I’d like to track down an animal. A boar. I’d
like to study it in the wild while I eat nuts, fruits, and fish. Shitting liquid, swatting bugs, staring
at the moon like it was a blazing sun in my sleep-deprived, hunger-driven
eyes. My tanned skin has hardened
into scales over sinew muscles.
I’d like to lash a knife to the end of a long stick. It’s a stick that’s actually already
saved my life. Not because I had
needed it to defend myself or to hunt in the past. No, this stick was the only stick I’ve found straight enough
to be strong. There’s no use in
curved and crooked sticks except for firewood. With hope and resources at an all-time low, it was upon
finding this stick that I am revived.
I don’t know that there is, in fact, a boar in the forest nearby, but
I’ve seen dung larger than deer's and occasionally heard rustling
in the bush loud enough to be bigger than any squirrels at play. I am hungry. I am thirsty.
And most of all, I am scared.
Yet my body has taken on a twitch and strength I have never known. I’d like to be able to find a spot in
which I could overlook my scene and watch for the boar. It eats plants over here and drinks at
that pool in the afternoon. I’ve
tried sneaking up behind it but it can either hear or smell me, or both. I can’t get within 30 yards of my
prey. Much too far away to throw a javelin. I would look at my makeshift
spear and snap it over my knee. Fuck you, stick! What good can you
bring?! Now, holding
the knife alone, I can feel it’s murderous power. If I could make the animal come to me, I might be able to…
I’d like to set up walls somehow in the forest, to lure the
boar down a specific path. What
would I make them out of? No, that
would be too much work. No, let me
collect a bounty of the things the boar likes to eat and pile them under a tree
that is easy to climb. What of my
human smell though? I would cover
myself in mud. Like Schwarzenneger in Predator, I would think with a humored raise of an eyebrow and wild fold of
an eyelid. I would sit on the
branch above the pile and wait.
I think my muscles would get so stiff! I would be drifting in and out of sleep
after waiting for hours. I am the
most excited and the most terrified I’ve ever been at the same time. Boars are not small or gentle
animals. If I jumped on it’s back,
my thrust would need to be unwavering and pinpoint. What if it stood at an angle that would be difficult for me
to fall on? What if I needed to
shift my body before I jumped and the sound of my shifting caused the animal to
run? What if I bury my knife into
its neck bone and the animal does not die? Would I try to contain the wounded beast and most likely get
a hoof or tusk embedded somewhere into my own body? Maybe I’d just try to track the blood droplets until I came
upon a heaving boar, lying on its side, ready to die. I would pull the knife out of it’s neck and it would scream
and writhe in its own blood. I am
scared to stab it again, lest it gain energy and go off running again. Its eyes are rolling and both drool and
blood are spilling from the mouth.
I conclude that a hunter does not allow its prey to bleed out in front
of him. Where should I make the
kill shot? Through its eye
socket? I wince at the
thought. Should I try to jam the
knife through its skull? Is that
even possible? Maybe I could try
to widen the neck wound or even slit its throat? No, I felt how thick a boars skin and fur are on my first
kill attempt, and it doesn’t seem like slicing would be an effective method. I think back to my Cutco knives and
wonder how their patented ‘Double-D’ edge would fair against boar’s fur… You know what would be good is some
spiked brass knuckles! I look down
at my hunting knife and wish it also had knuckles and spikes. No such luck. The ear! That’s
it! I wince again and swallow down
the bile of what would may have been a reflexive vomit. I stand over the animal, near dead
already anyway. My right hand is
covered in sweat, blood, and boar’s drool, but the tendons popping from under
my skin tell me that my grip on the knife has never been tighter. Do
it. CRUSH. The animal’s
spine arches and contorts. I twist
the knife inside its ear and skull.
It grinds like the clatter of an unsolved Rubik’s Cube and the animal
haggles out its last wet breath. I
vomit before I can look away.
Skinning the boar takes hours. It does not come off in one long sheet as I had hoped. Maybe more seasoned hunters are able to
make this a seamless process, but for me, it is agonizing. The animal looks disgusting, and only
my hunger keeps me from hating it.
“Swine”. It sounds like a
curse word in my head.
It is sundown.
I’d like to have a controlled fire and even have a makeshift spit over
it. The animal has been prepared,
but I’m constantly swatting flies away from it. I swat more out of a sense of pride than of food safety. Fuck- there’s no way my little spit will be strong enough to
hold this entire animal.
I am starving. My stomach
had wretched out any and all traces of food during the skinning process, and it
ceased to feel twisted; Now, it burned with its own acid eating away at my
malnourished and ill-equipped body armor.
I grip the flesh of one of the boars thighs and saw off the entire
leg. I am angry and defiant, weak
and crazed. Dropping the leg on
top of its own body’s carcass, I find half of my straight stick and carve one
end into a long thin point. The
animal is well past dead, but I jam the spear through the leg like I had to
kill it all over again. Right into
the fire. I stand with my arm
outstretched because my face burns from the heat. My hand is burning too. I need to find a better way to keep this over the
flame. Two rocks are perfect. Leaning the spear against one rock, the
meat hangs just above the flames and I am able to sit another rock on the
bottom to keep everything in place.
The meat sizzles and pops.
It sweats a thousand times more indulging than a Boston Market
rotisserie and propels me into a maniacal dance around the fire. Maybe it’s in celebration? Maybe it’s to ward off any predators
that may come and try to steal my cooking feast? Maybe I’ve actually gone mad? How long do I dance?
I pull the stick out from the two stones and nearly drop it
into the fire, burning my hand even on the bottom of it. Two massive leaves wrapped around the
pole like ‘hot hands’ hanging on a kitchen hook. I dip the handle end of the stick into the shallow water to cool
it, but the meat is still smoking and sizzling. My brain does not register that this means it is too hot for me to
consume and I inhale as deep as I can, “BOAR S’MORES, BITCH!” and dive into the
meat. My mouth scalds and the meat
does not tear easily. I scream but
won’t let go. My lips liquefy into
molten flesh-goo. A slab tears off
and touches my cheek bringing tears.
I swallow after half a bite and my throat seems to seal up behind the
lava I’ve forced down it. I think
this would be the only sensation that keeps my mind from believing it can
regurgitate the meat. A primal
roar comes out of my chest, through my burned esophagus, and out of my upturned
and open mouth, reaching the moon itself.
The forest quivers. The
animals hide. The waters recede
and the wind moves in my direction.
I am Man.
