Gregor King

The Hunter

The Hunter

It was very early on a cold autumn morning, and the first birds were tentatively testing their territorial declarations: a few chirps here and there at first, and then fully developed songs. Animals scurried in every direction re-establishing their borders and checking for signs of overnight intrusions. Fu Gui awoke from the sounds of these activities.

Before leaving his cover and fully exposing himself, Fu Gui surveyed the area surrounding him from the entrance of his shelter; his eyes darted from familiar object to common scene in a quick and precise assessment of prevailing conditions. He, like the other animals in the area, recognized their level of security by recalling events from experience: they knew nothing of history. Shivering a little from the change of temperature he stretched, yawned, and arched his back quivering to empty his bladder.

Hunter, scavenger or prey: there is a role for each of us in life. Fu Gui was once a perfect specimen of a physical man: long in stature with well developed muscle; character in his face; strong legs and back and an enduring stamina; a perfect hunter in the right environment: aggressive, intuitive and imaginative. He was at his peak at aged 35. Now, slightly handicapped from a fall off some scaffolding; with an injury to his right leg that left him limping from constant pain. His endurance now lacked but like any successful and precautionary hunter he had learned from experience to conserve his energies and to use his time and opportunities wisely.

He was the Hunter; he had instinct, timing and courage and he lived in the same adjacent habitat as the scavengers and prey who shared his environment. He resided on the edges of No. 7 Village, 30 Li from Wei Hai beyond the mountains where there was prosperity, growth and where the streets were paved with gold. But he understood none of that. He knew cold, heat, hunger and fear. He had worked in the city as a laborer in the construction industry but there he felt like prey: always at the mercy of another’s actions and having no control over his life.

The late season leaves were just completing their vibrant transformation and many had fallen since the day before: now crisp, curled and painting the frosted earth with their color. He walked in a circle around his dwelling and took note of any changes in his surroundings. He felt the raw morning air on his face, and looked up to confirm the weather, listening for any sounds unfamiliar or incompatible with his safety. In a visceral gesture he scanned the familiar scene before him, adjusting his sight from near to far and lifting his nose to catch any new scent that may be fresh and lingering. Last night he had heard indistinguishable sounds: perhaps a paw suspended momentarily before being placed cautiously upon a curious new environment full with the sour scent of humans distinctive in their foulness; perhaps a snout, searching, inquiring and cognitive.

There was a miserable fallow garden to the left of his home where in spring and summer he perennially nourished a few stunted vegetables. Each year an old neglected fig tree struggled to produce the last of its kind. The environment was abundant with sustenance but reluctant to give anything up easily. He gathered his fingers together, suddenly noticing the familiar pain. Rubbing and flexing, he tried to warm them with increased blood flow.

He quickly surveyed the inside of his dwelling and in perfunctory attempt at a morning grooming, dry washed his face and hair, scrubbing it; messaging and smoothing it. He had been handsome in his youth; quiet and reticent but willing and friendly. Circumstances dictated that he accept the role of either scavenger or prey but never of the Hunter. A hard life of many mistakes and learning had driven him to these circumstances of isolation, vigilance and expedience. On guard and always cautious; but now he was the Hunter and keenly part of this environment and compatible with conditions surrounding him.

Fetching his ancient gun that he had stumbled upon in the adjacent hills along with both compatible and incompatible ammunition, (for everything had a value even if it was temporarily useless) left over from some past war, and gathering some simple traps, Fu Gui felt sufficiently armed and supplied for his daily task of finding food for his day by day needs. Anything edible, however crude would be eligible as a meal. On his way he passed through the hills where it was said that mighty militant hostilities had been settled: ancient terrible tribes and majestic leaders of primeval times and more recently, during more modern times, the liberation armies who had flushed the enemy from hiding and run them to ground and killed them. Distinguishable by their robes and uniforms in those times, they were faded and forgotten now. They were killed and they killed others. Blood was let. Pain was a common companion: fear and brutality reigned. And the dull eyes of the practiced and experienced, exchanged looks with the wide horrified eyes of the innocent new conscripts; the immature and undecided. But he thought little of that: they were stories to amuse. He had no use for, nor paid little attention to what could not experienced by the senses.

And so he set out to hunt: determined, confident, anxious and vigilant. From habit, he first considered the familiar places where he had been lucky in the past: the old paths; the familiar ways. Tubers, green plants, bamboo shoots were his favorites but today he especially wanted meat. He had been thinking of eating meat these last few days and the notion now was an obsession. A rabbit, a dog, old or young; a bird of any size; rodents of any species: all were suitable candidates.

