Echoes

Who is the animal? By what do we measure this? Detective Ahmaad Toopick, 4952-5017, Court case AK10.49823.5612 Wallace v. State of Alaska

There's a man at the end of my property. I know he is there. To be honest, I put him there. But perhaps, I should start at the beginning.

We live in the back backwoods. Well. Not so far off that it would be detrimental to our pocketbook but far enough.

My ma says we bad. That I’m always up to no good. I tell her she’s mistaken in the most polite way I can but it usually ends in me storming outa her place. We don't visit much anymore. I know I’m not bad. I am determined and I generally finish what I start. That really don’t bode well for people who like to start…altercations.

Our property lives within a five mile stretch before the small foot bridge across New Nills River. The stretch where the avalanches begin. We are in avalanche zone but we in a sweet spot. They break right and left to go around us. Our neighbor's aren't as lucky. Many’s a time we had to dig them out. Sometimes we’ll be diggin’ out peeps and sometimes days and days of corpses. Neither are fun or good.

Anyways. The man.

I… We, I woke up super early one mornin'. It must have been two,  three am. The suns weren’t up yet. Something was off. I don’t know what it was.

We lived in a container— two containers, from shipping our goods and sundry, are mashed together to give us good livin’ space and defensible walls for when the fauna decide they are hungry enough to taste our nutek lasers.

Our property parallels the trail. Just a few hectares between the trail and the river. And straight across the trail is our neighbors. The Rushes. They much richer and can afford a pole light. It lights the night. But I tell you what. That light blinds the walkers and the drivers that come through in the night. They say it’s to keep the denizens of the wilds out. Don’t know as it does much good. But it’s there. Whether we want it to be or not. Like as not they can’t see in the night iff’n they needs to do outside ab-solutions. My wife, Marina, had to make black out curtains to keep that light out.

Last year, we moved the trailer farther away from the road. We turned it one hundred and eighty degrees so the door faced the road and that damn light. It was a whole week job. At least it don't shine in our bedroom.

We feud every so often with the neighbors. Like when his dog goes on a walkabout into our bird house. Or when that damn dog chases our barnyard animals and tries to breed our dogs, whether they in heat or not. Last time I tried to shoot his dog, he thought I was shootin' at him. Left some holes in our trailers. Missed our propane tank and our water tank. We fine though. I checked—

I tells my wife, "Imma go outside and get a look around." Our dogs, Miff and Posh, weren’t telling us anything. Lazy bums. But I was restless. Didn't feel right. I learned when I was stationed in New Bolivia 2 to trust my instincts. And I didn't feel right at all.

I stepped out the front door. That light. It still makes it difficult to see in the night. Messes with night vision.

I popped back into the house and grabbed my .22 long rifle. I sighted that light. It went out like a firecracker. He'll think it's another power surge. Besides he had his porch light which was a darn sight softer. Couldn't hardly see it.

It was now pitch black outside on our side of the road. Inky black like the night a 'posed to be. The stars sparklin' on a moonless night. The smell of woodsmoke driftin' in the light wind. The dog lot, 'bout five miles down, howlin' and serenadin' the the hills. My kind of bucolic.

I waited for my eyes to adjust and when they did, I stepped off the porch and to the right.

The thing you have to know about my— our, property is that I don't do no yard work. I like the jungle feel. Lived in New Bolivia 2 too long. The road is built up. A good copse of trees, bushes and brambles between us and the road shields us from lookie loos. Blocks most of his light, too, and I don't have to shoot it so often.

So I walked the property. There’s this nice natural game path that follows the bigger trail. Loops around to the river. I walked it just like I always do. Listenin' and feelin' the night air, tasting it. I never did see nothin' on that there path even if I's not feeling right. Antsy.

When I got to the larger trail, I walked that, too. I ducked into the woods to check  couple times. They don' need a know who's out there in the night. Specially if they was to come fer me and mine.

That how I felt. Like someone or somethin' was a comin' for me and mine. The hair on my arms rode the goosebumps up. Like they said, 'head on a swivel.' That's how I was. Alert. Somethin' was comin'.

When I gets back to our long driveway, 'acause our trailers are almost in the middle of the property and set a little ways back. You know closer to the river than the road. When I gets back to our driveway, little more than a trail itself, a man popped up. He come from the trees.

I giggle 'bout it, ever now and then, when I think about it. Those trees are giant, and I mean, giant, like cottonwoods. They rise into the air so tall. They taller than the power lines that might come through here in about ten years time. And you cain't hug them. Underneath them, they’s only got devil's club and somethin’ like giant hogweed. Both'll cure you from walkin' through the woods without reason. So you know already he was gonna be in a world of hurt 'cause hogweed burns and devil's club has thorns so big, they can pierce a finger straight through. Happened to me more than once when clearing the land for the house.

Imma gonna guess he had reason. And it being some three-thirty in the mornin' meant they’s up to nothin' good.

Let me state that we live on the edge of civilization. There’s no reason a man can be casually walking by. No way to lurk. There isn't a store nor way station for twenty-five, thirty miles in either direction. There were no houses on that side of the property, where he come from. Just mine and my neighbor. It’s four and a half miles to the bridge and it is in an avalanche area. One year the whole mountainside came down and the trail was blocked with mud for days. Winter it’s the same. Snow, rain, dirt, rocks. Anything that can come down the mountain comes down with a vengeance. Nobody builds here. No more sweet spots left.

I asked him what his business is and what's he doing out here so late. Turns out he got himselfs lost. On the only road for twenty five miles. At three thirty in the AM. Right.

I appealed to his sense of propriety. I asked him to help me flag down a cart bein' I was coming from the trail.

"My wife was in labor and I couldn’t leave my daughter."

He replied in a soft New Southern accent, "What if I killed you and then I’d have the wife and kids for myself." See that’s where he went wrong. Never state your intentions if your intention is for harm.

I’m not afraid to say it. I turned and ran. I am a woman for all of what my wife calls 'my head of the household bullshit.'  I knew it was a quarter a mile back to the house so I’d better get a head start. He could be an athlete or very determined. I might need a good lead. I ran as fast as I could, not so fast as to use up all of my energy, but faster than him. 

I know heard this shwick shwick sound and he began swinging with what I later found out was a machete, at the brush and frozen plants. Showing his bravado trying to scare me. But had one more ace before I’d call it quits.

As I neared the trailer I shouted "Marina, let the dogs out." I don’t know whether she heard me or not. Then I was at the other end of our property and running up the embankment back toward the trail.

That’s when I heard them. Miff and Posh. They were a silent machines. They knew he didn’t belong and that he was somehow hurting the pack they were a part of. They took him down and all I heard was a silent 'oof' and the sound of brush breaking before a dull wet thud. I turned expecting a knife to the head but he was there two yards behind me still gasping weakly as the dogs ended his life.

That is why there is a man at the end of the property.

Some days he pleads with me for his life and some days he relives his final moments. My wife said I should go to the police, but nah. I have the swift and deep New Nills River to hide our dirty deeds. And that’s what I did. I got into my skiff and put his body in the boat and dropped him off mid stream.

Later, in the news. They talked about a body that had been found. A hunter that’d been attacked by a wild animal. I know better. Because he’s at the end of the property and he alternately pleads with me 'bout something that may have gone through his brain in his last moments and dying in those bushes, over there by the road.

I let him. It’s nice to know that he’s there. Tells me where the edge of our property is.

As a so called trophy, I couldn’t have picked a better one.

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