anybody. But you know I’m up here to hunt, not hook up.”
Greg laughed. “Whatever you say, Mary.”
Late in the afternoon, up in his tree, Jack inhaled the forest, entranced. The rancid cat urine he had sprayed all over his charcoal-impregnated hunting gear was finally fading and he could appreciate the soft perfumes of his boyhood. Decaying leaves, wildflowers, ferns — they all mixed together and begged almost to be blended into a cake and eaten.
The cool air grew warm in the last rays of the sun, patches of dappled light dancing in the clearing. Birds sang. Unseen animals rustled from everywhere at once.
Jack sighed, remembered trying to explain this glorious feeling to a school friend once as they walked through the woods. “It’s like I’m not even outside. It’s like I’m home, ya know? Where I’m supposed to be.”
Little Jack’s friend had laughed, not understanding, but now the man Jack was back “home” after decades of steel towers. The old magic was filling him up again, setting him tingling and relaxing at the same time.
He was almost not disappointed to see no bear. Not that day. Not for three more days sitting in that tree. Nothing. No — not nothing. Coons, hawks, deer, even a family of badgers ran in and out of the clearing, playing, eating, living — oblivious of Jack’s camouflaged presence.
The logs were overturned every morning, insisted Glen. The bear was eating. The bear was avoiding Jack. Could he smell the human under the charcoal suit? Could he sense Jack despite the cat piss? Or was it something else?
Jack wondered.
He climbed down out of his tree in the dark every night, trudged to his truck and drove for dinner at the Crossroads. He ate and gossiped with the ancient innkeeper. He met the man staying down the hall from him. He was loud and big, seeming to fill up the entire dining room with stories about selling insurance in Chicago. Stories about getting rich that sounded like cheating people out of hard-earned money.
The evening before the last day of the hunt, the man dropped heavily into the chair beside Jack. He snapped his fingers. “Sonya, honey, bring us a couple beers and set yourself up while you’re at it, hun. Me and Jack need some of that Indian wisdom you got locked in that old head.”
“Uh, we do?” stammered Jack as he shot an embarrassed look towards their host.
Sonya walked toward the bar and started to cackle. “Indian what? You want lessons in how to run a casino, maybe? That’s all the wisdom I got to spare.”
She brought the beers, grinned at Jack, and turned to the fidgeting insurance man. “So, Len, how’s the hunt?”
“Well, that’s just it, see. I paid good money — damn good money — to Glen Miller to set me up.”
He shot a glance at Jack. “Not cheap, is it?” he hissed. “The old man’s website made it sound like the bears were swarming up here. But neither one of us has seen so much as a patch of black fur. Tell me the truth. That guy on the level? I need to slip him another fifty or what?”
Sonya sighed and squinted. She fixed her chestnut eyes on Jack, reached for his untouched beer and took a long swallow. “So, how you been spending your days, youngster? Before the hunt?”
“The trout fishing’s awesome in that stream you told me about. I hope I get a bear tomorrow so I have an excuse to stick around and fish while I get it processed.”
Sonya turned her head toward Len. Fast. “You hear that? Jack here’s havin’ a good time. It ain’t all about them bears. They’re here, though, believe you me, bub. But ole Glen, he ain’t running no bear whorehouse. Them bears do what they want, not what Glen tells em.”
Len snorted. “Whatever. Hey, Jack. Speaking of whorehouses, that kid that pumps the gas across the street? He told me about this club up by Iron Mountain. I think you’d like it. How about you and me drive up there tonight?”
“Um, no? I need to get some sleep. Five AM is early, man.”
Len circled the back of Jack’s neck with a meaty hand and squeezed, almost tenderly. “Come on, kid. Last night of freedom, what do you say? Tie one on and tomcat around with me? I promise we’ll have a great time.”
Jack shuddered and shook his head, amazed to realize he’d just been cruised. Did everybody in the county have him pegged as gay, even the trolls?
Sonya stalked off, throwing words over her shoulder. “Len, I hope you DO get a bear tomorrow. Really late tomorrow — like last-chance, last-bear-of-the-season late. It’d serve you right.”
Jack ended up fishing again the next morning as the sun rose, then ended up in his tree for the last day of the hunt, anxious and discouraged. Shifting position, cramping and uncomfortable, he wondered if fishing right now might not be a better use of his time.
Footsteps jerked him alert.
Twigs cracked like rifles. Foliage whoosed. Damn! Everybody knows bears are dead silent in the forest. This had to be some hiker, ruining his hunt. Now he’d never see a bear.
He strained his eyes to make out the approaching figure. The setting sun was blinding him, so he squinted, angry.
But as the figure slowly took shape below him, Jack gasped. Nobody had told this bear to be quiet. It was snuffling directly under him, then growling, straining its neck to stare up into the tree, his stench burning Jack’s nostrils.
Blood-filled eyes locked directly into Jack’s.
He gasped, heart beating as loud as an M-60. He smelled mildewed gym socks and funky unwashed armpits, plus something sharper, more dangerous, and distinctly unhuman. He stopped breathing — as much to stop smelling the reeking bear as to disguise his own presence. His single-shot rifle shook in his lap.
The bear’s eyes stayed fixed on Jack’s as he snuffled, tasting the air with a red snake of a tongue.
“Steady, steady… freeze…” whispered Jack to himself. “Don’t let him see you move.”
Ten seconds passed… twenty.
Jack knew that if he even twitched, one of two things would happen. Either the beast would melt back into the forest faster than imagination, or he’d levitate the twenty feet up into the tree, all claws and teeth, before Jack could move.
Thirty seconds of eye lock. Jack needed to breathe. He didn’t dare.
Forty seconds.
The animal snorted, bared his teeth, and charged …
What you just read is fiction loosely based on a real hunting trip I took a few years ago. There’s more to come, but this is a long short story, not a novel, so not too much more. The “real” part is about to end as this story morphs into some spooky Halloween fun. Buckle up!
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James Finn is a former Air Force intelligence analyst, long-time LGBTQ activist, an alumnus of Queer Nation and Act Up NY, an essayist occasionally published in queer news outlets, and an “agented” novelist. Send questions, comments, and story ideas to [email protected].