He recognized some fresh tracks from one predator and one prey. It indicated that there was food in the area and that he had competition, so he headed for a thicker part of the forest which was less travelled and where more shelter would attract those who relied on the concealment such areas provided. He quickly set a trap near a newly worn path close to the entrance to some thickets; a simple snare that had proven to be infallible. He disguised his scent by rubbing rabbit fur on the apparatus and leaving a bit of hair near the bushes.

Ahead and to his left he suddenly heard a familiar rush of sound and he stopped; his eyes challenging the dense bushes. His heart beat hard and fast in his chest. Any other sounds around ceased: all the creatures seemed to be waiting to see if there was any immediate danger to them: if not whatever happened to others did not concern them. The rushing and sound resumed and he luckily caught the distinctive sight of a round rump and the back step of a cloven hoof. It is all he needed to identify the little wild pig in the thickets below. These little pigs were very difficult to catch even for other animals because they could scurry in and out of the smallest spaces and disappear. But the Hunter was hungry with anticipation. He let his gear fall to the ground and brought his rifle to hold with both hands. This prey warranted a precious bullet so as not to lose the unexpected prize. His mouth involuntarily dripped water as he anticipated the chase: the killing, the slaughter and the eating.

The brush was thick and it was difficult to follow the creature without making noise. He did his best, moving slowly and methodically forward. From time to time he could judge the distance between him and the little pig by the sounds made by the diminutive animal. The creature foraged as he travelled which was an advantage to the Hunter. At times, unusual and unexpected movements were apparent on both sides of him but he took them to be movements of smaller animals vacating their interrupted residences. Whenever the Hunter came closer to the little pig he could hear him make a dash to distance himself, for the pursued are sentient of their predators, and there is a distance zone between them that can be tolerated. The grunting indicated that he had found some tuber and was trying to uproot it. As he did, he would take time to eat it and that would give the Hunter an opportunity to advance his position and prepare for a kill.

From time to time he could make out the prints of other animals: prey such as smaller rodents and larger rabbits and predators such as withered wolves or gaunt dogs that abounded in the area. He noted these latter as competition and moved onward. The little pig had stopped and was poking the earth here and there. The Hunter too stopped and made a plan to progress with as little sound as he could manage. He drew his weapon up to his chest to ready himself. His muscles were taut as he crouched low and advanced laboriously. His leg was in pain and he dragged it a bit behind him. He stopped: sweating and breathing quickly with expectation. Doubt and failure and then victory exchanged prominence in his thoughts. He would only have one shot. There was a clearing up ahead and he could make out the rump of the little pig as it dug its snout deeper and deeper into the earth. He wanted a better position but was afraid that the wild pig would flee: he decided to shoot. As he raised his gun to eye level his hands began to tremble. The sweat on his brow dripped into his eyes and he tried to see through it without wiping it away. He fired blindly, with hope. The gun almost burst with the explosive force of the over-charged bullet. The smoke from the discharge necessitated him to have to wait and he rose to advance and see if he had been lucky for he acknowledged that this time his skills had abandoned him. At the sound of the gun discharging there was a commotion all around with birds, rodents and other small animals fleeing in response.

The little wild pig had gone; run away. The Hunter’s throat was dry with the fatigue of disappointment and he felt weak with exhaustion. He had lost his confidence which accompanied the emotional letdown of failure. Now standing erect he went over his actions on what he had done wrong. Strangely, there was a stirring in the bush around him and for a moment he thought of the little pig again in the vain hope of having a second chance. He tried to focus to identify the sound.

His body shot straight and tight; his heart stopped for a moment and the hair on his back and neck stood erect. He instinctively realized the circumstances that he should never have taken so carelessly. Two feral dogs stood before him, one more lay to his left and two more waited patiently behind. To the right was a precipitous high hill providing little hope of escape. He felt lost and foolish to have been caught in such a way. The largest dark colored dog to the left displayed the most confidence and experience. He studied the Hunter with glazed eyes, intent with the confidence of a well laid plan; his legs were stiff and trembling with expectation. The other dogs, of disputable heritage, were skinny, quivering and salivating with indisputable resolve. They would continually look at the larger dog for any change of plan. An attack on humans by these undomesticated dogs was neither rare nor uncommon. The woods were filled with undiscovered and forgotten bones. Severe hunger could drive the weakest and most timorous of animals to consider desperate options.

Fu Gui realized that had let himself be led into what was a perfect ambush: as he had followed the sound of the little wild pig, he had ignored other sounds that may have warned him. The dog’s manipulation of misdirection had guided him inexorably to this position. The conclusion to these events became chillingly clear to him. Still, he fumbled in his pocket for another bullet and floundering, fit it into the breach of the gun. Backing away and gesticulating wildly he looked around trying to determine which dog might be the leader, hoping that if he had time to shoot; taking out the leader would discourage the others. This strategy sometimes worked with packs of domestic dogs, but for hungry animals intent on a kill, it was unlikely to be a deterrent.

