// creative //
February 26, 2015
Birds in the Woods:
A Tale of Love in Its Penultimate Moment
Ben Libman
February 26, 2015
Birds in the Woods:
A Tale of Love in Its Penultimate Moment
Ben Libman
The sound of his shot split the sky.
“You missed,” she said.
He looked at her and flared his nostrils. “I’ll get it next time.”
The two continued walking down the wooded path. It was his idea to go on a hunting trip. He thought it would fix things.
They walked side-by-side, wearing matching camouflage vests and orange caps. Eventually, they came up to a small resting area with a wooden bench. It had a small bronze plaque nailed to its backrest that read: MADE WITH CARE FOR NATURE LOVERS BY JOHN AND JEANINE WATSON. The man and the woman sat down and unpacked their sandwiches.
He shifted his weight on the seat. “They could have done a better job,” he said. The woman ran her hand slowly over the spot of wooden bench that lay between her and her husband, struggling with a dry bite of ham and cheese.
“I think it’s just fine,” she said.
After they finished their lunch, the man pulled a trail map out from his backpack. “It looks like we follow the path a ways down there, then keep left at the fork and go until we reach the hut,” he said.
“Alright,” she said. “I hope it has a working fireplace, and a chair or two. A nice place to read. Do you think it will?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “They’re not made for luxury. They’re made for survival.”
They picked up their packs and kept moving. The man took three or four errant shots, cursing under his breath. Otherwise, he walked silently alongside his wife, holding his rifle with both hands and with the safety off, enjoying the even feel of the weapon’s weight. The woman kept her gun slung over her shoulder, and walked with both hands clutching the straps of her pack, letting out the occasional pleasant sigh.
After almost two hours, they approached the fork in the path. “There it is,” the man said. “So we’ll keep left here.” But there was no reply from his wife. He turned around abruptly and saw that she had stopped a few yards back, and was kneeling at the side of the path. As he approached her, he wanted to scold her for not telling him that she planned to stop. He could have gone on for hours without noticing. He could have lost her. But he saw that she was inspecting a small blue wildflower, so he decided not to say anything.
The man knelt down beside her. He moved his hand to place it on her back, but she shrugged away from him. “Come on…” he said.
“I…not now. Please,” she said, looking at the ground.
The two of them crouched staring at the blue flower, as the woman twirled it between her fingers. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. After kneeling a while, she removed her pack and placed it in front of her, and searched through it until she pulled out a thin headscarf. It was beige, and in its center was an embroidered pair of birds overlapping at the neck, one red and one blue.
The woman rubbed her thumb over the birds. “It’s the same blue,” she said, holding up the wildflower for comparison. The man looked at her. She enjoyed making him feel as if she cared more for things, as if she paid more attention.
“Do you remember when I got this? On our trip to Kenya?” she asked. “I think it’s called a Kitenge.”
The man nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “In that small village in the mountains.”
The woman nodded and looked fondly at the scarf. “That man we were staying with made this for me. He said we were like the two birds. Do you remember that? Do you remember when he said that?” she asked.
“I do,” the man said. “He was a nice guy. And he had a son, if I’m not mis—”
“Yeah, yeah his son!” the woman exclaimed. “Oh, he was so adorable. God, he must be more than twenty years old by now.”
“Must be,” the man said.
“Do you remember how he kept squeezing our arms? He couldn’t believe the color of our skin,” she said.
“I remember,” the man said.
“And he thought we were some creatures or something. But then, his father grabbed him by the shoulder and pointed to all of us like this—,” she pointed her finger and moved her arm around, as if drawing a circle. “And then you did the same thing, and you said ‘human’. Do you remember? And then the boy repeated, Hooman! Hooman!”
“Yeah, I remember,” the man said. They sat silently for a few more minutes. “We should get going,” he said finally. “I think it’s going to rain soon.”
The woman looked up toward the sky. A few clouds drifted silently on their way, but none of them looked menacing. “Alright,” she said. She stood up, and the two continued on toward the hut.
The wooden hut was small and bare. The floor of the main room was partially covered by a dusty, oval-shaped rug, on top of which sat two wooden chairs angled toward the wall. The wall boasted a fireplace equipped with a two-pronged crane. A cast iron pot and a set of fire irons lay scattered by the hearth. On the other side of the room was a washbasin, and at the back of the hut was a bedroom with a wooden shelf and a queen-size mattress, which lay directly on the floor. An outhouse stood out back.
The man lit a fire and cooked two cans of beans in the pot. The two of them ate and passed the evening by the fireside. The woman sat in one chair, reading an old book. The man sat in the other, staring into the flames and sipping occasionally from a small metal flask. Outside, it began to rain. “We should pack it in,” the man said.
