The Hunt

"Must the hunger become anger, and the anger fury, before anything is done?"

-John Steinbeck

The leper maneuvered the canoe skillfully, despite his hideously twisted arms. Though only paddling on the right, he avoided the tiresome 'J-stroke,' by keeping the bow a couple of degrees to starboard, letting the current nullify the crafts tendency to arc left.

The river narrowed. Mangroves extended twenty feet from shore, occasionally scraping the canoe. When they became too thick, passengers grabbed, pulled, and then pushed the long, narrow hollowed log through the spider-webbed, tuberous roots. Occasionally, they could only penetrate an inch at a time in their drive toward the forest's heart.

In response to their efforts, schools of startled fish, - brilliant red, neon-aqua, and silvery gold, - burst the surface in rippling waves, like a split-second shower, then twinkled, flowing towards the bottom like flecks of sparkling silk confetti, disappearing more quickly than fireworks. 

The jungle hum startled the seminarian. It was a forest symphony. Cicadas, after spending seventeen years as dormant eggs, violined their happiness at discovering and living a two-week life span.

Against this noisy backdrop, fat-chested yellow parrots with dusted blue crowns circled. Both groups flew near a crimson flock that sported iridescent jade undersides and strangely long necks. Monkeys howled their syncopated cacophonous accompaniment, high above the fifteen-inch wide, indigo and ivory striped butterflies, that flapped lazily in the languid air.
From the center of each seven-inch wing, nature had painted large panther eyes, yellow balls with black slits. The butterflies were vying with buzzing honeybees, and hummingbirds with long, syringe beaks, taking turns sucking sweet nectar from enormous, blue wild flowers - jungle morning glories.

Two hours later, the flotilla worked its way through the last bend of thick mangroves to the fern-covered riverbank. The leper stayed in his boat and began chewing a raw cassava. After a few bites, he lowered his gnarled hand into the river and, with the greatest of difficulty, collected water in the wrinkled and twisted palm. Most spilled, before it reached his mouth. Of the half that remained, more than half spilled again. It dribbled down his chin when he tried to pour water with his crippled, uncooperative appendage. After performing this ritual a few times to quench his thirst, the leper rested.

All faced their leader, an old woman, for their jungle jaunt. She had a severely weathered, leather face. Her tattered dalo exposed a flattened left breast that hung - beaten by gravity, wrinkled by time, and deflated from overuse - like a balloon blown repeatedly by a child, until it explodes and sways lifelessly. Its ragged nipple, like the crusty, fissured cap of an old
acorn, dangled, parallel to her herniated navel, a rather common ailment. As she spoke, from a toothless mouth that resembled a caved-in pumpkin two weeks after Halloween, the animated crowd quieted. It was obvious that in this culture, age, not beauty, commanded authority.

"Maurice, you will walk in front with Lena and me. This woman has told the people not to sing. They're happy you brought the gun and will pray to the gods for meat. Lets go. They'll follow far behind, so that if a stick breaks, it wont scare the animals."

Maurice was surprised and taken aback by the gatherings sudden gravity. He had been under the impression that this was an excursion to the market, rather than a serious safari expedition.

"What about monkeys? When they see us, they'll make noise and scare the animals!" he urged, trying to excuse himself by pointing out the difficulties hampering their venture.

"Yes, but they always do. When the big cat carries a deer into the tree to eat, monkeys make noise. Before it kills, they make noise. What's the difference? The deer cannot hear the beast and does not know where it hides, until it is too late. We will walk like leopards. If you hear a monkey, and its not high, shoot it. Well put it in soup."

"You eat monkey?" he asked, startled.

"Of course! Its meat." Wheea Dee answered, looking perplexed by the question.

"But, they look like people - like babies," he suggested, hesitantly.

"So? They feed us like any other animal," she replied, just as a woman came and wrapped Wheea Dees little, brown baby in her dalo.

Over the twenty-foot wide river, where a few trees intermingled, light flickered, falling like streamers. Only ten feet from the bank, they stood in twilight. Twenty feet further away, the sun failed to penetrate the closed canopy completely.

Monkeys cavorted, screeching teasingly, shaking their fists at the intruders, knowing they were safe high overhead. Pungent mist rose from the moist, leaf-carpeted floor.

"Maurice ... Maurice? What's the matter?" asked Wheea Dee, noticing how preoccupied her friend had become.

"Nothing ... its nothing . . ." he answered unconvincingly. "What kind of animal do you want me to shoot, Wheea Dee? What would you prefer?"