The two dogs behind crept self-assuredly closer and testing their line of attack nipped at the Hunter’s heels and calves almost playfully. For they outnumbered him and there is confidence in numbers. He swung around gesturing and yelling hoarsely: his voice had almost deserted him along with his cunning and courage. The dogs in front took on the same tactic as the others and snapped and nipped. The largest dog from the left advanced steadily; his glare fixed on Fu Gui’s eyes.

A sharp, skillful and practiced clip at his heel severed a tendon so that as his body continued to twist he could no longer support himself and he fell to the ground. In an instant the largest dog was at his throat, suffocating the Hunter by crushing his windpipe. Blood quickly spilled. Three other dogs tore at his clothing sensing that beneath lay the tender underbelly of their prey; and the last dog crazily and viciously drove its snout under the clothing and with gaping maw, tore into the soft stomach flesh.

Fu Gui’s eyes were wide with terror. He was aware of an unfamiliar tugging around his stomach and abdomen, though he felt no pain. On his back he looked into the large dog’s eyes and recognized the dull complacence of the victor: there was no hatred or animosity, only success or failure. He looked upward to see the perspective of the surrounding tall Birch reach toward an indistinct vanishing point. He lost consciousness as the last leaves fell near him.

A Saturday Night at the Golden Pheasant Café

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From the west coast of Vancouver Island, across the straits to the mainland and extending throughout the vast and imposing interior, each little provincial hamlet or village with populations ranging from a mortification of 1,000 to an advanced metropolis of 12,000 to 15,000, (depending on the season), each borough is home to one of the last vestiges of the Gold Rush of 1858: the local Chinese restaurant.

It doesn’t matter at all that you may be unfamiliar with the town of our story; or even the province of British Columbia suffice to say that if you know west coast North American towns at all, you will know the type of village to which I refer. Unimposing in architectural expression, built with false facades so as to appear more grand, these humble diners certify their charm with their names in garish neon lighting: The White Swan; The Yellow Dragon; The Lotus Inn; The Golden Pheasant and so on and they bewitch children and invoke adventure into the dreary and tired souls, eager for some leisurely intermission to a burden filled work week. And so a Saturday night dinner at the Golden Pheasant was a treat to which the whole family could look forward to with blithe expectation.

Like many of these coastal and interior settlements, the town of St. George was almost wholly dependent upon logging for its commerce and prosperity. The little towns are deceivingly quiet during the two seasons of winter and summer During these periods the loggers are in camp working and the townsfolk enjoy a period of peace and predictability: The banks open at 10:00 as normal and close at 3:00; the hotel beer parlor begins to pour its first suds for the regulars waiting by the door as expected and closes its doors at 12:00 as the law prescribes; the Barber strops his razors and prepares his steaming towels as always and the sun rises and sets according to Canada’s National Meteorological Prognostication Centre.

But when the loggers come to town between the two remaining seasons locally known as spring break-up and winter freeze-up, the town will see a noticeable increase in population. It will enhance its pedestrian traffic and introduce a measure of tension to the atmosphere.

Now, in our experience, loggers can be divided into two distinct categories: sober and drunk. Generally speaking, when sober, the men are courteous and civil and again, generally speaking, when they have been drinking it is a rule of nature that they will cause chaos and raise hell. If they are in the streets they are either walking to find another drink or on their way to the bank to make a withdrawal. They are rough looking; rude, rugged and plain speaking. Mothers may turn their children’s faces to their skirts if they by chance encounter one or two already in his tips.  Of course these small towns tolerate their activities, for after all, as we mentioned, logging sustains most little villages like St. George and if pressed, people would agree that on the whole, the inconvenience is in the long run, a benefit to all. For in spite of the hell-raising, many of the businesses prosper: the local Barber shaves hundreds more faces and trims many more heads; the restaurants are full almost every day and evening; the drinking establishments are particularly fortunate and almost double their normal income and the clothing stores can easily sell the remainder of last year’s fashions. And strangely, the banks are at their busiest: the men will deposit all their cheques that they have been hording throughout the winter but miss estimate their spending needs and so will return perhaps twice in a day to make withdrawals.