The woman nodded and closed her book. The man followed her into the bedroom. She lay out her sleeping bag on the mattress, and the man unrolled his beside her.
The woman placed her hand on the man’s sleeping bag, and looked him in the eyes. “Please,” she said. “Not tonight…”
The man gave an exasperated sigh and his face grew red. “Not tonight?” he said. “It’s never tonight. It’s been a year of this already. What more do you want from me?”
“I know,” she said. “But I’m not ready yet. It still feels…not right.”
“Well what about me?” the man yelled. “What about me? Do I not matter just because of one mistake? I’m sorry, okay. I’m really, truly, fucking sorry. But it’s enough already.”
“You don’t get to decide that,” she said. “You don’t get to tell me when it’s enough. I tell you.” She was right, she knew. As much as she wanted to regain some intimacy, she enjoyed this rare moment of power—of holding the scale of forgiveness in her hands, not revealing whether it would tip this way or that.
“Well, at some point you’re going to need to get over it. You understand? I have a vow to you, I know that. But we’re not monogamous by nature. Maybe I let that get the better of me, but it was just one time. Just once.”
The woman looked at him and shook her head. “You don’t know anything,” she said. “You don’t know anything about nature.” She gathered up his sleeping bag and handed it to him. “Please,” she said. The man took his things and set himself up in the main room.
The next morning, the two of them packed up and left for the trail to the next hut. It was cold outside, and the ground and leaves were wet from the night’s rain. The woman was wearing the Kitenge around her neck. The silence of their walk was interrupted only by the periodical firing of the man’s gun. Shot—miss. Shot—miss. Shot—thud.
The man smiled. “I think I hit something,” he said. He ran forward in the direction of his shot like some child in a game of tag. The woman kept her pace, and lost sight of him.
A few moments later, the man emerged from the woods, cupping something in his hands. “What is that?” the woman asked.
“Look!” the man said, smiling widely. He brought his hands in front of the woman and opened them, revealing a small white bird with a bloodied wing. It twitched and chirped and tried to flutter its damaged limb.
“You shot it?” the woman asked.
“Yeah, of course,” the man said. But he hadn’t. While searching for his kill, he had found his bullet wedged into the trunk of a large tree. The bird was lying on the ground a few yards away, the recent prey of some feline hunter.
“What should we do with it?” the woman asked.
“Well, it’s too small to eat,” he said. “I think we should kill it, put it out of its misery.”
The woman looked down at the bird and frowned. She removed her headscarf and gently wrapped it around the wounded creature. The fabric slowly absorbed the thick blood. “I think we should take care of it,” she said. “Look, he has friends.” She passed her thumb over the embroidery. “Three little birds.”
“No,” the man said. “Look at it. It’s in pain, it’s suffering. Look at all the blood.”
“But we can help him,” the woman said, her tone reflecting her growing irritation. “We have first-aid stuff. I know how to stitch. People do this all the time.” She was playing the world-healer.
The man grew irritated. “That’s what hunting is about,” he said in an elevated pitch. “There are no nurses in nature. You just don’t understand.”
“But we’re here,” she said. “We’re in nature, we’re part of nature.” She grasped for the side pocket of her pack. “Listen, I’ll just grab the first-aid stuff and—”
“No!” the man yelled. He snatched the bundled bird from his wife’s hands. “I’m going to break its neck. This is how things work.”
The woman shoved him. “You’re an asshole!” she said. “I can’t watch this. I can’t do this. Don’t come looking for me.” She stormed off down the path in the right direction. The man looked on after her and began to tremble with anger. He looked down at the bird, wrapped in the headscarf amongst the blue bird and the red bird. He cradled it like a baby.
He looked back toward the woman, who was now far down the path. His blood was hot beneath his skin. She’ll never understand nature, he thought. Even then, back then, before—this. He thought about that boy in Kenya, about a time when he didn’t think about nature. He continued to watch her down the path. He took his rifle in one hand and aligned his shoulders with his target. She’s not human, he thought. She wasn’t worth trying for.
He shot.
The sound broke the sky like thunder, and a thousand birds escaped in all directions from the tops of the trees. The woman fell to the ground, blood seeping from her abdomen.
“Hooman” the man said to himself. His heart beat furiously in his chest.
He gently removed the cloth from the swaddled bird. It lay there, twitching in the palm of his hand—bloodied, but alive. He gripped its body with his palm, and with the forefingers of his other hand he twisted its neck, until it snapped.
