The October Editor's Pick Writer is Ken MacGregor
Please feel free to email Ken at: macgregor.ken@gmail.com
THE HAWK
By Ken MacGregor
Seth woke to the sound of screaming. It was too shrill to be human.
When he peeled back the corner of the curtain it let in enough sun to hurt the back of his eyes. He let it fall and closed his eyes. With eyes shut, he opened the curtain again and let the sun hit his closed lids. He counted to ten and opened them. No pain this time.
A hawk executed tight circles around his backyard. He had never seen one this close before. It was perfectly poised between beautiful and dangerous. Damn, nature’s cool.
He cleared his throat and spoke out loud.
“You’re loud, bird, but better than sirens, I guess.”
The hawk altered its course, swooping close to the house. Its talons passed the glass inches in front of his face. Seth jerked back. He laughed.
“Jesus. Scared me, buddy.”
When he lifted the curtain again, the hawk was gone. Scratching his lower back through his thin T-shirt, he glanced at the digital clock: 7:25. Yawning, he stepped out the door. He scanned the sky but there was no sign of the bird. When he turned to go he saw the tiny grey mouse on his back step. Its fur was blood-streaked and it had a hole in one side. It was still.
Years before, when his family had lived in the suburbs, they’d had a cat they’d rescued from the animal shelter. Seth had named it Scrappy for its half-missing ear and the way it fought everything on four legs. Scrappy would bring dead things to the back porch: birds, mice, rats and the like. Seth shook his head.
“Hawks don’t do that. I mean, I don’t think they do.” He looked around at his empty yard. “Who am I talking to?”
He went back inside to make coffee. While it brewed, he scanned the kitchen walls. They were a pale yellow he would have to paint over eventually. The color reminded him of urine. A spice rack hung on the wall next the stove, empty except for a single, empty bottle labeled “Cumin” in faded calligraphy.
The only other decoration in the room was a picture of Rachel. In it, she sits on a huge rock before a massive oak tree. It was taken on their first trip to New Hampshire. The tip of her tongue rests on her lower lip. She is smiling, flirting. One eyebrow is arched. She is still alive.
The coffee machine gurgled and beeped to let him know it was done. Blinking, he pulled a mug down by a handle, spun it upright and poured himself a cup. He toasted Rachel’s picture with the coffee, blew on it and took a sip. Setting the coffee down on a file-folder box, Seth sliced the tape on brown cardboard box labeled “Books. Heavy” and opened it. These were the novels, packed in alphabetical order by author, thanks to his mild anal retentiveness. He stood. Both knees popped and he dusted the bookshelf with a dirty T-shirt. The novels lived on the top shelves in his apartment in the city. They would live on the bottom shelf here.
“Change is good. Stagnation is bad. Again, why am saying this out loud?” He switched to a deep, rich, television announcer voice. “Too much time alone in the wilderness made Seth go slowly bananas.”
After he had shelved two boxes of books, he stretched, finished the cold coffee and stepped outside. The sun had obliterated the morning dew and warmed the skin on his face.
The mouse was still there. Reaching back through the door, Seth hooked his sneakers by the heels. Sitting on the back steps, he pulled them on, tucking the laces down into them by his ankles.
He strode across the unmown lawn, grass swishing against the sides of his shoes. By the back fence, a tool shed that came with the house leaned a few inches to the left. The aluminum door was stuck but finally swung open with a reverberating clang.
He pulled on the leather work gloves and hefted the shovel onto his shoulder.
On the way back, he whistled the dwarves’ song from Snow White.
Easing the pointed blade under the dead mouse, he lifted it. There was no discernable weight difference with the body. When he got to the part of the yard he had designated “garden” he slid the mouse onto the ground and dug down a little over a foot. With gloved thumb and forefinger, he lifted the animal by its tail and dropped it in the hole. After scooping the dirt back in, he patted it down with the shovel. Leaning the shovel against his hip, Seth wiped the sweat from his face with the hem of his T-shirt.
Something rustled above him. The hawk, presumably the same one, was on a branch watching him, head cocked to one side. It couldn’t have been more than 20 feet away.
“Hey there. Thanks for the mouse, but it was a little small for me. Next time, you go ahead and eat it, okay?”
The hawk tilted its head the other way. It opened its beak, poking out its pink, bubblegum tongue, then shot into the air. He could feel the wind from its wings.
“Wow.”
*****
He dreamed he was at a carnival. A grotesquely fat man in red and white vertical stripes was screaming at him to buy cotton candy. The cardboard cone in his enormous hand, also red and white striped, was topped with pink, fluffy sticky sweet goo the size of a VW Bug. Seth was reaching for it, saliva pooling under his tongue when the man yanked it back. He leaned forward, screeching at the boy version of Seth, eyes narrowing, nose and chin lengthening, sharpening, almost meeting in front of his mouth. He shrieked again and again.
