Chapter Fifty-Five

The Hunt

The wind drove the snow hard into a blinding curtain of rage on the evening of my return. Erratic drifts were piled two feet high along the rocky shore of Green Bay whose white capped swells froze in midwave. The water became thick and textured, as if painted with forceful, violent strokes.

The sun abandoned the peninsula well before my arrival, and I wondered how long I had been gone. We destroyed the first Pillar, but I felt unsatisfied. Too much was left to do. Some wars never end.

I was transported from the Center Island Light to Point Maudit’s sculpture for reasons unclear to me. “Would it have been too much trouble to bring me directly home?” I shouted rhetorically into the winter wind.

I stepped away from the stone guardian of Point Maudit to get my bearings. The shorefront house I once called home was less than two miles south, as the crow flies. The way would have been easier if the bay were frozen enough to support my weight. Instead I’d have to trek through dense forest eastward until I came to Nicolet Drive. From there the walk home would be an easy mile.

As I reached the outer perimeter of forest I startled a man whose red flannel jacket identified him as a hunter. I had no idea how long he’d been there, but the Kesemanetow in my back pocket flashed hot as if to warn me of danger.

In his defense I’ll say he must have seen me appear suddenly out of thin air, like a ghost or demon. He directed his shotgun at me from bended knee, but I was upon him within two quick steps. With my left arm I slammed his weapon down. I kicked hard into his left temple. As he lay on his side, breathing irregularly but effectively, I bent down to examine his neck. No tattoo. Interesting. That explained his choice in weapon, but what had he wanted? The Kesemanetow flashed again. The sound of not-too-distant footfall told me Red Flannel was not alone.

I kept low and scanned the frozen landscape through the driving snow. I was at the southwest tip of the point. To the west lay a vast expanse of frigid water, rising upon itself wave after frozen wave. The bay was green but so thick with frost it would no doubt be covered by ice come morning.

I looked up at the sky but could not find the moon through the blinding curtain of white. I could see no other hunters, but the blizzard limited visibility to less than twenty feet. Still, if I couldn’t see them then they couldn’t see me. I hiked inland.

On any other night I would have stopped to admire the beauty of snow falling upon the Wisconsin woodland. To my left was a paper birch trunk split open by last winter’s unbearable freeze. It looked like the gaping jaws of some angry sea creature made soft and less bitter by its downy blanket. To my right were the snow-covered branches of two mature black cherries, each leaning toward the other in a lover’s embrace. Their union was interrupted by a turbulent creek that ran between them, allowing only their outermost branches to touch. The storm made their failed embrace all the more sorrowful. I ran alongside the creek and under the canopy of unrequited love. I stopped running when another hunter blocked the path ahead.

She walked toward me with a self-assurance that told me she knew I would be here. The wind was not as severe under the cover of trees, and the snow was no longer as blinding. She had an arrow nocked in a hunter’s bow, and although the bow was not drawn tight, she had the arrow pointed at my chest. She smiled at me with unsympathetic eyes.

“Hello, Paul,” she greeted me with a sultry voice as she approached. She stopped within ten feet of me.

Hers was a dark beauty that called attention to hidden peril. Her eyebrows were thick, black graceful lines highlighting clear, impenetrable chestnut eyes. Her high cheekbones and long, silky black hair spoke of Menominee blood and the athleticism with which she moved lacked any trace of put-on femininity. Her desire-swollen lips were dark, and her voice lacked cloying sweetness. She had an exotic spice about her, but it dissipated far too quickly in the Wisconsin wind, leaving me leaning toward her wanting another sniff. She was stunning.

I would have come closer to more fully breathe in her scent, but she had a sharp object trained on my sternum.

“Well,” I replied, “you are certainly not Billie.”

She shook her head with mock sadness. “I am not.”

She was taller than Billie for one thing, and I sensed nothing maternal about this woman. She wore her thigh-length leather coat rather tight, unafraid to reveal the full curves of a woman’s body. Something predatory about her reminded me of a leopard. It didn’t make her less alluring.

By now her two unassaulted companions caught up with us from the beach. It must have been their footfalls I heard back by Red Flannel. These two were also dressed in matching red flannel jackets and blue jeans. They had matching shotguns as well, both of which were trained on me with equal precision.

“Look,” I said to the woman, “matching assholes.” She laughed. They did not.

“Turn back around,” the one on my left commanded. I obeyed. “No sign of Shawn,” the same one called out. I assumed they meant Red Flannel Number One but decided not to say anything.

“He’ll turn up,” she told them. “Let’s get him someplace secure.”

I was dressed to suit the weather. The walk of fire had no effect upon my motorcycle raiment, so I wondered what Warrior Princess meant by “secure.”

“Where to?” I asked.

“He’s not as weak as he looks.” This she spoke to the men behind me, paying my question no regard.

I was marched southeast, away from the waterline and deeper into the woods. We followed a serpentine path that more or less ran alongside the creek. For those who can see the markers, all creeks lead to Dark Woods. Warrior Princess led the way with Red Flannels Two and Three taking the rear.

“You do know what walks this forest?”

Warrior Princess ignored me. She ducked beneath twisted branches of deeply furrowed oak. When last I strolled these woods they were alight with scarlet flame. Now the trees were barren and blanketed by silver.

One of the foot soldiers shoved the butt of his gun into my back, causing me to trip and fall. I picked myself up out of the snow and glared at both men. They looked to be in their mid-thirties and had the physical accouterments of Wisconsin police. Thick of beard and round of belly. I didn’t recognize them but was pretty sure they were Umbra’s men. In spite of their Elmer Fudd hunting caps they had a sense of relaxed vigilance that suggested at least some degree of comfort with danger.

I shivered as I brushed the powder from my head and neck. I kept moving.

“What month is this?” I asked of no one in particular.

“The first of December,” she called back.

December. I’ve been gone for over a month.

We arrived at Nicolet Bridge. My captors seemed intent on following the creek beneath the bridge.

“May I ask where you are taking me?”

Warrior Princess looked at me as if the answer were obvious. “We’re going to a place where no one can find you.”

She turned to Red Flannel 2.“You need to follow me closely. The trail can get a little tricky, and I don’t want you little girls to get lost.”

They both laughed, but I got nervous. If we followed the creek upstream it might eventually lead outside the narrow stretch of woodland into fields of wheat or corn. We were not headed there, though. Warrior Princess would probably lead us deep into a primordial forest tuned to the frequency of an ancient evil.

My new friends all carried flashlights that should have cast yellow beams upon the snowy ground. Instead the gloom thickened to resist feeble rays. The path wound eastward, taking us further from the road and deeper into darkness.

We were soon overtaken by a fourth hunter just as the wind howled against the gloom. As he approached I breathed deeply the winter night and tried to remember a time when I was not being hunted.