"Prefer? I do not understand? Anything. Something big if we see it," she reacted, smiling excitedly, "but anything is good. Even one of those fat animals the crocodile tried to eat. Remember, we'll walk close to the river, where everything comes to drink. We'll find something!" she concluded with assurance. "Take that bag from your back! Here, give it to me," she
offered, removing and handing the sack to someone.

"Wait, let me get the shells!" he stuttered, rustling around, retrieving the ammunition.

"Maurice, lets go," urged Lena expectantly, leading.

He followed. The girls' sudden transformation startled him. They had gone from being congenial friends and potential lovers to hunters, gravely intent on providing game for themselves, and probably the others. Theirs was a concentration only someone lacking adequate food could muster.

Maurice's priorities were starkly different from the female hunters and their entourage. His arrogance and desire to be a hero had backfired. Without knowing it, simply by being who they were - strong, vibrant people, desperate for meat - they had called his bluff. He smiled to himself, at his hubris and stupidity. Hoping they would never meet up with any four-legged
animal, he secretly told the god he doubted, that he had already learned a lesson.

In thirty minutes, they had stalked nearly two miles. All perspired profusely. The seminarian had taken off his cassock at the outset and wore the khaki boat shorts, he had brought over from the States, but seldom used. A shirt was pointless. In minutes, it would have been drenched. His tan skin blended in well with his shorts and he knew from a distance, it would have been hard to distinguish him from the light brown tree trunks or dead leaves that lay about, if he were not moving.

They hadn't seen or heard anything, despite walking soundlessly. He drifted back to the Vermont forest, the year he had left home. All too often, he had spent complete days in the freezing cold, looking for elusive game. Many a time he returned to his barren apartment, empty-handed, numbed by the weather, which had left his nose red and his feet, nearly frostbitten; and this was during his lucky time, when he had an apartment.

He understood hunger, and having often been hungry during those early college days, - days of sleeping in a field across from St. Michaels College in Winooski, Vermont, - days that taught him well he understood their preoccupation. That first semester of college, he had eaten oatmeal three times a day. It had been cheaper than potatoes or bread, and easy to
cook with hot water from the library.

He watched Wheea Dee watch the jungle. Her lithe, muscled body moved effortlessly. What a ballerina she would have made, he thought, captivated by her limber, controlled grace. The intensity of her quest rendered every nerve alive. As they walked, Maurice felt his free-floating anxiety build. Though he had been unable to pinpoint its cause, watching the sisters gave him the answer. They saw the seminarian as a white man with a magical weapon. To have this gun, placed him in a unique category, one unwarranted. It had been his impression, when the subject was initially discussed, that he would bring the shotgun in case an animal placed itself sacrificially before them, which he knew would never happen. In truth, he had brought it for protection more than anything, but there was also the issue of image; something about carrying a gun and being a real man that he had fallen into. But while his ego was busy trying to be a movie star, gun in hand, in the exotic African jungle, the sisters were busy deciding how they would help their hero harness the big game.

He had hunted and killed before, understood weapons, and understood hunger. Here, however, he was in the midst of the equatorial rain forest, a twilight realm where predators existed with prey. The Africans saw the white man with a gun as a mystical, invincible force, capable of bringing down anything. He knew better, but was trapped by their desperation. This
rusty thing he carried was no more than two corroded pipes, side by side. The week before, he had dismantled it and looked through the barrels by pointing to the blue sky. Instead of seeing shiny, clean, oiled steel with spiral markings that sent ammunition toward a target accurately, he saw cancerous, hollowed-out pits, and extruding, tumorous rust flakes that would hardly facilitate the movement of shrapnel toward quarry. The weapon was bound to be dreadfully inaccurate.

Then, to make matters worse, there was the problem of the shells. No, one couldn't call the four red plastic containers that had already been used and repacked - with broken pieces of nail - shells. What he had for ammunition was far less accurate and much less powerful than twenty-gauge birdshot - and he only had four!

His best bet would be to shoot a small deer, one that weighed less than five pounds. That wouldn't be a threat. He was terrified they would insist he shoot a tusked boar, if they ran into one, and that likelihood, which was fairly great, made his skin stand on end.

Occasionally, the cook Toh grilled wild pig outside the mission and inevitably ended up describing the latest story about who had been gored by the baking beast. Hunting for pigs didn't happen often, because the danger of getting hurt was too great.

One unfortunate nineteen-year old, only three months ago had been severely wounded by a boar but lucky, nevertheless. As he speared the beast, it turned and knocked him over. He was about to be gored in the head, when his friends managed to kill the five hundred pound animal, but the boy never walked normally again. The tendons in his knee had been shredded, he had been hamstrung, and his thigh filleted, ripped by entangled tusks that tore all in less than a second.