On George Street itself there are a number of buildings of special significance: The Toronto Dominion Bank; the Canadian Imperial Bank of Commerce; the King George Hotel and of course the Golden Pheasant, stationed at the corner of George and 3^rd.  The doors to the Golden Pheasant open to the intersection and are flanked by two pillars decorated with red dragons encircling the columns. The flashing neon sign above greets every customer. The Golden Pheasant is grand and enchanting and is easily the most popular of these restaurants in our little town which was always full on any given Saturday night. Most of the customers were local business people who brought their families out for a treat. The meals were exotic and tasty; spicy and sweet; dishes of the most outlandish color. Each customer had his favorites: Snow peas with garlic; Lemon Chicken, Shanghai Fried Rice and Broad Noodle Chow Mein and the most favorites of favorites, a heaping helping of Sweet and Sour which the mischievous rumored might be more cat than pork or chicken.

It was on one particular Saturday night, unremarkable in every other respect, that Jack Redford and his family came to dine. Mr. Jack Redford was the town’s prominent and esteemed manager at the Toronto Dominion Bank, and friend and servant to all. Most townsfolk had met him and all knew of him: home mortgages and small business loans were the greatest of the bank’s industry. He was a well liked and affable man and respected as one of the town’s preeminent personalities. Always formal in both dress and demeanor, tall and well built, and handsome to some, Mr. Jack Redford was one of the socialites of the town.

In these small towns such men wielded salient unpretentious power; seldom abused it, and in this way held the respect of the townsfolk. Leaders of the community, they would happily receive but feign unwillingness to accept, special Christmas gifts of wheels of cheese imported from Quebec and bricks of Maple Sugar for these were certainly simply gestures of respect on a festive occasion when such gifts were permitted. They would accept privileged parking, hockey tickets and a client’s son’s offer to wash the car during summer holidays. Still more gestures of appreciation. They belonged to the exclusive clubs, the private societies and guilds and were the favorites when it came to nominating candidates for public office. Among the favored ones sharing such celebrity with Jack Radford were the Post Master who, it was said, was paid directly from the Ottawa’s Dominion’s exchequer; Mr. Johnston, the owner of the two automobile franchises in town; Mr. and Mrs. Pickering, the owners of the Strand and Princess theaters; a family who lived on the highest land, which overlooked the town below; and Mr. McClellan, the owner of the “5 cent to a Dollar” store, a man who gained particular distinction by owning the only Siamese cat in town.

Apparently contradictory, with respect, often comes resentment and jealously is often a component of this contrariety. Notoriety has its negative component too and such displays of feelings will surely be manifested when circumstances are dire.

Jack Radford was among this elite group and one of the most esteemed of the set. He had the habit of speaking clearly and logically with sociable emotion. Well known for his wise advice and plain philosophy on any subject, he displayed an even temper when confronted with problems preferring to tackle them sensibly and openly. Generally regarded as a “man’s man” wherever he went he was accepted ostensibly with warmth and hospitality; a thoroughly sophisticated man though he stooped a little from the burden of his office and his forty-eight years. He owned five suits, (one for each day of the week) and five pairs of Banker’s Last kid leather shoes, similarly worn on different days, both items of clothing were renewed each year. In fall and winter he wore his much favored Fedora, always freshly brushed, and a grey overcoat of the finest Cashmere. It was seldom that you would find him without a tie and clean white shirt, but if not, then certainly he would be wearing a smart shirt and sports jacket with perfectly creased slacks. He was an organized man in activity and thought. Every Friday afternoon you would find him in the Barber shop getting a weekly trim and an indulgent shave, preparing himself for the workweek ahead.

As the family entered the Golden Pheasant, Mr. Radford held the door for his wife, and his children followed one by one, each bearing a hearty appetite and wearing a smile of expectation. The café was almost full with hungry patrons. It was noisier than usual and more remarkable, smoke and the pungent odor of liquor filled the air. The owner, Mr. Lin, recognizing a preferred customer, and the man who held his mortgage, ran to Jack’s side and escorted him to the only remaining table suitable for the whole family. Mr. Lin apologized abundantly for the atmosphere and noise but was gallantly comforted by Mr. Radford that it was of little consequence, so eager they were to begin their meal.

They sat in a preferred pattern: Jack Radford facing the door, as it was explained to him by Mr. Lin, was the favored seating arrangement for a man of such prominence. Across from him was his wife and to either side his two children: a girl of 12 years and a boy of 9: the boy on his right. They all looked to Jack Radford for guidance and approval, and only out of politeness did they pretend to look over the menu. Each had already made his choices. So they ordered and waited patiently.

While waiting, they evoked the vicissitudes of the prior week: they spoke of the daughter’s excellent schoolwork; of the boy’s growing interest in hockey and most notably, on the noise in the room. Most of the customers were families or young people on Saturday night dates, but there was a new element of boisterous and rude activity that was obvious to all. Most of the diners would from time to time, look over to the noisiest table of a group of loggers just out of camp and then return to their meal whispering cautious admonitions. The loggers were drinking heavily and waving their arms wildly. Cigarettes drooped from their lips and their speech was slurred and rambling. A group like this was not unusual but the circumstances kept everybody in a nervous condition.

