Basic Background

From Changeling Venue

The story of Woodsman Whisper, sometimes called Huntsman Boom, formerly known as Isaac C. Hathcock, as far as the revenuers are concerned, a one Mr. Francisco Marques formerly of Mexico City.

All I can see over the underbrush is the stag’s great horns as he moves steadily up the path. I knew he’d come this way, it’s the only reliable trail trough the lowlands this time of year. He’s moving easy, he knows this way well, probably walked it a hundred times before. He knows that the brush to both sides is so thick a mouse would take a week to crawl through. He knows the clearing up ahead has good water and maybe some ripe berry bushes. He doesn’t know about the little rise in the ground a couple hundred yards off the trail where I set my blind. That rise that is just tall enough to look over the underbrush into the clearing.

I was born in the mid 70’s. My parents were children of the naturalist movement. Not that naked hippie bullshit, but real reasonable get back to your roots ideas. Hiking, camping, hunting, fishing, summers out by the lake in a quiet cabin were the activities of worth and merit to my folks and there friends. Now, just like anything that starts from reasonable, right-minded ideals, the whole thing got blown to yuppie hell within moments of inception. All this means that, by time I was old enough to remember, all that was left was hunting clubs and time-share cabin/resorts complete with satellite TV and hot tubs. So in keeping with the spirit of our proud forefathers my parents did what any enthusiastic but poor member of an increasingly expensive subculture would do; they started selling the dream. So it was that by the time I was 16, we had a not completely unsuccessful outfitter business. Mom would cook meals and keep things tidy at the base camp cabins, dad would see to the supplies, animals, and business, leaving me to handle guide duties. I took those rich folk all over the countryside, up mountains for elk, out into the prairie for doves, through the rivers and ocean for all manner of fish. I don’t mind saying that I was good at it too. I could find game, I was never without shelter, and I never came home empty handed. See, my dad was a Marine Sniper back in Vietnam. He was good in the woods before, when he got back, he was the kind of better you only get from hunting something as smart as you. He taught me all he could. I dreamed of hunting in the far off places, for strange and exotic game. Africa, Asia, Australia, all held a special place in my private revelries. We weren’t never rich, but we were happy, and I suppose I lived my dreams.

It’s a little space, maybe 10 yards a circle. There is a little stream with good water, some fruit for feed, but its hidden and a good spot to rest. I’ve tracked him through here before, every time he stops, drinks well, eats. He’s smart; he knows further on fodder is harder to come by.

I was spending some alone time hunting in the hills near the family ranch, just up off the Brazos before the big bend, hunting white-tail for moms special “trail stew” when my world changed. Set up in a stand near the fall spring, a small heard came down the east side trail. A doe walked into the opening near the stream and stopped to drink. It was an easy shot, 35 yards, open, and broadside. I was about to drop her when a spot of movement caught my eye. Off up the hill was standing the biggest Buck I had ever seen. It wasn’t just that the rack was huge; the body of the old boy was big around as a barrel. It was 400 yards if it was 1, and standing in mesquite besides. To say the shot would be difficult would be calling me a liar for the understatement. If I missed Id likely have nothing to show for today’s hunt, and not only would mom’s stew lack the meat, my reputation would be in the shitter. But I had to try. I leveled the scope on the flank; at least the only part visible in the 6” circle of clear in the brush, ran my breathing exercise and pulled the trigger. For 20 terrifying yards the buck ran, then fell dead. I worked my way over to him. The shot was perfect, heart and lung both ruptured in one shot. At that moment I knew I was as good as they said, I was on top of the world. As I turned to plan the drag path home, I noticed something shinning on a tree up ahead. For all the world it looked like a mirror. I walked over to see why someone had hung something like this out in the middle of the back wood. I stepped under the boughs of an old post oak, and walked right out of the world in the fall of 1990. I can’t tell you a lot of the story after that for awhile. I just can’t remember all but a few snippets. I know I made several circles, looking for my deer, then my way home. I know I found a path that was never on the old ranch-land, but I followed it anyway. I remember the braying of dogs, hope at thinking that help was coming, horror when I realized there were sounds in there other than dogs and they were HUNTING me, not hunting for me. I know I ran, for some reason staying on the path. At some point I turned and settled my riffle into my shoulder. Figured, why run and die tired? Stand and die a man. I remember shooting my keeper, just before he knocked the gun into the thorns. It didn’t hurt him for nothing, but it probably saved my life.

I track the antlers with the scope. They’re still all I can see. A few more steps and his head will move into view. But he’s cautious, moving slow, smelling the air.