"Wheea Dee," he announced authoritatively, calling her. "I've decided what well do."

"What?" she asked with a quizzical expression.

"If we see a deer, we'll shoot."

"I don't understand," she answered, looking more confused. "Were ready for anything. You saw us sharpen our machetes on the rock by the lepers boat."

"Yes, but listen - were only going for small deer," he stated resolutely.

"Yes, that is good. One time, I tasted this meat and liked it very much."

"You ... you only had deer once in life? But you live on the forests edge!"

"I am no hunter and must buy it and that costs too much. But wait - why do you say, we will only hunt this animal? What if we see no deer?"

"Then, the gods aren't with us!"

"Enough talk of gods!" she exclaimed, flashing angry eyes. "You will shoot something else, yes?"

"It all depends. Look, Wheea Dee, I've got a big problem! This is only a shotgun and not worth much. Its for birds, or maybe a goat, like those near the lepers house. If you miss, birds just fly! Were in the jungle, for gods sake, where wounded animals fight!"

"Of course! You're not surprised, are you?" she asked, stunned by his statement. "We're all fighting for life!"

"Wheea Dee ... you don't understand. The gun's useless and all I have are four shells, filled with rusty broken nails. This isn't real ammunition. The weapon looks powerful and will make a loud noise, if it works, but it's not accurate. I ... I can't just shoot anything we happen to see. If I did and it didn't die instantly, we'd be in bad shape. We ... we ... couldn't use this to
kill a wild pig, for example, he added, excusing himself nervously," correctly fearing she wouldn't understand.

"Why?"

"Because we'd have to get so close, it would smell us and our lives would be at risk. Dying for a piece of meat isn't worth it!"

"Were dying each moment - what's the difference? Kill the animal with a true shot, the first time," she demanded.

"But ... what if I only wound it?"

"You cannot make a mistake," Lena cautioned, looking at him, as a bred warrior would look at an underling.

"Wheea Dee ... Lena! You don't understand! My gun isn't strong," he pleaded.

"Your gun? ... or you?" Wheea Dee asked, staring at him coolly, assessing his character. "Its stronger than the sticks poor Africans carry...stronger than machetes. Sometimes, one spear will kill a pig, other times, many. If it doesn't die, it attacks, and will tear your legs apart faster then you eyes can blink. I heard this from songs hunters sing. If men can do this with sticks, or kill an elephant with poles, you can kill with your gun."

"Wheea Dee, listen!" he begged. "We are three, but I am only one man and if I miss, you don't have a spear to put in the animals side!"

She studied him strangely. Perhaps he was weak, she thought, greatly disappointed. Walking twenty feet from the path with her machete, she quickly cut a teak sapling two inches in diameter and six feet long, then
brought it to a sharp point.

"Here is the spear you think you need, and I will use it like a man, she offered, contemptuously. If you miss, or only make it angry, I will help," she replied fearlessly.

"Wheea Dee!! You're not a hunter and that point has to be fire-hardened!" Maurice implored. "Let us go for deer - I beg you!"

"There are more pigs and they're not as smart. I learned this from songs."

"Wheea Dee... I'm pleading with you. We cannot! Put it out of your mind. Do I have to crawl on the ground to convince you?"

"You are afraid to die?"

"Well... as a matter of fact... I'm in no rush, especially here in the middle of the fucking jungle!" he answered angrily, exasperated by his dilemma. "There are easier ways to die. I'm not too keen on having a snorting boar pant hot foul breath in my face, as big tusks rip my eyes and brains out. In fact, becoming a vegetarians really looking good!" he murmured, shaking his head ruefully.

"Vegetarian? What's that?" asked Lena.

"Its when you decide not to eat meat," he answered distantly, distracted by the image of an attacking boar.

"Why?" she prodded, startled.

"Because you don't want to," he sighed.

"I don't understand," said Wheea Dee. "Why would someone not want to eat meat? We only have it two or three times a year, but it's wonderful. There are people like this in your country?" she asked, completely astounded.

"Yes, but they aren't forced to eat cassava three times a day. They have many things to choose from, too many, and in the end, they pay for diets - spend thousands at fat farms, where they're forced to starve!" he groaned, overwhelmed with fatigue from the cross-cultural exchange. "Oh, screw it." He looked around at the forest strangely, and the sisters wondered fearfully what he was thinking.

"We'll shoot any fucking thing that moves!" he screamed to the trees, glancing up at the monkeys, who were now terrified into momentary silence. "Today's as good as any to die," he hollered to the forest and all its creatures, looking around at all that surrounded him as though for the first, or the last time.

How strange, he thought, how ones last visions of life were clean, pure, and awesome, like those at the very beginning.