They were sitting two tables away from the Radford family. As was his habit, when Jack Radford disapproved of something he looked boldly in its direction readily displaying his displeasure, by arching his left brow and focusing on the source of his objection. After several outbursts such as this, his bold observations did not go unnoticed to the loggers who predictably resented the obvious display of what they took to be arrogance. The circumstances might have been different had liquor not been involved. To those already mean in spirit, alcohol can bring out the malevolence in otherwise tolerable personalities. And this was the case here, where two incompatible temperaments met on common ground.

Jack Radford soon understood that his looks were proving to be more provocative than pedagogical so as a second line of approach, recognizing a clear sense of danger, he decided to try to ignore the boisterous group of men. This tactic unfortunately was taken as a sign of disrespect and cowardice, and aggravated the meanest of the men even more to challenge the Radford table. 

Now, in addition to the incongruity of respect and resentment in play as mentioned earlier, the patrons, as if a herd of Wildebeests being stalked by lions at their flanks, were not inclined to assist in any way, so long as it was determined that the danger was not directed at them personally.

This principle was evident this evening in the most shameful and uncivil way. All were vigilant, watching their food with one eye and the loggers table with the other. Most of the patrons were aware of the possible danger in the atmosphere but none were prepared to make a move to either quell the danger itself, or to assist Mr. Radford and his family, notwithstanding all the positive features of Mr. Radford mentioned previously. Fear and compromise will show the true colors of a man it is said.

For a time, the noise abated and the atmosphere was more amenable. But there was still the feeling of ill will lingering. The men had quieted down and the Radford family attended to their meal. Still an obvious tension filled the room and everyone seemed to wait and expect a disagreeable outcome to the evening. 

Quite innocuously a little rolled up wad of paper landed on the Radford table very close to Mr. Radford’s plate. He noticed it; he knew where it came from; but what to do? It had obviously been thrown by one of the rowdy men: by which, was of no consequence. The gesture was a direct challenge even though apparently innocent. What to do? The children, who had not missed the incident, looked to their father for direction; the mother continued to eat trying to ignore the unpleasant display. One of the men at the other table laughed louder than was warranted and mockingly tossed another little ball of paper.

Now, Mr. Jack Radford, as indicated previously had the reputation of being a conciliatory factor in any given situation; not any sort who would engage in some common confrontation. However, he was unused to such behavior and found it to be unnerving. What to do? His children again looked to him. Mr. Radford collected the two pieces of paper and stood up; walked over to the logger’s table and laid the pieces down.

“I believe these are yours,” he stated calmly, “I shouldn’t want you to lose them.”

At first all the men were speechless until one simply laughed and said, “That’s all right, we have lots more.” Mr. Radford returned to his table and to the admiration of his children and wife. Some patrons clapped and shouted encouragement, others shuffled uncomfortably in their chairs.

            The sentiment from the logger’s table seethed and fumed. A sense of ominous calamity was unmistakable and the customers, like the aforementioned herd of Wildebeests, were restless; not completely sure of the outcome of such a confrontation.

One of them muttered, “Someone should do something about this.”

Mr. Radford and his family sat uncomfortably and tried to carry on with their meal. The tension did not last long before it broke.

The drunkest of the raucous bunch stood up, left the table and lurched towards Mr. Radford’s table. He pushed Jack Radford in his chair in such a violent way that it could not be ignored.

“Who the hell d’yu think yu’ are?” the logger slurred objectionably.

Mr. Radford felt the hatred in his voice, uncertain as to how it could be directed at him. He tried to reason with the man: standing up, and attempting to be firm yet conciliatory, he ventured a compromise.

“Look Sir, let’s just forget it and enjoy our meal. If I have offended you, I apologize, but let’s just get on with our lives. OK?”

But a bully, when bent on confrontation, will find any excuse to push the limit in efforts to raise the level of violence satisfactory to his desires. In response to Mr. Radford’s suggestion, a hard fast fist suddenly came down on the side of Mr. Radford’s head and knocked him easily to the ground. Mr. Radford didn’t move. His children and wife jumped from their chairs and ran to his side. The bully wasn’t finished. He repeatedly kicked Mr. Radford in the head and body until his hatred had dissipated and he was breathing hard unable to continue.

Nobody moved to help. Jack Radford lay still. The blow to the head had caused an aneurism which killed him almost instantly. The restaurant was in a vocal turmoil but still nobody went to his aid. Mr. Lin came racing from the kitchen wielding an enormous cleaver, braced on intimidating the bullies. Screaming and gesticulating wildly Mr. Lin managed to disperse the bullies and the restaurant waited for the inevitable police and ambulance.