Hooman, he thought.
Hooman, Hooman.
“You missed,” she said.
He looked at her and flared his nostrils. “I’ll get it next time.”
The two continued walking down the wooded path. It was his idea to go on a hunting trip. He thought it would fix things.
They walked side-by-side, wearing matching camouflage vests and orange caps. Eventually, they came up to a small resting area with a wooden bench. It had a small bronze plaque nailed to its backrest that read: MADE WITH CARE FOR NATURE LOVERS BY JOHN AND JEANINE WATSON. The man and the woman sat down and unpacked their sandwiches.
He shifted his weight on the seat. “They could have done a better job,” he said. The woman ran her hand slowly over the spot of wooden bench that lay between her and her husband, struggling with a dry bite of ham and cheese.
“I think it’s just fine,” she said.
After they finished their lunch, the man pulled a trail map out from his backpack. “It looks like we follow the path a ways down there, then keep left at the fork and go until we reach the hut,” he said.
“Alright,” she said. “I hope it has a working fireplace, and a chair or two. A nice place to read. Do you think it will?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “They’re not made for luxury. They’re made for survival.”
They picked up their packs and kept moving. The man took three or four errant shots, cursing under his breath. Otherwise, he walked silently alongside his wife, holding his rifle with both hands and with the safety off, enjoying the even feel of the weapon’s weight. The woman kept her gun slung over her shoulder, and walked with both hands clutching the straps of her pack, letting out the occasional pleasant sigh.
After almost two hours, they approached the fork in the path. “There it is,” the man said. “So we’ll keep left here.” But there was no reply from his wife. He turned around abruptly and saw that she had stopped a few yards back, and was kneeling at the side of the path. As he approached her, he wanted to scold her for not telling him that she planned to stop. He could have gone on for hours without noticing. He could have lost her. But he saw that she was inspecting a small blue wildflower, so he decided not to say anything.
The man knelt down beside her. He moved his hand to place it on her back, but she shrugged away from him. “Come on…” he said.
“I…not now. Please,” she said, looking at the ground.
The two of them crouched staring at the blue flower, as the woman twirled it between her fingers. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. After kneeling a while, she removed her pack and placed it in front of her, and searched through it until she pulled out a thin headscarf. It was beige, and in its center was an embroidered pair of birds overlapping at the neck, one red and one blue.
The woman rubbed her thumb over the birds. “It’s the same blue,” she said, holding up the wildflower for comparison. The man looked at her. She enjoyed making him feel as if she cared more for things, as if she paid more attention.
“Do you remember when I got this? On our trip to Kenya?” she asked. “I think it’s called a Kitenge.”
The man nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “In that small village in the mountains.”
The woman nodded and looked fondly at the scarf. “That man we were staying with made this for me. He said we were like the two birds. Do you remember that? Do you remember when he said that?” she asked.
“I do,” the man said. “He was a nice guy. And he had a son, if I’m not mis—”
“Yeah, yeah his son!” the woman exclaimed. “Oh, he was so adorable. God, he must be more than twenty years old by now.”
“Must be,” the man said.
“Do you remember how he kept squeezing our arms? He couldn’t believe the color of our skin,” she said.
“I remember,” the man said.
“And he thought we were some creatures or something. But then, his father grabbed him by the shoulder and pointed to all of us like this—,” she pointed her finger and moved her arm around, as if drawing a circle. “And then you did the same thing, and you said ‘human’. Do you remember? And then the boy repeated, Hooman! Hooman!”
“Yeah, I remember,” the man said. They sat silently for a few more minutes. “We should get going,” he said finally. “I think it’s going to rain soon.”
The woman looked up toward the sky. A few clouds drifted silently on their way, but none of them looked menacing. “Alright,” she said. She stood up, and the two continued on toward the hut.
The wooden hut was small and bare. The floor of the main room was partially covered by a dusty, oval-shaped rug, on top of which sat two wooden chairs angled toward the wall. The wall boasted a fireplace equipped with a two-pronged crane. A cast iron pot and a set of fire irons lay scattered by the hearth. On the other side of the room was a washbasin, and at the back of the hut was a bedroom with a wooden shelf and a queen-size mattress, which lay directly on the floor. An outhouse stood out back.
The man lit a fire and cooked two cans of beans in the pot. The two of them ate and passed the evening by the fireside. The woman sat in one chair, reading an old book. The man sat in the other, staring into the flames and sipping occasionally from a small metal flask. Outside, it began to rain. “We should pack it in,” the man said.