"Cut and sharpen two more spears," he commanded brusquely, "just in case my nail bullets don't do the trick. Mark my words, you'll be sorry you made this decision, if things get out of hand!"

In minutes, all carried teak spears. Maurice's poked from under the gun like a bayonet. Hunched over, working their way through the thickets as quietly as possible, they crept like dwarf children amid gigantic trees, pretending to be hunting ferocious animals - but it wasn't a dream! This time, he wasn't six years old, playing with make-believe "lions and tigers
and bears, oh my!" that roared threateningly in his mind, until his mother called him in for a peanut butter sandwich. A wave of nervous nausea overwhelmed him, but he suppressed the urge to vomit.

The chamber held two shells and he could feel the other two rub against his leg. It dawned on him that he hadn't even tested the weapon. O'Sullivan mentioned that he'd used it a few years back. What if it backfired? How stupid - was the powder any good? Why had he been so careless and assumed so much? Now, his life was on the line. He deserved it,
he thought bitterly. Anyone this stupid should be punished.

They made their way through vine-entangled ferns in humid air that draped him with their overpowering, rich odor of dank earth. The seminarian was startled by the waves of his own heat, drifting upward past his nose.

The morning's din died and the jungle now sounded like an empty cathedral. Occasionally, a light shaft sneaked past the canopy, oddly illuminating a small patch with a strange golden beam. He remembered light like that, where? Ahh... when he was a six-month old baby, having his diaper changed on his mothers bed. The morning light had always angled in from behind her, leaving her in shadow, but the light would play with the baby powder that twirled skyward. He could suddenly smell Johnson's baby powder, as clearly now as he had done then. And another time... when? ...Yes ...the light... coming through the stained glass windows at St. Anthony's Church in Burlington, while he was chanting Latin as an altar boy. The strangeness of his thoughts on the quality of light, and their bizarre unconnectedness struck him. Is this what happens when one feels death to be immanent?

After walking another mile, Lena stopped and pointed. The novice squinted but couldn't make it out. They stopped. Warm fluid trickled down his legs. He was so nervous; he couldn't focus on its source, unsure whether it was urine or the buckets of perspiration that dripped like rainwater. Everything blurred. A bird somewhere in the dark forest hooted a repetitious
high to low pattern. It seemed as though life had suddenly warped itself into slow motion, as it had the other times in his life, when he faced death.

Lena reached up to grab his left arm. He focused on the color of her palm, instantly recognizing how nerves were drastically altering his perceptions. Maurice wanted to close his eyes and go to sleep. Wiping the sweat from his forehead, he thought back for a moment to their escapade in the water ... it seemed so long ago - when they were innocent children, so full of life, and free of terror.

Finally, he spotted what she was pointing to - a column of one inch long warrior ants. The novice breathed a sigh of relief, and a thousand muscles uncoiled instantly. They approached gingerly. Trillions of driver ants, a column almost three feet wide, marched as
far as the eyes could see - a black, mysterious, lava-like trickle of destruction moving deliberately, like an army, seeking its enemy. They jumped the black stream carefully and began walking on. Maurice stopped to watch the sinuous, thick insect snake, weave its way through trees, over massive roots, and around impenetrable brambles, amazed that such numbers were possible.

Suddenly, he felt something on his feet. Looking down, he saw four ants on his left ankle, and seven on his right foot. These were the scouts. He quickly swept them free, but not before receiving five sharp bites. Drops of blood trickled from each site.

They continued another half-hour in silence. Then, to their left, a twig snapped. All froze. The sound was out of place. Instantly, he plucked it from memory banks. A snowy, Thanksgiving day, four years earlier, with a fresh foot of white powder on the ground - he'd been hunting for deer near the cabin that he and his girlfriend had built in East Charlotte. Behind a small grove of spruce that obscured his view sat a clump of white birch, next to a bubbling brook that crossed the property. Six deer had been milling and one stepped on a twig. It paid for the mistake with its life. That sound, and the
one he just heard were identical.

Deafening silence engulfed him. His heart pounded, noisily pushing blood through his brain. No sound followed. Everyone held their breath, each terrified cell alert. All wondered - were they the predators, or the prey?

The novice moved in front of the two hunched women, bent over with spears poised, and crouched his way toward the thicket. It was impenetrable. Placing the stock of the gun against his shoulder, he got ready to fire. With his left hand, he slowly pushed the safety off, noticing how greatly his fingers trembled.

Not knowing what the animal was, he decided to test the waters. With all his might, he screamed and kicked the bushes, hoping to force it into the open. The sound of his own voice horrified him and the women jumped back terrified, thinking he had been attacked or possessed by invisible forest demons. They screamed in unison!