It was not a usual night at the Golden Pheasant. And people talked about it for days after. The loggers were caught and punished; Mrs. Radford, soon after left town with her children and it was rumored that she shortly remarried.  The subject of the events of Mr. Radford’s experience was a popular theme in the Barber shop for quite awhile; the banking industry did not lose a fraction of interest; and the Golden Pheasant continued to serve family meals at reasonable prices. The town returned to normal, witnessing successive break-ups and freeze-ups and a little rowdiness here and there. And Jack Radford lay dead and was soon forgotten.        

The City and Cedars

John A. McDonald trembled with the weakness that indulgences and self abuse bring on. His body shuddered as he draped his thick, untidy, blue overcoat across his broad shoulders. He had been sick for a week but still continued to drink and neglect the good nourishment and sleeping habits that the discipline and confinement of camp demanded for the rest of the year. The break from camp was spent abundantly and lavishly, without regard to common sense. It was a break from which good habits were discarded for impetuous desires in a free-for-all demonstration of licentious behavior. It was a tradition, and one that the forestry industry accepted and from which the local businesses benefited.

John A. was a huge man; over six foot four inches and as strong as the bull of the woods that he was, having worked in the bush all of his life. His bearing was as straight as one of the cedars he felled:  proud of his vocation and namesake of the first Prime Minister of Canada, he tried his best to behave honestly, and in a straightforward plain manner. He was about 40 and in his prime. He had always depended on his body and took it for granted as youngsters do. When he spoke to his men they listened to him or otherwise regretted not having done so. He was the woods foreman at Mahatta River Lot 652 logging camp and in that circle of men he was a highly respected leader.

Still, like most, he had his weaknesses and when opportunity permitted, indulged in heavy drinking and hard living. He steadied himself before checking his wallet and mentally trying to reckon his expenditures and loans made to anyone who asked at the right time.  There were always the loans, never repaid. His hands shook as he used his thumb to riffle through the bills he had left. He couldn’t remember what had occurred the night before: drink after drink distorted his recollection and a blur of faces both friendly and mean occupied his tired memories.

Outside, where once only a hundred years ago, majestic fir and stately cedar lined the streets, now, Hastings and Main was the bleakest and most chilling corner in Vancouver. The refuse of society wandered these places now: lost pride; abandoned dignity looking for quick opportunity and another drink or fix. Now at this intersection in life, tall and squatted buildings, indistinguishable in color and bathed in a grey light had replaced the finest and tallest of ancient verdant, lustrous evergreens. Concrete blocks and bricks filled in where cement had not been warranted. Cold, hard, concrete sidewalks and asphalt roads marked the city’s trails; used by people, vehicles and animals.

He came out of his Astor Hotel room into the cold, wet, dreary streets. Vehicles cast waves of water as they sped by, oblivious as to who was in the way. John A. walked close by the walls cursing them and shaking all the more for the dampness leaking into his bones. Pedestrians approached or passed by from behind with intrepid purpose. The beer parlour was only a few more blocks and he began to feel sick for lack of alcohol. He imagined the first swallow and the peace and painless passage of warmth and pleasure resulting. He walked with his head down watching his slippery, slick city shoes now soiled from the beer and the vomit, spilled out on the floor. He swore each year that it would not be like this again, but he had always been defeated by his plain, pure, nature. Friends and enemies coaxed him on; and as he drank, his resolve became weaker and weaker.

Before entering the lounge door of the Cobalt Hotel he shook off the excess water from his overcoat. In a vain gesture he swept back his hair from his eyes and patted it down with his massive calloused hands. He drew his hands across his face to measure the length of his stubble. The beer parlour was already half full. He recognized some of the patrons but took a table by himself and waited for the regular drop of two beers that the waiters would always start a customer with. The first glass he drank greedily as if he was starved for liquid and the second one he succored with care. Immediately he felt the warmth flow through his body and limbs. He rummaged around in his pockets for a cigarette as one habit goes hand in hand with the other. An unfamiliar face tried to join him for a free beer but he raised his hand in a threatening way to encourage him to pass on. The man had had no money and might have been his drinking buddy the night before but John A. didn’t recognize him and he wasn’t ready yet for any slight indulgences or false friendships. 

