The Hunter

Minnesota, 1592

The hunter had been stalking his prey for the better part of the day. A hunger unlike any he had known tore at him, seeping its way into his every thought. It had been a bad year for game. So bad, that the clan had decided to split up and reconvene at the end of the season when the snow melted, something they hadn’t had to do since he was a boy.

The hunter and his family, now on their own, had been surviving off of jackrabbits, prairie chickens, and what little plants they had been able to gather.

Ever careful, he inched his way towards the deer as it picked through the grass, foraging for the soft, tasty shoots of alfalfa that grew close to the ground.

Hunting, he had learned, was an exercise in patience. He had been at it for hours before he found the tracks the deer had left, then spent hours more trailing it. The slightest misstep and he would have to begin the process all over again.

He notched an arrow from the buckskin quiver at his side, drew back, inhaled deeply, then let loose.

His shot was perfect. He knew he should feel relief or maybe even satisfaction as the animal fell. Instead, he felt uneasy. All morning he had been repressing the feeling that he was being watched, but now he was certain.

He heard movement in the tall, windswept grass behind him. The hunter turned, another arrow already notched and drawn back.

A coyote emerged from the reeds, its ribs visible from hunger, then scampered away.

He returned his attention to the deer. It would need to be cleaned and dressed before he could transport it back to his wife and daughter.

By the time the hunter finished cleaning his kill, a pale moon shone over the prairie. He had built a small fire to keep himself from freezing to death in the night. In the morning he would haul his catch back to his family.

Someone else sat at the hunter’s camp, warming himself by the fire. The hunter didn’t know how long the Stranger had been there. He certainly seemed comfortable enough. The Stranger was at this very moment stuffing his face with the best cuts of meat, as though treating himself after a long day on the hunt. The hunter accepted this the way one might accept the reality of a dream.

“You look hungry.” Even as he spoke the Stranger’s voice seemed to laugh the laughter of an old friend at an inside joke.

“I am very hungry.”

“Please, help yourself.”

“That is my meat. You are warming yourself by my fire.”

The Stranger only scoffed. He pulled an arrow from the hunter’s quiver and ran a finger along the flint arrowhead. “The stone that you used to make the tip of your arrow wasn’t always a stone. Long ago Flint was a great and terrible monster. He was as tall as an oak tree with jagged teeth the size of your arm. I used my magic to trick him into turning himself into a harmless rock. So, you see, without me, you never would have caught the deer in the first place.”

The Stranger had long gray hair, streaked with white, braided in the style of the People, but his clothing was that of the Southern tribes. He had black tattoos on his lower jaw down to his chest of symbols that the hunter didn’t recognize.

“Who are you?”

The Stranger looked incredulous. “How could you possibly not know? I am Coyote.”

The hunter could not tell if the strange man was being serious. He seemed to believe what he was saying. “You are Old Man Coyote?”

“I am not old. Who says that?”

“It is what they call you.”

“Sure, I was here on this earth before the People emerged from the underworld. That doesn’t make me old. Spider is older than me.”

“I don’t believe you. It is impossible.”

“Nothing is impossible for Coyote.”

The hunter had grown up listening to tales of Coyote the trick­ster, Coyote the fool, but he had never heard the one about Flint. “What do you want?”

“It has been a long, cold winter. Let me warm my bones by your fire. give me this deer to rebuild my strength. In return, I will give you some of my magic.”

“The meat is for my family. If I don’t bring it home they might starve.”

“With this magic you will catch hundreds of deer. You will be an unstoppable warrior. You will never get weak or tired. You will forget what it means to be sick. All this, for the carcass of a deer.” The Stranger’s voice was no longer friendly. His eyes seemed to glint in the darkness like an animal’s.

***

Many moons later, the hunter pulled his Jeep Grand Cherokee into the parking lot of a hospital in Wichita, Kansas. He was early for his shift. He liked to give himself time to collect his thoughts before the workday started.

He scanned the empty lot for a place to sit before settling on a bench near the main office. He took a cigarette out of the pack and lit it. The silhouette of a little cartoon Indian with a headdress and a peace pipe looked out at him from the package.

“Those are bad for you.”

The old man must have wandered out of his room. He had long grey hair with streaks of white. On his lower jaw he had tattoos in the way of Iroquois warriors after they had had their Vision and became adults. The hunter had known him for a very long time. He hoped the old man wouldn’t give him too much trouble as he ushered him back into his room. He snuffed out his cigarette.

“I am trying to quit.”