In Our Words Canadians Reading Together

The Hunt

KATHY MACISAAC

About a hundred miles inland from Table Mountain on Africa’s south shore, sat a tiny village. It lay timelessly among sparsely treed hills, for few trees were suited to grow in this extremely hot and dry climate. The hard packed earth was so dry and powdery that tiny puffs of dust rose in the air as you walked upon it. This small village and surrounding area gave meaning to the term dirt poor. Very little would grow here except the wild grasses, which were waist high and quite sharp to the touch. A few scrub brushes and clumps of wild grass grew among the mud huts. At this time of morning when most were still asleep, the early morning sun gave a lazy peacefulness to the tiny village. The howling of the early rising hyena in the distant hills added an even more eerie calm.

Far above the village, barely visible to the naked eye, crouched a young man behind a thorn thicket. The man was tall for his age and would easily hit six feet when he was through growing. He was not an overly handsome man but neither was he ugly. The man had a high forehead, a broad, slightly croaked nose and a strong straight jawline. The man’s neck and face were tattooed with the intricacy and detail reserved for those with royal blood. The tattoos started in the center of his forehead in a uniquely designed circle symbolizing the circle of life and ran down both sides of his face depicting every inch or so an animal from the African continent. So skillfully and detailed were those tattoos that they ran from a circle in the center of his forehead and blended into each other without a break in design. They were so eye-catching that people were not prepared for what they saw when they locked eyes with the man. His eyes were dark brown, almost black. They were slightly larger than normal, but the strangest thing that you noticed was how emotionless his eyes appeared to be. When the man’s eyes focused on you, you felt as if you were in the sights of an animal hunting its prey. On the man’s left arm, starting just below the elbow and running down to the top of his hand, was a very white and jagged scar, a souvenir from a previous hunt. In his right hand he held a spear, a simple, basic, yet deadly weapon, the weapon of choice for most hunters.