The shaman returns to camp

He’d been late getting out of town, and after an endless drive it was cold and still and dead. The shaman noticed that the place had shifted again; the door didn’t stick as much as it had. He walked in and for a moment all he could see was his frozen breath. His nose told him that somewhere inside was a dead mouse. In the dark, his boot found an empty box of D-Con in the middle of the floor to confirm it. His eyes adjusted and there before him was the dining table. An orange vest hung off the back of a chair. A broken grunt call and an empty box of 30-06 was all that was left of the season now past– that and a few mouse turds.

The shaman went over to the panel box and started flipping breakers. The lights came on. One of the heaters bedrooms had been left on. You could hear it gurgle in the silence. He went to over to the wood pile next to the stove and grabbed some kindling and a couple sheets of newspaper and crumpled them up– pictures of kids fishing in a summer now long gone. From this he laid a fire, but had to coax the lighter to light by placing it under his arm to warm. Eventually he got a sickly blue flame to come out and with this he lit the tinder. After a few trips out to the truck and a run out to the cistern, all the bags were in and water was starting to fill the pipes. It was starting to warm up.

The shaman then performed the one great act of magic that he had come to do. He reached down and pulled up the gun case he had brought in, and opened it up. There, inside, was a rudely camouflaged 12 GA pump shotgun. He hefted it out of the case; after checking the chamber, he cycled it three times and walked it over to the rack.

“There,” he said. “That’s better.” Then he reached down to the pile from the truck and pulled out an old ammo can and opened it. He grabbed an old cedar box call and held it up for a moment to examine it. Years of use had left nicks and scratches and the stain of sweat along its sides. He started to pull on it. It sounded horrible. He rummaged around and found a piece of chalk and then tried again.

“Yeeeaat. Yeeaat. Yeeaat-aat-aat-aat-aat.” It was as if the very Gates of Heaven had opened. The evening was not so gloomy. The room felt rich again.

The shaman looked satisfied at his work, for in an instant the sleeping deer camp had been transformed into Turkey Camp. The world had turned. The camp had become sacred once more.

The preparations for the coming of Spring and the Season had begun. Soon men would begin their pilgrimage back to the woods after a long Winter’s sleep, looking for redemption. Soon large winter flocks would start to break up and the gobblers and hens would begin their yearly dance. Soon it would be time.

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