He straddled a big branch about fifteen feet off the ground, his back against the main trunk. So far there had been no ducks since arriving at the lake. But he didn’t mind. He wasn’t here for the ducks.
He breathed in deeply the fresh air and the smell of the fall leaves. Not a better smell in the world, he thought. In the distance, beyond the trees across the lake, the ground sloped upwards a bit, and he could see a large cornfield covered with driven over, withered stalks. The lake in front of him was small, but looked deep, the water in the center black and impenetrable.
Like Sheila’s eyes, Brent thought. It was hard to ever know what she was thinking. They had been married six years, but she was still a mystery in a lot of ways.
When they were first married, he’d go hunting by himself. Not to actually kill anything, but more as a way to get out into the woods, breath in the smells, take in the sight of the fall leaves. Meditate and think. After two years of doing this, he realized it was upsetting Sheila. As if it was his way of saying he wanted to get away from her.
It wasn’t so much that he wanted to get away from her, it was more like he wanted to be alone. He had been alone a long time before he met her, and he still liked the occasional solitude.
He looked down at the duck blind. Could hear laughter coming up softly from below. He didn’t know how they did it, how they could stand each other down there. But they had been doing it forever. And they were a good excuse to get out into the woods. Instead of getting away from Sheila, now he was just going out hunting with some buddies. Buddies who insisted he come along. What was he to do? They insisted, for goodness sake.
Brent thought he heard a plane flying toward them, but quickly realized it was coming from below. It was Blackie. He was growling.
Chuck’s voice came muffled from the duck blind. “Hush, Blackie.”
Brent looked out over the lake, trying to figure out what Blackie was growling at, but the lake was still, and he couldn’t see anything on the other side. But something was definitely bothering the dog. Blackie didn’t get riled too easily.
Chuck and John’s subdued voices rose up to Brent.
“Blackie, hush!”
“What’s the matter, boy?”
In the distance, the unmistakable sound of a flock of ducks could be heard. Brent spotted them first. Three large V’s.
Blackie growled louder, sounding like a car trying to start on a cold winter morning, then slunk out from behind the blind.
“Hey!” Chuck whispered harshly. “Get back here.”
Blackie trotted to the edge of the lake, sniffing the ground. The ducks were almost overhead.
They’re not going to land now, Brent thought, chuckling. He whistled at the dog, but Blackie ignored him.
John started in on the duck call.
Waaahhh! Waaahhh!
“Might as well forget it,” Chuck said, not bothering to whisper any more.
“Blackie. Hey, Black!” Brent called down from the tree.
Blackie stuck a paw in the algae coated water. Then he leaped in and began swimming toward the other side.
“Stupid dog,” John said. Then he laughed. “What the hell’s gotten into him, Chuck?”
“Hell if I know.” Then Chuck called, “Get back here!”
“Just let him be. He’ll be back soon enough.”
Another V of ducks flew overhead. Brent counted thirty of them.
Another group followed.
And another.
Brent watched, scratching his head. He looked down at Blackie.
Blackie swam in circles in the middle of the lake and started barking.
Chuck and John got out from behind their blind. Chuck walked to the edge of the shore.
“Come on, you stupid mutt. Get back here.” He looked up and saw the ducks in the sky, flying low overhead, their squawking echoing and mixing with the barks of the dog.
“Jesus, look at all of them,” John said. He gave two frustrated honks on his duck call. “Blackie, damn it!” Then he said to Chuck, “Looks like you’re buying pizza again.”
Brent watched another V of ducks fly in low overhead. But this time, a couple of birds veered off and flew down over the lake.
Chuck scrambled for his rifle, which he’d left behind the blind. John was about to give another honk on his duck call, but decided against it.
Brent knocked an arrow and sighted one of the ducks.
They dove at the lake and landed on Blackie’s head.
“Hey!” Chuck yelled. “Get off him!”
Two more ducks dropped out of the sky and landed on the other two.
“Hey!”
Blackie’s barking stopped as he struggled to stay above water.
Chuck stepped into the lake, aiming his gun at the ducks. But Blackie was thrashing around and there was no getting off a good shot without risking the dog’s life.
John fired his gun in the air, the sound like a slap in the face.
The ducks jumped. Chuck fired and knocked one out of the air, but the other three dropped back on Blackie’s head.
Two more ducks swooped down and landed on the dog.
“Aw, sheesh.” Chuck pumped his shotgun. “Get the hell off him!” He fired into the air. This time the ducks barely flinched. Blackie could no longer be seen among the wings and beaks and feathers.
Two more ducks dove in, their quacks sounding gleeful.
Chuck dropped his shotgun to the ground and walked out into the water.
Brent wiped sweat off his brow. He felt helpless. What could he do? He didn’t trust his aim.
“Stay on the shore. The water’s too cold,” John said.
“I gotta go in,” Chuck said, tossing his vest onto the shore. “They’re killing him.”
Blackie was about thirty feet from the shore.
“Take off your damn vest then.”
Another duck dove from the sky. John fired at this one before it landed and knocked him out of the air.
Two more ducks replaced it.
Chuck belly-flopped into the water. He began to swim through the cattails toward his dog. “Blackie!” he called. “Hold on!”
Once he got into the open water, it was obvious that he was in trouble. Despite taking off his vest, he was still weighed down by too much clothing. It was like wearing an anchor. But Chuck strained and struggled against the suck of lake bottom gravity and managed to keep his head above the surface.
When he was ten feet from the mound of ducks, they gave a communal quack and lifted into the air. Brent let an arrow fly and knocked one down. John blasted another one in two. But that was all.
Blackie had disappeared from the surface. Chuck was working too hard to call out anymore. When he got to the spot his dog had been, he managed a weak, hoarse cry.
Brent watched as Chuck reached into the water and pulled Blackie up next to him.
“Aw, sheesh,” Chuck wheezed. “Aw, God.”
The dog’s eyes had been pecked out. One ear hung by a mere thread of cartilage. Chuck had to let go of him in order to stay afloat.
“Come on back,” John called, waiting at the shore, one hand held out for Chuck, even though he was still twenty-five feet away. Chuck dog-paddled slowly back, spitting the lake water out of his mouth that kept splashing in. “Come on, buddy,” John called. “You can do it.”
Brent dropped his bow and quiver to the ground. He was about to drop out of the tree when something caught his eyes. It was the cornfield he had been looking at earlier. It appeared to waver.
“You can do it,” John called again.