Issue link: https://www.e-digitaleditions.com/i/742011
80 • S P O R T I N G C L A S S I C S each chip from the axe blade. It was all screwy—detached things were happening too fast and I couldn't stop them. But I had to. I yelled with all I had. "STOP! Get away from that tree!" He looked at me angrily. His mouth twisted into a snarled, yellow-toothed grin, splitting his purple lips, then he began to laugh with a voice like parchment—as dry as dust and ready to crack. He drew his arm back and was about to continue his work. I screamed again in horror. I could not let him finish his writing, but he continued about his business with no regard . . . "E-R" . . . "W-A-L-T-E-R." Now—there could be no mistake—he knew my name. Rhythmically, he began whittling the "H," brilliant sparks flew from the bark in red, blue, and gold colors. Innocent? As a rattlesnake, I thought. This lunatic is carving out my obituary. The axe in his hand didn't waiver. The pounding of my heart—his chopping, became an erratic clock clicking off my doom. I couldn't breathe, it was as if the weight of an elephant was stacked on top of my chest. If I couldn't find a way to stop him, I was surely a dead duck. My arms were like iron, too heavy to lift, but I managed to click off the safety of my Winchester, and I tugged the trigger. A sharp report rang out from the barrel. The shot had gotten his attention. He kicked his head back like he was going to sing grand opera. Then he started to laugh, insanely as if he had just gotten the punch line of a joke that had been bothering him for weeks. Then he stopped laughing and started to chop again. I felt like a man trapped in a nightmare, trying with all his might to wake from it. Once, on a bear hunt in Alaska, I had been trapped in a blizzard and nearly froze to death. This feeling was all too familiar, and a sense of dread fell over me. When you can see something coming and you know it's too late to stop it, a calmness takes over and you watch it like it was happening to someone else. But I wanted to live. I had everything a man could ask for— money, success—but I had been unhappy. None of that mattered to me now; time was the only thing relevant. Seconds, minutes, hours—I'd take whatever time I could get. There was still so much life ahead of me, so much life I had been missing out on. I wanted to see Martha, to put my arms around her and hold her as tightly as I could. I wanted to tell her that I loved her. There was so much that I loved, that I had neglected. It's funny—I didn't miss the firm or money even. It was the serene things I thought of now—the bell ring of an ice cream vendor, Christmas trees and peach pies, fishing streams, firelight, honey coated landscapes shimmering in the sunshine, staunch points and rutting bucks—and Martha. I thought about Martha most, the fire in her eyes and sweetness on her lips . . . regrets piled up to my knees . . . so many things left undone. I had to stop him somehow—maybe even kill him—or he was going to kill me. His grip tightened on the handle and I knew in a few seconds my chips would be cashed in. Sparks were flying out from the tree and leaves fell whirling about him like a flamenco skirt as the old geezer feverishly intensified his pace. His loud, horse-like laughs echoed through the forest. "H" . . . "I,"—old death continued. The strength was spilling from me like an overturned glass of water. "B" . . . "B." My body began to tremble all the way to the soles of my feet. Beads of cold sweat popped out from my every pore. lovers write but without the heart. At first I thought it was random, but then realized that each tree had been molested in the same way. From the base to as high as I could decipher the trees were scarred with names—proper names, first and last. Robert Smith . . . Bruce Witherspoon . . . Catherine Huggins . . . John Stanton . . . Fred Robinson . . . Marianne Jones . . . Herb Washington. The names went on an on. James and Janets, Bills and Barbaras, Thompsons and Clements, Petersens and Parkers. The engravings faded as they spanned up the trunks— some nearly illegible and looking as though they had been carved centuries ago, others so fresh you could still smell the wood. But why? Who were they? What did this mean? A sticky feeling of dread began to overtake me. This makes no sense at all. I'm dreaming. I passed out and I am dreaming. Right then an odd and nasty smell grabbed me by the nose hairs, and I heard a voice, or rather a whisper of a voice. There was someone here. Someone mumbling. But the sound was coming from all around me and I couldn't make out the source. A false light was doing trick things with the shadows, confusing my eyes and senses. Then the rays of hanging light opened like a stage curtain and a shadow separated itself from the others . . . and I saw him. H e was an old crow of a man—short in stature, hump- backed—a rather moth-eaten character. Harmless enough, I presumed. He sported a long blonde beard that spilled over the tattered collar of his shirt and flowed into a single braid hanging down to his waist. His eyebrows were black and too long, and curled up to the corners of his head, and his eyes were brown with orange whites, hard like a penny. All this I observed though I was quite far away. His hands were grotesque, with thick sausage fingers and long, brittle nails that curled inward toward his palms. He was bare-footed, and his large feet were very much out of proportion for his short height, and they were thick and vascular with veins protruding from under the skin like covered roots. I was beginning to wonder if this was a man at all. Then he turned to me, put his wrinkled face in his oversized hands, shook his old gray head side- to-side, and reached down to pick up his axe. He moved like something from a dream, but with purpose— who was he, what was he, and why was he here. I could hear his axe go to work, and the old geezer began to mumble again. He's insane, I thought, then I put it together—him, and the names . . . he was the menace who had defaced the trees. Could he have been doing this for years? Quietly I crept nearer. Why such a dubious activity? Just what was he up to? Then I detected the letters—"W-A-L." He had carved "W-A-L." I paused and thought, Wait . . .no way. He looked back at me, but his eyes glistened so that they were hard to stare into, and his face was now aglow like a mask coated with phosphorus. His demeanor wasn't sheepish at all; it was sinister, almost supernatural—this was no man. He continued—"T" With the cut of the "T" I began to feel ill. His mumbling and whittling seemed to be having an effect on me—I was getting sicker by the second. My chest tightened and I couldn't breath. It took all of my strength to cry out. "HELP!" But he paid no attention. My eyes were riveted on the old man's actions. I grew weaker with