Five large white herons responded to the commotion, squawking their horrific grating cries, before flapping slowly and noisily skyward, like small clouds against the narrow, blue ribbon, above the river. Just then, he heard a gush of heavy breathing coming from an invisible, large-chested animal to his immediate left. Turning, he noticed that the bushes had a slight opening he had failed to notice. He heard the breathing, but only saw bushes shaking.

One second later, a horned antelope exploded ten feet from the novice, charging through the opening, its head lowered. Maurice dropped back, freeing the entrance and tried to sight it with the gun, but in the excitement hit the safety, locking the triggers. The creature had no intention of attacking. As it got close, it leapt into the sky with a loud - almost human - grunt, that emanated from deep within its belly. It all happened so fast.

The unprepared novice stood immobilized, gazing at the animal like a silly child with a toy rifle as it began to soar easily over his six-foot body. He finally unlocked the safety, but the hind legs of the magnificent deer, before being tucked in, twitched and the right hoof kicked the shotgun squarely, knocking it downward, severely wrenching his trigger finger. The
teak spear tumbled free. As the gun exploded, and echoed frighteningly under the forest canopy, nails from the shell sent hundreds of leaves splattering through space. Monkeys began screaming shrilly, a flock of parrots fled riotously.

Noises came from all directions. Animals that had been invisible instantly flushed, driven from their dens of security by the blasts unnaturalness. Two other antelopes leapt over Maurice, each grunting their way airborne, as he groveled on all fours, scrambling like a rabid animal for the fallen gun. Picking it up, he began running like a madman after the deer,
following the meat.

"Maurice ... stop!" Wheea Dee called, chasing him.

A hundred yards from the river, he stopped, panting heavily, realizing that he must pursue them like an Indian hunter, not a crazed fool. After all, he thought, Algonquin blood, while thin, did flow in his veins. His body quivered with adrenaline.

The sisters reached him, breathless and he cast them a brief glance, before squatting in the near darkness, to study the trail, wondering how far the animals would run before slowing.

"Quick, we must go back to the path," Wheea Dee begged, holding his arm.

"What?" he asked impatiently, looking at her as though he had just heard the ramblings of a lunatic. Breathing the dense humidity more slowly, he began to unwind. "We can follow the trail easily. They'll stop running in twenty minutes. Well chase them all day, if we have to. They're big and have much food."

"No, we cannot go away from the river!" Lena insisted.

"Why?"

"Because we must follow the path. Only this will lead us to Barclayville and the market. The animals will take us deep into the forest, where they know we'll die. This is a trick. They're not stupid!" Lena offered.

"Die? What are you talking about?"

"If we go inside, we'll get lost and never find the way out," she continued, gazing at the novice as though he were hopelessly naive, or truly one with the powers of a witch doctor.

"We can't be more than four or five miles from the ocean. All we have to do is turn around and head for the sea, he insisted, trying to assure them."

"Its not so easy! You can become confused by the sound, because it bounces off the trees, and because it is so dark in here you cannot tell which way is East or West. I have heard this in songs. No, we will not go on," Wheea Dee announced firmly, ending the discussion, she hoped.

There was a fire in his eyes she had not seen before, one that frightened her. He was not afraid of the jungle, afraid of nature, or afraid of himself. As she studied his burning intensity, she thought of the medicine men she had heard about, in their tribal songs. All too had his power, but many were not alive. Each could see so much more than others, yet it was
strange, she thought, how all had one great weakness, ten times worse than anyone.

"What? Are you afraid to die?" Maurice spit viciously, unable to resist the question she had baited him with earlier. He scored a bulls-eye. Water came to her eyes, then she stared vacantly at the ground.

"I do not want to go today. We have found each other; people from such different parts of this earth and our spirits are one. I am sorry about what I said ... to test what we have is not right. I do not want to anger the gods, because if I do, they will take you from us! Come, let us go to market. Enough hunting business. I am a farm woman. There are many strange creatures, and I do not like it because its hard to tell whether we are hunting, or being hunted."

"We'll go back to the path, but will not stop!" Maurice commanded.

Now that he knew the gun worked, he felt reassured. Breaking the chamber, he pulled out the spent cartridge, took one from his dripping shorts and inserted it, clicking the barrel together.

He led the way. They followed. Wheea Dee watched and realized that he would hunt, no matter what they said. Nothing would stop him. She began to understand the absurdity of risking ones life for meat, but something had changed and now, the hunting was more than killing meat. He was challenging the gods to kill him, or demanding they bless him by
giving up their hoarded bounty. She was angry for having made the suggestion in the first place, and regretted having awakened his warrior spirit.