Seth woke up. He was fully grown, in his bed in his new house. The hawk was screeching again. He yawned hugely and rubbed sleep from his eyes. The dream fragmented and disappeared.
“Back again, huh? What’d you bring me today, bud?”
He opened the back door, shivering in the morning chill. By the back steps, in almost exactly the spot where he’d found the mouse, lay a dead chipmunk. Seth laughed.
“Well, that’s bigger all right, but still hardly a proper meal. You go ahead. I’m gonna make eggs instead. They’re from a chicken, so, um, no offense.”
After breakfast, his third cup of coffee and another three boxes unpacked, the chipmunk was still there. So was the hawk, watching him from the same branch. He looked at the bird, at the chipmunk, back at the bird. He shrugged.
“I don’t understand, bud. Do you want me to do something with this?”
He had forgotten to put the shovel away. It lay by the recently dug earth, his gloves on the handle. Pulling them on, he picked up the shovel and glanced once more at the hawk. The bird watched him. He raised an eyebrow and did his best Rod Serling impression, which was really pretty good.
“Picture if you will, a man. A man who had once lived in a city full of people, full of noise. A man who now lives in the country, where it is clean and quiet. Where animals live and maybe, just maybe behave in a manner alien to the man. A manner bizarre and perhaps a little frightening.”
The hawk didn’t seem particularly impressed. Seth dug a hole next to the first one and buried the chipmunk. When he was done, the hawk screeched. It was very loud this close without the window to muffle it. Gooseflesh bubbled on his arms. Even though he outweighed the bird by maybe 40 times, Seth felt a moment of fear.
He held the shovel in front of himself like a shield, or maybe a weapon. The hawk dove off the branch, straight at Seth’s face. He forgot about the shovel and ducked, hugging his knees. He expected talons to dig furrows in his skin, hot pain and blood. None of it came. When he looked up, the hawk was gone.
“Shit.”
*****
The next day, it was a mole. The day after, a rabbit. He left them both where they were, though the mole started to stink and draw flies. The morning after the rabbit, Seth woke to the hawk’s screech once again. He smacked his palm against the window glass hard.
“What? What do you want from me? I don’t get it, okay?”
The hawk sat on its branch and gazed at him.
“Fine. I’ll bite. What’d you bring me today?”
He threw back the sheet and got up. Opening the back door, he was hit by the stench of decay and gagged. He snagged the dish towel off the rack and covered his nose and mouth with it. On the back porch, he froze.
Next to the rotting mole and the stiff rabbit was a small dog. It was a terrier of some sort with short scruffy hair. It looked too big for the hawk to pick up. Deep puncture wounds dotted its shoulders and neck. It wasn’t breathing. He looked up at the hawk.
“This is somebody’s dog. What’s the matter with you?”
The hawk watched him.
“All right, look. This is getting ridiculous. I’m gonna bury these animals. I’d like you to stop bringing them, okay? Right. Okay then. Glad we got that settled.”
He dug three holes and buried three animals. The mole nearly made him puke. If he had eaten breakfast already, he wouldn’t have made it. After more than an hour, he patted the dirt flat with the shovel and stretched his back.
The hawk was still there. He tossed the shovel on the ground and spread his hands wide. The gloves were heavy with sweat and dirt.
“Whatcha got, huh, bird? Whatcha gonna do?”
His New York tough guy accent wasn’t nearly as good as his Rod Serling. The quaver in his voice didn’t help. The hawk preened its wing feathers, shot him another look and flew away. Seth watched it go. He shook his head.
“Nature. Christ.”
*****
The hawk had been screeching him awake at precisely 7:23 every morning. The night after it brought the terrier, Seth set his alarm clock to wake him at 6:45. When it did, he crawled out of bed, leaving the lights off in the house and felt his way to the back door, tripping over one box he had forgotten.
Pushing the curtain to one side, he peered out the back window. No hawk. No dead animal. For ten minutes he watched, hardly blinking. Then, after a jaw-cracking yawn, Seth dropped the curtain.
“Coffee. Must have coffee.”
He dumped yesterday’s grounds, unbleached filter and all, into the compost bucket. He could barely get the lid back on. Have to take that out today. The new pot had just started gurgling when he heard a thump outside.
“Damn it.”
Whipping open the back door, Seth saw the hawk, flying away from his house, up toward his tree. It looked back at him quickly, almost seeming surprised. He might have been projecting, he had to admit to himself. He looked down. His eyes bulged. His voice, when he found it, was barely audible.
“That’s impossible.”