Ten years I served. Ten years as it’s marked hear. I know it was only ten years ‘cause I know when I went in. Year I got my drivers license. It was a long ten years. My Keeper took a liking to me when I shot him. Guess it was a new experience. He’d had his quarry turn before, with claw or fang or magic spell. But he’d never had his quarry turn and shoot him. I was given a place of “honor.” I was master of the kennels, keeper of the hunt. I saw to the “hounds,” cared for his “daughter’s” pets, laid in his provisions, did his tracking, carried his weapons, and killed the prey beneath his status. The first and the last give me nightmares the most. Shore, I was beaten and berated senseless sometimes when we lost a trail, or he missed a mark, or I dropped something, or was too loud, or we didn’t find prey to track, or the hunt was successful. And yes, I was only permitted to speak to him of the hunt, and even then only at a whisper. But all of this is tolerable compared to the other, for all of this I simply endured. As the master of kennel, I saw to the strange menagerie of beasts they kept. I feed them, cleaned up after them, and saw to there discipline and training. For this task I was given a fine bramble whip, enchanted to demand obedience from any whose blood stained the thorns. To my shame and sorrow, I was both good and ready with it for nearly 5 of those years. The Keepers’ pets were not creatures of Arcadia or the Hedge. They were changelings, like me. Some caught by my keeper in the mortal world and changed, others bought. So twisted was my sight that I could see them as nothing more than dangerous animals it was my lot to tend. So for 5 years I whipped, beat, and trained them for my Keepers. Committing upon them the worst of what was done to me; all this, until one spoke. Brooke, until then a strange squirrel the young mistress kept, asked my name, a simple thing, so simple I answered without thinking. At that moment whatever held my sight askew shattered, and I saw the human within the beast. Two things changed that day. I never again used the lash on the Keeper’s hounds, and for the first time in 5 years I could speak of things other than the hunt. I made peace as best I could with my former charges. Most had progressed so far into the Wild that they were beyond holding grudges, having simply excepted that I was another part of how things must be. In time, and conversation we both come back a little to center. We became a team, a pack, more effective in the hunt than ever before, which held the key to my other nightmare. In my other “honored” roll I was granted a new rifle. Beautifully and deadly it was, and better suited to the Hedge. I would be called upon to use it when the prey we ran down proved too easy a chase, or was too small or weak. Anything that meant the hunt was becoming un-enjoyable relegated the final kill to me. Nothing we hunted was allowed to escape, but only the worthy were killed by the Keepers own hand. I don’t remember exactly what, who, or how many I killed in his name. Frankly, I don’t want to. As it is, I see strange haggard faces in my sleep that I don’t remember when I wake, faces surrounded in thorns, and all too human. I tell myself that anybody who met their end by my rifle was better off, that it was a kindness, a mercy. It helps a little, but not always. That was our world. We ran, we hunted, we slept and we did it all again. Also we planned escape. We tried escapes. We were caught and beaten. But we hoped.

His head dips and for a moment I’m worried. Did he spot me in the blind? Did he scent me on the air? But the wind is still and my camouflage is good. He must have been thirsty to drink so quickly.

Inevitably, we would find ourselves separated from our Keeper during the occasional hunt. We would run on till we couldn’t see or hear him, and then turn for what felt like home. In every case he would be there, waiting; a lash in his hand and a laugh for our abject horror and disappointment; every time, that is, but once. It had come upon my when I was feeding his daughters pets. The pretty things she always kept at the lodge, chained in silver to entertain and amuse. Every time we ran, we followed the feelings of home, like a bullet. Well, any shooter can tell you, if you know where the gun is when it goes off, and you know what the shooters aiming at, you can predict where the bullet will travel. The only way to prevent it is to change the trajectory dramatically. You have to get way off the map. The next time we ran, I led the pack not towards home, but back to the lodge. We smashed it as best we could, releasing as many of his pretties as possible, then ran out the other side. We ran as deep into the Hedge as we could, deeper than any of us had ever gone. We lost a lot on that wild run. I lost my whip, my rifle, most of my memories, some of my friends. The thorns claimed some, despair claimed others. I gathered everyone who was left together and we started to tell stories. Like my dad used to say soldiers who started to lose their nerve would do, we talked about what we’d do when we got back. I told them of my parents, about how it felt to walk in the real forest outside my house, about how it felt to open the world of nature to city folk so scared they could barely stand to open the window. We told our stories, and we walked. We found a path that broadened into a road. We eventually found a door, just an open gate in a long disused fence. Just four panels standing like a ghost on top of a hill. We walked out into the moonlight, real moonlight, for the first time in forever.

As he lifts his head from the stream he steps into the clearing. For the first time I can see him proper. I must admit he is magnificent and beautiful, but I’m not here to marvel. I only have a few moments to take my shot.