The seminarian estimated they still had five miles to go. After silently walking an hour, they passed a clump of giant ferns on their right. Five feet beyond, they heard an unmistakable grunt. They froze. Maurice's heart pounded.

"Shit!" he whispered to himself.

Heads turned. More snorting followed, squeals emanating from the extensive thicket. Pigs! He couldn't believe their good fortune - yet, the excitement was instantly clouded by a tremendous surge of dread.

For a moment, he stood marveling at it all, amazed there wasn't the slightest wind. Hunting in Vermont had been so different! There, he always had to worry about his scent being carried miles downwind to the animals.

Some of the ferns shook, and he smiled, astounded that in the middle of plants only fifty feet away, feeding animals were unaware of their presence. The stifling, windless jungle was a godsend.

Rotting foliage padded the ground like a thick, sound absorbing sponge. Maurice crouched low, working his way forward, then dropped on his hands and knees. This time, he wanted to be prepared for every contingency. He had hunted wild pig once before, in the Florida everglades, and knew there was no room for error.

Motioning to the girls to come closer, he pointed out where to stand. Signaling that they should have their spears ready, and satisfied with the positions they assumed, he turned toward the ferns. Crawling slowly, his face only a foot and a half from the ground, he tried to find an opening through which to peek. The musky plants covered a fifty square yard embankment. Finding a slight break, his heart almost stopped when he spotted something mottled, only thirty feet away and moving in his direction. Swallowing nervously, he carefully clicked the safety off and pushed his gun slowly into the crevice. He couldn't tell which part of the animal faced him, and his finger fidgeted nervously on the trigger. Wanting to wait for a headshot, he impatiently wondered what to do. The blood surged to his brain. What if he shot and the nails, slowed by ferns, only dug into the creatures flank. Should he shoot? Risk a blind shot?

A deafening explosion shattered the jungles tranquility, followed almost instantly by another, as a hideous, ungodly sound - a hybrid, freakish noise - something between a series of squeals and human screams, scraped the psyches of all three. Fragments of fern flew, splattering their thick odor, and monkeys that had been watching the pursuit and carnage below, howled their cries of disapproval.

Maurice ran to the women, cracking the gun in the process and inserted the remaining cartridge. A large boar, more than four hundred pounds, spotted the fleeing animal through the shrapnel mowed plants, and quickly pursued. He waited until it was twenty-five feet away, then shot again. Pieces of dust, fur, blood and bone flew. The beast somersaulted, squealing in pain. It rolled, then bounded on three legs for the thickets safety. Maurice and the women waited. The animal went to a dense section, full of chest high plants, and the three gingerly followed the swaying foliage and heavy trail of blood.

They traced the jerky snorts to a place where the ferns rustled and heaved. For a moment, he wondered if this were a trap from which the boar would attack, then spotted a large clot of blood that had spurted from its crippled leg.

The meat was lying down, panting. It had burrowed its head deep in a dark clump of green, almost as though the pathetic creature knew there was no hope and didn't want to watch these three animals finish their work. The seminarian motioned to the girls that they were to thrust their spears simultaneously.

Lifting his shaft, he paused for a moment, overcome by such profound sadness that water came to his eyes. Without looking at the girls, he nodded. All three plunged their weapons into the creature. How much resistance the thick skin offered surprised the novice as well as the writhing, and in the split second before the hoped-for penetration, he wondered whether his solid pole would snap. In that incredibly brief moment, he felt the shuddering skin wobble, as muscles underneath attempted to pull the body up one more time, but the animal was powerless. It almost seemed to the seminarian that the very warmth of the life beneath him had transmitted itself though the spear, touching his hands. He could feel that wonderful creatures desperate spirit, but still, he pushed his one hundred and eighty pounds against the shaft.

The flesh parted with a pop, followed by a tearing sound. The force of his jab was so great, the spear went completely through the convulsing boar and into the ground. The point snapped instantly from the bellowing beasts
frenzied thrashing, throwing the seminarian off balance.

In a second, they were running, leaving squeals, convulsions, and writhing legs behind.

"Faster!" he yelled, following at tremendous speed toward the river.

Fifty yards away, they stopped and looked back. The ferns still thrashed wildly, flying into the air, as though scythed in great swaths, moved, torn, ripped, flogged by the gyrating sticks, It continued for three minutes, slowing, until there were only great heaves. Then, the plants began to move gently, like the golden wheat on the Manitoba prairie at sunset in July, when the wind offers such soft, cricket lulling caresses, before the approaching night.