These first moments at the first table of the day were always times for decision making and John A. McDonald resolved to take it easy for the rest of the day otherwise when he returned to camp he would have the shakes and wouldn’t be able to work: a poor example to his men. So he drank slowly, tending to his glass in a casual way. But as the day grew longer and he had something to eat, he felt himself approaching a feeling of normalcy and his resolve gave way to arrogance and confidence in his physical ability to withstand the tremendous torture to his body that the binge drinking would bring. Gradually others joined him and the talk grew repetitive and loud. Where six strong, sodden men sat, rowdy and loud, the conversation was always interspersed with the historic legends and the recent heroics of camp life: Who had felled the most trees in a shift? Who held the record for setting chokes? Who was the best Gyppo on the west coast; and who was the best with a peavey? These topics seemed important to them all and they were serious about the discussions. Each had his own thoughts on these matters and was prepared to defend them. The dialogue often ended in fights and drunken animosity was the result. The whirl of tobacco smoke moved like a dance as the waiters seemed to skate among the tables and deliver and pick up glasses of whiskey, wine and beer on their wet trays.

A rough, threatening atmosphere was building and John A. was tired, having had a restless alcohol induced sleep the night before as with every night. He wanted to go back to his room to have a nap and return later for a “second shift” as he put it. It was about 4:00 pm.

Still cold, wet and unwelcome he opened the bar doors to the streets. The cars continued to splash by without regard to pedestrians again, and he cursed them once more. With an unfamiliar pace he uncomfortably plodded back to his hotel room and after discarding his coat, fell onto the bed. He slept soundly until 8:00 in the evening. Upon awaking he had a bit of a headache but nothing that another beer wouldn’t cure. He wasn’t drunk, but was reaching a pleasant plateau of alcoholic contentment. Recalling again that they all had to return to camp the next day, he was determined to take it easy for the rest of the night. He began to think about how he could smuggle some alcohol back into camp on his return. Alcohol was banned in camp but somehow, someone, always had a cache and if there were ever a raid, it would be passed on to others to hold for awhile. Nothing was ever found by the camp superintendant, a respected and experienced man but of a different nature from the rest of the men. But their differences were needed like a hierarchical glue that held the structure of the camp together. 

When he returned to the beer parlour the news of the murder of Robbie Hawthorne was the topic of everyone’s thoughts. They all discussed the crime and each had his own idea as to what had happened. The police were still present and were still questioning the men randomly. The rest of the night was predictable: fights and friendships erupted just as abruptly and unpredictably as thunderbolts or soft summer zephyrs. The night ended in real sorrow and regret and false happiness as the men stumbled to bed with a repeated warning not to sleep in and to convene at the airport where they would depart for Port Hardy.

The morning brought cold, sober certainty and more bleak winter weather. The men were hung over and milled about as quietly as scolded children. Some were shaking and others were sick. They boarded the DC6 dutifully and most fell quickly into a deprived sleep. They landed after a two hour flight, grumbling and chilled by the island air. They would fly now in shifts to Mahatta River: six to a float plane and the promise of rough conditions. The last of the men left after two more hours. They all arrived at camp to hear the news that the police were coming to pay a visit and everyone was to co-operate. The camp collectively wrung their hands and each man collected his thoughts, not only about the night of the murder of Robbie Hawthorne, but of many other things they had done in the past which had not yet been discovered. How much did the police know was the question on each of their minds?

As soon as John A. landed he took his truck and headed out to the new cutting lot and walked the ground. He felt the slight resilience of the forest carpet under his feet. He smelled the thick pungent odour of the stand of cedars and looked to the towering first growth timber that was ready to fall. As he walked he pulled at the ferns rising waist high throughout the area. He crushed them in his hands and raised the strong aroma to his nose. John A. fixed his eyes on a random spot in the vastness of the forest and silently determined that no other footprint had ever marked that surface and oddly the thought calmed his troubled mind. He felt more settled now and returned to camp.

After two hours that Sunday morning, the drone of the bush aircraft could be heard approaching the landing. Tensions and anxieties sharpened. Each man was alone with his thoughts a repentant prisoner of his past.

The same cold, dreary winter weather which they had left, hung 50 feet above the ocean waves and the Cessna aircraft tried to navigate its way between the two atmospheres. Three police officers from Vancouver and two more form Port Hardy were approaching the rough coast of Lot 652 Mahatta River logging camp. The shoreline was drenched from the cascade of rain that continued to fall and the water was running off the scarred, rocky foreshore like an overflowing tub spilling out onto the floor. The police all wore stiffly pressed uniforms and solemn expressions and the men awaiting them, many fugitives from one long ago event or another, waited anxiously with a look of worried innocence upon their faces. It was Sunday, a haven to some and an agony to others; there was nothing to do but to lie in bed; to wait and think; think and wait.

