The Hunt Club_ A Novel - Bret Lott [75]
I looked up. We were beneath a canopy of branches, the only piece of sky I could make sense of that half-moon, broken up for leaves.
I whispered, “I can’t see much. We have to get to a clearing.”
Unc nodded once, and we turned, started away from where that voice had come.
The next clearing came a minute or so later, past a patch of dead blackberry bushes we had to step through, the thorns tugging at sleeves and legs and ankles, until we were there, in a piece of land covered over in white grass knee high.
I stopped, looked up. This time Unc didn’t let go of my jacket, and turned with me as I scanned the sky.
The moon was clear now of leaves, the stars thin for that moonlight but still there. I turned slowly, the sound of my heart beating too loud in my ears, and for a second I was afraid that sound would give us away and scare off these stars, both.
I turned slowly, looking, looking. Then there it was: Polaris, straight ahead, almost touching the tree line, but there.
I took in a breath, whispered, “Got it.”
“Had to polish off ol’ Doc Ravenel,” Thigpen hollered. “Case you wondered what that last shot was about.”
He was closer now, the words clearer, sharper.
“Turn me,” Unc whispered. “Turn me to it.”
His eyes were closed now. He’d let go my jacket, stood there, waiting for me to touch him.
I looked up at the star, at him, the star again. Then I stood behind him, put my hands to his shoulders, turned him toward it. He was a quarter turn from it, his feet taking small steps, his whole body under my strength, as though if I were to let go his shoulders at this instant he would topple. Then his shoulders were squared to it.
He whispered, “Lift my face to it.”
I brought my hands from his shoulders, placed them along either side of his jaw. I could feel the stubble on his face, the hard bone right there under skin.
I lifted his jaw, his head leaning back in front of me, that Braves cap still on. I looked up at the star, his head tilting back, until it seemed we were both staring up along the same imaginary line, some tangent off planet Earth that could draw us in the right direction, and I stopped.
My uncle. A blind man, our compass.
I let go his chin, set my hands on his shoulders again, his face to the North Star. Then slowly, slowly, his chin came down, until finally he faced the ground, and I wondered what pictures played through him right then, in this silence, this black. I wondered what memories of Hungry Neck he held, what maps he knew, maps drawn not on paper but on his heart.
Mom touched my shoulder then, and the three of us stood there, above us a black night sky, as black as any idea of what might happen next to us might be.
I heard movement to our right, leaves moving underfoot, and my hands tightened a second on Unc’s shoulders in fear.
Then he shot his arm out to his side, pointed off into woods.
Here were more sounds: leaves, a branch crack.
He turned toward where he pointed, reached to me, this time grabbed hold of my belt at the small of my back, and pushed me away in front of him, and we were running. I looked back a moment for Mom, saw her running, reaching for my hand, reaching for it, then I felt it, and I turned, ran harder into the wall of woods.
“No problem your running off like this,” Thigpen called. “Only makes it a little more interesting is all.”
The growth went thick on us, me slowing down and ducking and pushing away and ducking again, Unc tight on my belt, Mom letting go now and again to handle herself on her own. Shadows down and around us moved quick, darted in and out, became the horse he was on, became Thigpen himself swirling up and in while still we ran, and while still I didn’t know where we were headed.
“Don’t worry how I’ll explain this one to SLED,” Thigpen called again. “Got four or five different guns on me.” He paused. “Including that one you got last night, Huger. Turns out Reynold had hold of that bad boy.” He let out a laugh. “Each of y’all’s going to be shot by a different one. This whole thing’ll look