They had begun drifting back to the thicket, drawn subconsciously towards the death throes, and ten-feet away, they saw the animal. Their spears had missed vital organs. The creature was simply bleeding to death. It let out a series of mind-wrenching grunts, anguish and pain, drawing them closer.

Finally ... its nostrils flared as though they were about to explode, as though it were trying to inhale the whole sky in one gigantic Herculean effort to taste and touch the very electrons of life. Then, it let out a terrible howl, painfully acknowledging and lamenting being so forcefully pushed from earth into the cosmic void.

The great creatures spirit rode this last sound, exhaling life itself. The animal soul hovered over the spot, watching the three hunters stare at its now still body. Maurice could feel it. The sisters felt it. All were shivering at the reality of the animals defeat, and when it lay limp and lifeless, they remained silent, mute witnesses to their murder. This loss of life affected them profoundly, and they felt a melancholy that they had played god and killed this beautiful thing of the forest. Then, following their brief but sincere, subconscious funeral ceremony, from deep within their souls, cheering erupted, as they waved their arms wildly and hugged each other.

"Look how big!" beamed Lena. "We can have a feast!"

"How will we take so much to Grand Cess?" asked Wheea Dee.

"Why don't you sell some at the market?" the seminarian volunteered. "Give me the machete, I must get all the blood out, or the meat will go bad,"

In moments, he had bled and begun gutting it.

"What are you doing?" Wheea Dee cried, horrified.

"Taking the guts out. These tubes are intestines that hold shit. They're no good."

People eat them! I've seen those things for sale at the market. Don't throw them away. Please. . !"

"Sure . . ." he whispered humbly, once again oblivious to their level of poverty.

"Wheea Dee, Maurice, come quickly!" Lena screamed, as she stared into the heart of the ferns. Maurice rounded the thicket.

"Holy shit!"

In front lay a pink sow, a bit smaller than the other. A large pool of blood had clotted next to her head. The right carotid had been ripped by a nail fragment. Five piglets sucked noisily, oblivious to the fact that she was
dead.

"How the hell are we going to carry all this?" Maurice whistled.

"The women will be here in an hour. We will sit and wait. The baby pigs are going nowhere. When they're big, well sell or eat them," announced Lena enthusiastically Lena, called Wheea Dee. "Lets get some strong poles."

They went over and cut four fifteen foot teak saplings.

"Lets get the sow and lay it next to the boar," Maurice suggested.

"Why?" asked Lena. "It is too heavy. Wait until the others come. Also, let the little pigs stay with the mother."

"Of course! I'm too tired to think clearly, he sighed. I'm going to the river to wash the blood and dirt."

He went over and sat by the water, dipping his feet into the coolness. The pleasant temperature surprised him, as he kicked about for a minute. Then he stood, stripped, and was about to plunge in, when he thought of the hippo.

"Wheea Dee. Is the water safe? Are crocodiles here?"

"No, those stay near Grand Cess, because they like to lie in the hot sun on the riverbank. They become strong when the heat beats them. There are too many trees here."

"How about the small fish that eat animals fast. Do you have those?"

"I'll swim with you," comforted Lena, smiling. "We don't have fish that eat big animals like you, only little ones, like me, that bite gently," she teased. "You who killed the animals are too worried about what is in the water. Let me protect you!"

"No way!" he joked laughing, jumping in just before she could grab him. The current from an underground aquifer flowed at no more than half a knot. As he swam toward the center of the twenty-foot wide stream, he turned and watched the women talking. Wheea Dee laughed loudly.

"We have heard that white men like strange things. You people even kiss, like monkeys! If you wish, we will do these things for you, the older sister offered, stripping and jumping in, followed quickly by Lena.

"Do not worry, little priest friend. You don't have to swim away. We're not like the cat that attacks when you're not looking," Lena whispered huskily.

"We'll wait," said Wheea Dee cheerily.

"One day, you will lie down next to your panthers and beg to be eaten," Lena continued, laughing knowingly, treading next to him.

"Why do you always call me, priest? You know I won't become one."

"You don't like to be called that!" Wheea Dee said. "So we tease you. You wear their ways around your neck, like the vines we will put around the little pigs. Cut them from your spirit. Throw away this religion business. Then, you will be happy!"

"At the right time - I have to be careful because they could kick me out of this country."

"Look at the pigs. This morning, they were alive. Now, they're dead. Life is not forever," offered Lena. She swam close and watched him intently. Droplets hung like diamonds on her long curly eyelashes. "Maurice, you're a priest with much power, like the African medicine men of old. The kwi priests are nothing - just men in the business of religion. Come, were
floating too far down river. Lets go back."