A goat lay at the bottom of his back steps. Blood dripped from the holes that used to be its eyes. On the branch, something dark glistened on the hawk’s talons in the early morning light.
“You can’t,” he faltered. “You can’t carry a goat. It’s too heavy. The physics. You just can’t.”
The hawk watched him from its perch.
“But you did, didn’t you? Okay. This is crazy-ass Twilight Zone shit after all, huh? Should I bury the goat, too? Should I eat it? Gimme a hint pal.”
The hawk gave him only a cold stare. Seth went inside. He made coffee and called Jim, the only guy he knew out here, the man who’d found the house for him in the first place.
An hour later, Jim is in the backyard, standing across from him, looking down at the goat. Jim whistled through his front teeth.
“Damndest thing I’ve ever seen, that’s for sure.”
Seth nodded.
“What should I do with it?”
“Well, sir, goat’s pretty good eatin’. I’d gut it and cut it, I were you.”
Seth laughed.
“The only meat I’ve ever gotten has come wrapped in plastic. I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”
“What did you do before coming up here?”
“I acquired companies.”
Jim pulled a long, folding lock-blade off his belt. It had a built-in clip. With his thumb, he snapped open the blade.
“What’d you do with ‘em?”
“Sold them to someone else.”
“Hm. Sounds like pretty easy gig.”
Seth shook his head.
“It was horrible. The stress was unbelievable. That’s why I retired young and moved out here. To, you know, get away from it all.”
Jim nodded.
“Good for you. All right. Pay attention now. This is kinda messy, but it ain’t hard.”
Pulling one of the goat’s hind legs up, he stabbed through first one leg, then the other. Seth’s jaw clenched and he frowned.
“Why’d you do that?”
Jim grinned at him.
“I’ll show ya.”
Rooting around in the tool shed, he called out triumphantly.
“Aha. I knew old Bobby had one of these.”
He emerged a moment later with a long, black metal rod pointed on both ends.
“I saw that when I put some stuff in there. What is it?”
As an answer, Jim brought the rod back to the goat carcass. He pulled apart the leg wound and slid in the bar. Holding the other leg, he pushed the bar through that hole, too. When the goat legs were centered, he lifted the whole thing and carried it the tree. He propped it between two low branches.
“Ta-da.”
“Okay. Cool. I guess. What now?”
“Now, you gotta get the blood out.”
Before Seth could respond, Jim’s knife was out again, snapped open. He swept the edge of the blade across the goat’s throat, pushing on it go deep. Blood flowed out and spilled out onto the ground. Seth gagged.
“Jesus. I mean, you could’ve warned me.”
Jim shook his head and shot him an affectionate smile.
“City boy.”
After the goat bled out, which took a while, since it had been dead for a few hours already, Jim cut the rest of the way through the muscles and tendons of the neck to the spine. He twisted the vertebrae with both hands, back and forth until they snapped. He held up the eyeless goat’s head to Seth.
“You want to keep the skull? Look pretty cool on the mantle.”
Seth shook his head. He swallowed.
“No thanks. I don’t think I could handle the smell.”
Jim threw his head back and laughed.
“No, man. You put it on a stick so it’s up off the ground, as far from the house as you can. Birds and bugs come and pick it clean. Before you know it, nice white goat skull. No smell.”
Seth admitted that it sounded kind of cool to have a nice, clean goat skull on his mantle and asked Jim if he could set up the whole “stick” thing for him. Jim agreed.
“Okay. Next step.”
Jim pierced the goat’s skin, drawing the blade across and down with practiced ease. He then peeled the skin off in one large piece.
“I can make gloves and moccasins out of this. A few pair of each probably. You let me keep it and I’ll make you a set.”
“Yeah. Sounds good. Thanks. Do you mind if I go inside for a while? I don’t feel so hot.”
Jim snorted, but waved him away. As Seth turned away from what was left of the goat, he caught movement above him. The hawk was watching him. Seth kept his eyes on the bird until he was inside.
*****
Goat tasted pretty much like lamb to Seth. He gave a lot of the meat to Jim for doing all the work, froze a bunch and ate some for dinner that night.
He woke, sweating from a dream in which an eyeless goat sat across from him at the kitchen table reciting lines from Dante’s “Inferno”. He scrubbed his palms across his eyes.
“I’m going to become a vegetarian.”
He glanced at the clock. It was 7:38. The hawk hadn’t screeched him awake. Jim got out of bed and went to the back door. The air was still cool, though the sun was on its way up. The few clouds in the sky were tinged orange with its light. Birdsong drifted toward him from the left. He inhaled deeply through his nose and smiled. He was a long way from car horns and tall buildings with massive air-conditioners and thousands of windows reflecting the sun. A long way from corporate sponsors and three martini lunches.