The clearing for the camp was diminished by the surrounding tree filled mountains. A receiving dock; a management barracks, four or five private dwellings on the hillside; three workers’ dormitories; a cookhouse; an office, fuel tanks, a general store and the mechanics shop all geometrically placed in contrast to the flurry of logging activity that went on 8 hours a day except for Sundays.  The logging trucks with their gear piled high on their backs were all lined up as if ready for inspection. The crummies that transported the men to and from the cutting lots lined the roads, four abreast. Mechanics were sharpening all the saws, axes and chains preparing for Monday morning. The men lingered; checked and re-checked their gear, and wandered aimlessly like delinquent schoolboys awaiting an unknown punishment. The superintendent waited by the dock to receive his guests.

John A. McDonald lay on his bed in his room smaller than the space he had occupied in the city. But for him it felt like home. The scent of cedars and ferns filled the familiar air. The bull cooks had cleaned, swept and changed his linen as they did every Sunday. The room was comforting and routine to him. He continued to wait until his appointed time. The superintendent had the interviews convene in the offices where privacy could be maintained. Each man had a fixed appointment. Each man was rehearsing his story, over and over. 

They came and went, some staying longer than others. Some left more relieved and others wore a worried look, going over their stories in their minds again and again. Had they answered right? Did they make a mistake? The police were clever; sometimes kind and at other times mean. Robbie Hawthorne had been beaten and robbed. He was beaten so badly that his bones were broken from terrible blows. He died alone in his bed at the Astor Hotel.

Most men could not remember what they were doing at the time of Robbie Hawthorne’s death. Most were drinking or already drunk by 5:00 on that day. Some who had admitted that they were broke were questioned more intensely; those who were larger men were detained longer than others who were obviously too small to inflict such damage. Though they didn’t know why, these men were excused and told that they were not suspects. They returned to their bunks jubilant and brash. Those who were suspect were told to expect to return for more questions.

When it came to John A. McDonald’s turn, a suspect the police were favouring, he entered the office in his usual slow, confident way, wearing a slight grin that was more friendly than arrogant.  He sat facing the five policemen with his hands folded in front of him. He was rested and clear headed.

“Why did you do it, John?” one of the policemen asked abruptly.

“I didn’t do it,” he answered with self-assurance, looking in the man’s eyes directly.

“Where were you at the time?”  Another demanded.

“I was sleeping. I already told you guys. I went back to the beer parlour about 8:00”

“You didn’t hear anything? You didn’t see anything?” the first policeman asked in an accusing and doubtful manner.

“No, I was asleep.”

“Let me see your hands.” Another demanded, reaching for them aggressively.

They were cut and bruised from previous fighting. But it was not unusual for any of the men to have injuries like these.

“What happened to your hands?”

“”Fighting” John offered apologetically, somewhat ashamed of his behaviour. “I had a couple of fights in the bar.”

“How well did you know Robbie Hawthorne?”

“Not well. He was at the camp for three months before break up. He was one of my chocker men and I only talked to him a couple of times.”

“How’s your money…anything left?” a new policeman asked.

“I still have some. I lent a lot out too but I forgot who to.”

            Some time passed as the police looked at John A. and he boldly returned their gaze. He was a man who understood the power of words relying on his common sense and experience he answered self assuredly. When he finished speaking, it was all he had to say on the subject and he got up to leave sensing that they had finished. They didn’t detain him but were reluctant to let him go.

In the end, though they favoured charging John A. McDonald, they had no strong evidence on anyone. Barroom brawls were common in that neighbourhood and hotel guests being beaten was not an uncommon event. No one claimed the bodies of these poor souls and they were soon forgotten.

John A. returned to his room and fell again onto the bed. He looked to the ceiling but not focusing and soon fell asleep until dinner time when the cookhouse whistle wakened him from a troubled sleep.

The cookhouse was a cacophony of high pitched conversation, wide-eyed finger pointing and emphatic hand hammering. Those who had been cleared; relieved of the burden of suspicion, were the most vocal and had the clearest theories about the death of Robbie Hawthorne. Inevitably, he had more friends now than before and was remembered with endearment and charming stories of his accomplishments. When John A. entered the cookhouse, the din diminished and only those who weren’t aware of his entrance, went on in normal tones. He sat at his usual table; on his usual chair. When he noticed some men leaving having finished their dinner, he made an announcement in a loud and clear voice.

“Our friend Robbie Hawthorne is dead. It’s too bad, but remember what I told you. You have to look out for yourself. Maybe Robbie was careless, maybe he was too trusting. Whatever happened could have happened to any of us if you’re not careful.”

“Anyway, were back in camp now and we have other worries and dangers. Monday morning, check your saws and cables. Watch the length of your laces and make sure you have your oilskins, we’re going to have a cold rainy winter.” Keep clear of the chokers when they’re released and watch the fallers. It’s dangerous out there.”

“Where’re we cutting tomorrow, John A.?” Someone asked.

“We’ll be back on the north lot where it’s thick and tall with cedars.”

And that’s all he had to say on the subject.