The woman nodded and closed her book. The man followed her into the bedroom. She lay out her sleeping bag on the mattress, and the man unrolled his beside her.
The woman placed her hand on the man’s sleeping bag, and looked him in the eyes. “Please,” she said. “Not tonight…”
The man gave an exasperated sigh and his face grew red. “Not tonight?” he said. “It’s never tonight. It’s been a year of this already. What more do you want from me?”
“I know,” she said. “But I’m not ready yet. It still feels…not right.”
“Well what about me?” the man yelled. “What about me? Do I not matter just because of one mistake? I’m sorry, okay. I’m really, truly, fucking sorry. But it’s enough already.”
“You don’t get to decide that,” she said. “You don’t get to tell me when it’s enough. I tell you.” She was right, she knew. As much as she wanted to regain some intimacy, she enjoyed this rare moment of power—of holding the scale of forgiveness in her hands, not revealing whether it would tip this way or that.
“Well, at some point you’re going to need to get over it. You understand? I have a vow to you, I know that. But we’re not monogamous by nature. Maybe I let that get the better of me, but it was just one time. Just once.”
The woman looked at him and shook her head. “You don’t know anything,” she said. “You don’t know anything about nature.” She gathered up his sleeping bag and handed it to him. “Please,” she said. The man took his things and set himself up in the main room.
The next morning, the two of them packed up and left for the trail to the next hut. It was cold outside, and the ground and leaves were wet from the night’s rain. The woman was wearing the Kitenge around her neck. The silence of their walk was interrupted only by the periodical firing of the man’s gun. Shot—miss. Shot—miss. Shot—thud.
The man smiled. “I think I hit something,” he said. He ran forward in the direction of his shot like some child in a game of tag. The woman kept her pace, and lost sight of him.
A few moments later, the man emerged from the woods, cupping something in his hands. “What is that?” the woman asked.
“Look!” the man said, smiling widely. He brought his hands in front of the woman and opened them, revealing a small white bird with a bloodied wing. It twitched and chirped and tried to flutter its damaged limb.
“You shot it?” the woman asked.
“Yeah, of course,” the man said. But he hadn’t. While searching for his kill, he had found his bullet wedged into the trunk of a large tree. The bird was lying on the ground a few yards away, the recent prey of some feline hunter.
“What should we do with it?” the woman asked.
“Well, it’s too small to eat,” he said. “I think we should kill it, put it out of its misery.”
The woman looked down at the bird and frowned. She removed her headscarf and gently wrapped it around the wounded creature. The fabric slowly absorbed the thick blood. “I think we should take care of it,” she said. “Look, he has friends.” She passed her thumb over the embroidery. “Three little birds.”
“No,” the man said. “Look at it. It’s in pain, it’s suffering. Look at all the blood.”
“But we can help him,” the woman said, her tone reflecting her growing irritation. “We have first-aid stuff. I know how to stitch. People do this all the time.” She was playing the world-healer.
The man grew irritated. “That’s what hunting is about,” he said in an elevated pitch. “There are no nurses in nature. You just don’t understand.”
“But we’re here,” she said. “We’re in nature, we’re part of nature.” She grasped for the side pocket of her pack. “Listen, I’ll just grab the first-aid stuff and—”
“No!” the man yelled. He snatched the bundled bird from his wife’s hands. “I’m going to break its neck. This is how things work.”
The woman shoved him. “You’re an asshole!” she said. “I can’t watch this. I can’t do this. Don’t come looking for me.” She stormed off down the path in the right direction. The man looked on after her and began to tremble with anger. He looked down at the bird, wrapped in the headscarf amongst the blue bird and the red bird. He cradled it like a baby.
He looked back toward the woman, who was now far down the path. His blood was hot beneath his skin. She’ll never understand nature, he thought. Even then, back then, before—this. He thought about that boy in Kenya, about a time when he didn’t think about nature. He continued to watch her down the path. He took his rifle in one hand and aligned his shoulders with his target. She’s not human, he thought. She wasn’t worth trying for.
He shot.
The sound broke the sky like thunder, and a thousand birds escaped in all directions from the tops of the trees. The woman fell to the ground, blood seeping from her abdomen.
“Hooman” the man said to himself. His heart beat furiously in his chest.
He gently removed the cloth from the swaddled bird. It lay there, twitching in the palm of his hand—bloodied, but alive. He gripped its body with his palm, and with the forefingers of his other hand he twisted its neck, until it snapped.
Hooman, he thought.
Hooman, Hooman.
// BEN LIBMAN is a Sophomore in Columbia College. He can be reached at [email protected]. Photo courtesy of www.wallpaperswide.com.