They started returning, swimming lazily against the current. After being in the forest so long, he found the coolness refreshing. It surprised him that a narrow stream could hold such towering trees at bay, and he let his eyes follow the swath of sky. The thin, blue thread was snipped here and there by branches that reached out to one another and embraced high
overhead, desperate lovers refusing to be separated.

There were screams of delight from shore. A large din arose. Women clapped, sang, and began dancing a song of victory they were making up on the spot. The three swam to the bank. Wheea Dee got out, followed by her sister. Maurice crawled ashore and stood dripping. Everyone surrounded the trio.

He looked at his sweaty shorts, loath to put them on, but felt uncomfortable by the stares. A thirty year old with a pleasant face, wearing a faded royal blue dalo, smiled, as she walked up. Then, she grabbed his penis and spoke something in Kru to the sisters.

"Wheea Dee, can you get my robe out of the pack? What's she saying?" he asked, uncomfortable with the situation, hoping his body wouldn't react."

"That the water made you small, but she feels frisky and will help you turn it from a child's thing into a man's. She wants to see how big it gets. You have balls like a deer, not a goat, she said! They stay close to your body. She likes the way they look and said you must be a fast runner. They haven't seen a white before and are very interested."

Maurice took the woman's hand gently and pulled it from him. Despite the embarrassment of so many staring eyes, it had begun to grow, to the great cheers of the crowd. Wheea Dee said something in her language, to ward off their pack-like curiosity.

"Here, put this on or some will want to see how long your strength will last" she whispered, handing him the robe.

"Do they know about the other pig?"

"No, they were too busy with you," observed Lena, who flipped into Kru.

There was a mass movement toward the center of the ferns and then, great exclamations of joy, followed by more dancing.

"They'll carry them," announced Lena. "They're making a song about you; the African spirit that is stuck in a strange skin. This song says that you have been lost, and are returning from the land of the dead, the land of the white Kwi; returning to your people, the Africans. They say you picked your body at night when there's no moon and because you couldn't see clearly, you picked a body different from the spirit you carry. You're not white, not African, not Fula, not Mandingo, not Kru, but you love the Kru sisters, they say."

"They said that?" he responded smiling enigmatically.

"And the brave hunter, does he say the same?" asked Wheea Dee, sensing his timidity.

"Come, let us go to the village," he commanded, "pretending not to have heard. The sisters looked at one another and smiled. "Well have a big celebration," he added.

They tied the animals feet to the thick saplings and continued their journey. All walked quickly, eagerly anticipating arrival.

"Maurice, tell us the white ways for sex. The children in Barclayville say that the white man has very strange ways."

"Where in God's name did you hear that?" he asked laughing.

"From the women in the market place."

"Of Barclayville? That village is in the middle of the jungle. Only three whites live there; the Baptist couple, and Billy McDougal, the priest. I doubt the Baptists are giving sex instruction."

"We have not heard this from them. It was the women of children that the priest uses."

"Wheea Dee, what are you talking about?"

"For true! He likes to take little girls who are only ten, before they start to bleed. Then, he has them tie his arms and feet to the bamboo poles that hold the mosquito net over his bed. After this, they crawl naked over his face and
lick his body."

"What are you talking about? This is a serious accusation, Wheea Dee! Do you think its true?"

"This is what people say."

"I don't believe it. In my country, its against the law. Sometimes, people talk about things and they're not so."

"Why would these people lie? Are you worried? Do not be, for there is no law here. He will not get into trouble. And if this is true, the girls do not suffer! When they're finished, he feeds everyone well! They also say this strange man keeps a small deer for a pet."

"Holy shit," Maurice muttered, half to himself, pensively.

"What does this mean - holy shit?"

"Oh ... sorry, its an expression that isn't good to say because its not nice."

"Why?"

"Wheea Dee, I don't know," he answered with a tone of exasperation. "Here, I'm trying to comprehend what you've just told me, and then, I've got to explain why a stupid expression is rude."

"I'm sorry I bothered you," she whispered, tears instantly falling.

He put his arm on her shoulder and touched her cheek softly.

"Please, forgive me. It's hard being in another country, where the ways are so different and where the language is hard to learn. Sometimes, my spirit becomes weak from confusion, because I think one thing, then say another. I don't want to believe what you've just told me."

"Why does it bother you? If you were hungry, as they are, you would do the same."

"But, if its true, he's pretending to be something he's not."

"Are you not doing the same?" asked Lena, pointedly.

"The difference is, I'm not using you or your sister."

"For true," rebuffed Lena, "but they don't have to go. They can eat cassava, if they wish."

"That's not a fair choice," Maurice answered.

"What is fair?" Lena asked, with a piercing, astute stare.

"Look, there's Barclayville," cried Wheea Dee.