A shadow blotted out the sky above him. By reflex, Seth pushed himself back against the door. He looked up.
“Shit.”
A cow fell to the ground in front of him. A very tired looking hawk flew slowly to its branch and settled there. It shook its feathers, losing two of them.
Seth goggled at the hawk for a long time. The hawk stared back. The cow had a capital letter Q branded onto its flank. A quick phone call to Jim confirmed that it was from the Ten Q Ranch a few miles down the road.
“I’m sorry, bud. I just can’t believe a hawk carried a cow four miles through the air and dropped it in your back yard.”
“I saw it happen. I saw the cow drop from its talons, man. I freakin’ saw it.”
There was a long moment of silence on the other end.
“You moved out here because of stress, right?”
Seth sighed.
“Yeah. But I’m not losing it, Jim. This actually happened.”
“Okay. Whatever you say, bud.”
He gave Seth the name of a butcher who would come pick up the carcass and pay for the meat. The truck showed up half an hour later. The hawk watched them load the cow and take it away. After, Seth stood in his backyard and gazed up at the bird.
“What do you want from me? I don’t get this. None of this makes any sense. And, it’s impossible. You are defying physics and the laws of nature and probably some other stuff. Frankly, it’s freaking me out a little bit.”
The hawk didn’t seem to have a reply.
*****
Three weeks had passed since the cow. Every morning, Seth woke at 7:23 am. He did not set his alarm and the hawk hadn’t been back. He just woke up. Maybe carrying a cow for four miles had done it in. Can hawks have heart attacks? Seth had no idea.
Every morning, no later than 7:40, he would stand on the back steps, looking toward the sky. By eight, he’d give up and make coffee, figure out what to unpack next.
He had eaten so much beef lately, he’d put on 20 pounds. He stood outside with his coffee cup, wearing faded flannel pajamas and yawned into the sky. He rubbed his rounded belly and contemplated breakfast.
The hawk screeched, startling him. The coffee sloshed over his fingers.
“Ow. Damn, that’s hot.”
He set down the cup and started to stand. Before he was upright piercing pain exploded in his shoulders.
Talons dug through his skin, into the meat of his trapezius muscles. Seth cried out.
The hawk strained, talons digging further in, scraping along bone. The wind from its wings buffeted his hair. He tried to reach up, to grab it, but moving his arms was agony and he could do no more than swat feebly at the hawk.
They left the ground. The hawk gained altitude fast. Seth could feel the blood running down into his pajama bottoms and dripping off his feet.
After what felt like hours, the hawk finally let him go, dropping him in a massive aerie on the side of a mountain. He slumped over, tears of pain and relief squeezing from his eyes. He huddled in the fetal position, eyes screwed shut.
“Ow.”
Something bit him on the thigh. From underneath Seth, crawling out of the downy fluff, dozens of baby hawks waddled toward him. Their small but viciously sharp beaks took tiny pieces of his flesh.
After only a few bites, he got up screaming and launched himself over the edge. He fell forty feet to an unyielding ledge. He broke both legs and several ribs. There was a bone sticking out of one arm. For a moment, he stared at it, blinking.
Struggling to crawl away, he was seized once again by the hawk. This time, the talons sank into the meat of his buttocks. The hawk lifted him and flew up. Seth was once again dropped in the big nest. The biting started again. He swatted at them, keeping them away from his face. He locked eyes with the hawk.
The mother. She had brought him to feed her babies.
He had no strength to flee.
Raising his good hand, he gave the hawk the finger.
Lunging forward, she bit it off. He screamed, clutching the hand to his chest. Adrenaline coursed through him. He thrashed in the big nest and managed to crush one of the baby hawks with an elbow.
“Ha. One less mouth to feed, you bitch.”
The mother hawk hopped closer. Seth was spent and could only watch. She leaned in, cocking her head so their eyes met. Deliberately, she opened her beak where he could see it. He felt the hard curve of it on his throat.
He flashed on a childhood visit to the doctor, who with needle poised said “You’re going to feel a small pinch.”
The hawk bit down and severed the artery. Blood splashed off the bird’s face and got in Seth’s eye. He sobbed once.
Tiny talons swarmed over him and small, sharp beaks took bits of flesh, exposing white bone.
The babies ate well, but already the hawk was thinking ahead to their next meal.
Ken MacGregor’s work has appeared in dozens of anthologies and magazines. His story collection, “An Aberrant Mind” is available online and in select bookstores. Ken is a member of the Great Lakes Association of Horror Writers and an Affiliate member of HWA. He edits an annual horror-themed anthology for the former. He has also dabbled in TV, radio, movies and sketch comedy. Recently, he co-wrote a novel and is working on the sequel. Ken lives in Michigan with his family and two tiny, quadrupedal predators.