After that life was better, it really was. The strange menagerie that spilled from the gateway split up to look for the broken pieces of our lives. I wasn’t far from home, so I headed that way strait off. I don’t remember having a plan, or even an expectation, but I knew I had to see mom and dad again. I found the house like I left it. I found dad on the front porch drinking his morning coffee. I wasn’t thinking then, I just walked right up the steps and said “Hi Dad.” I know, it’s about the dumbest opening line for a reunion after 10 years of absence, but it’s all I had in me. It didn’t matter much in the end. “I don’t know your name drifter, but I know I ain’t old enough for you to be calling me dad. Ya look famished enough though to be confused. If you’ll go sit on the bench by the barn Ill bring ya some supper.” I was so aghast I just did like he said. No complaint or argument just trudged over to the old bench outside the barn and sat down. In the reflection of the trough I saw myself for the first time in 10 years. I knew it was me, but only because the reflection moved when I did. At first I saw me, like I knew Acadia had re-made me, then I looked again and made myself see how the world would view me. When I left I was a small compact young man, clean shaven, short cropped hair, all American linebacker style. The vision looking back in the water was long tall and eerily thin. My hair hung to my shoulder blades, my beard was to my chest. I was 26, I know I was 26; I was only gone 10 years. My human face looked like a 60 year old farm hand. My parents couldn’t recognize me. They would never believe I was their son. I knew then the loss inherent to our kind. I hung around the old ranch for a few more days, doing the odd jobs dad always reserved for drifters. I wanted to be close to them, even though I was doomed to be apart. I wanted to know what had happened in my lost 10 years. Turns out that in my absence the family business fell on hard times. A fellow from Austin had bought it about 3 years after I’d gone. He’d kept mom and dad on, helped to keep the clientele, but he wasn’t treating them well, and they weren’t happy. He wasn’t part of the movement you see, just a rich fellow wanting to get richer. I knew the only way to help would be to buy out the city boy, to run the business right so mom and dad could be happy again. That meant money, and that meant working, and that meant problems. The state had declared me dead 2 years before the escape, and I doubt the folks down at the S.S. office would be more likely to believe my story than my parents might. I headed south and crossed the boarder. Turns out it’s easy to sneak into Mexico. I spent 5 years working fields and bars, selling trinkets to tourists, finally getting a good job on a hunting reserve. I managed to make enough money to by a new Mexican identity, all good and legal. It’s not hard to find the right small town clerks to falsify some documents when you can offer them more than 5 years salary. With new papers in hand I “immigrated” to the US. When the paper work goes through Ill be a citizen again, a long way around, but I am a patient man.

I lower the crosshairs from the antlers to the head. It’s a low percentage shot than the flank shot I prefer, but it’s all I’ll get here. 250 yards, I’ve hit from farther, ‘corse I’ve missed from closer. The wind is still though, and it’s a clear shot. The only one I’ll get.

I made my way back to Bryan, the long way around. I spent some time learning the ins and outs of my new society, meeting changelings in other towns. I found Brooke again, and in her found my first True ally. I found another who feared what he himself had done, helped him walk with his fear, and gained a second. I met others who accepted there fear of dark places and refused to look away, and in them regained the extended family that would otherwise be denied me. I learned of all the mortals who had been lost to the hedge; lost as I was, to an open gate in a wood or park. I learned what I could do with my fear. I gained clarity in the understanding that I could save others from my fate. I could save them by understanding the hedge, the Others, gateways, and fear. Fear is what tells us when we shouldn’t go down that path, when we should run, when we should fight. I took to the wild places again. I protect the edges and guard the paths. I’m still working on my parents’ business, and I’ll see them happy. I warn young lovers away from secluded glades that will steal their soul. I have come to spend more and more time in the hedge. Trying to map it, extract its secrets, and discover the tools we can use for our defense. The wild places people shouldn’t go belong to me, for I am the green man made manifest, I am the old ranger who knows the paths, I am the crazy old hunter who doesn’t want you on his land, I am the scout who walks the deep hedge. My warnings are not without merit, and I promise I am not mad. Heed my warning and live a happy life, ignore me and meet your peril. I will protect you, even from yourself. I will use any weakness to protect the whole, even yours. Listen to my story and understand me; start to see what I am become. This is who I am now, like all men I am made form the cobbled events of life. Unlike other men, I have lived two lives, and have started on a 3rd. I will live this one well, I will do better than I did in the past, this is my pledge to myself, and I have learned the power of a pledge.

I perform the shooters mantra, “Two deep breaths, in, out, don’t rush. Third breath in, let it out half way and hold.” One big brown eye fills the scope; one black pupil fills the crosshairs. Pull the trigger. An iron bullet hurtles from the barrel at over 2 times the speed of sound. Red blood, white bone, grey brains spray the tree trunk in a macabre modern art painting. That bastard loyalist thought he was just going to walk that changeling back into slavery. Not on my watch, not in my woods. Now to get down there before she panics and runs off into the thorns.