It was around 1am
when we decided to unhook the great curved bow from the wall. In
these moments, your energy is affirmed by the great magnet, and you
have no choice but to ride the undertow, being careful to keep your
moral compass aimed North and avoid getting arrested. The five of us
were heading out on a Boar hunt – we were going to use the mahogany
weapon to plunge two inches of high-carbon steel through the throat
of a swine. I was in the valley of the Loire river and, if it makes
you feel more comfortable, we were around one mile from the closest
neighbour – a fat vineyard owner with an affinity for corruption
and a pack of German Shepherds that prowled through the grapes and
hills at night.
My cousin and I were
headed for Paris, leaving Le Mans that morning after espresso at the
brasserie under Cathedral hill. It was only logical that we head
South, stopping that evening at Denée in the Loire valley with Manu,
Karine and their 11 year old daughter Clémentine for the usual
French reunion. I have known these people for years, and they are
good people – but after five hours of heavy drinking and laughter,
the skin begins to splinter and crack. Fissures blister open and some
deep-seated loop of primordial DNA will emerge – commanding its
host to revert to a savage caricature of her socialised self. This
explained why Manu was now taking me to his 15th Century
cellar for a pivotal discussion on the appropriate footwear and
arrowhead. The crescent head, I learned, would sever the tendons and
mangle the ligaments, provoking serious blood loss and a gradual
failure of the motor systems. Jesus Christ – What has
happened here & who would make sense of this night? Well, I'm
telling you your honour! I was outside soaking in the pool,
stargazing if you like – and this giant Boar, I think his name was
Brutus – he gored my cousin and opened a gash down my inner groin
with his twisted yellow tusk & if it hadn't been for Clémentine
in the window, we'd be finished. Of course it took seven arrows to
cut him down! One in each knee and three between the eyes, she's an
expert marksman at 11, you have to believe me! … No, this would not
do at all.
It was the cherries
that finished me, hundreds of them, preserved for months in a potent
blend of triple distilled cognac, gifted to Manu by my own
grandfather – a veteran artillery captain of the Algerian war who
was at this very moment sleeping just six miles downriver. We had
gone through the agave tequila, tonnes of these preserved cherries
with vanilla ice cream, a small bottle of Irish whiskey and at least three bottles of merlot from the previously mentioned winegrower –
the third tasted like German Shepherd shit.
I was also in a
period of serious recovery from a short period of grappling with
Clémentine's cat – a savage animal, motivated entirely by greed
and a Darwinian desire to fulfil her daily iron quotas with red blood
cells from a fresh kill. This bitch pounced on my shoulder, claws
bared – and so I crushed her between the flesh of my own back and
the cold stone of the Medieval walls. No, I am not proud but the
excitement factor outweighed my moral obligation – and I do not
care if this cat now suffers from short-term memory loss or a
depressed skull fracture – Fuck her. We took a photo together five
minutes later on the wooden staircase – a symbol of my enduring
love and our commitment to 'Peace on Earth'. Neither of us had gained
the upper hand or ascended the dominance hierarchy, and so a mutual
distrust straddled the rift between us, captured forever. It reminds
me of the times when President Trump meets with a foreign leader –
similar to an ape experimenting with a petroleum fire. I'm sure
there's a reference to Greek mythology here but there is no time, and
besides, I need her around me like I need cancer in my left testicle.
Clémentine's cat
would not join us on the hunt, her pouncing action is obsolete. The
family Husky would join us instead to flush the swine out. I emerged
from the cellar, stumbling, with a quiver of crescent-heads in my
left hand and 88 pounds of Alaskan canine in my right.
The night river wind
is strong and true and the Boar will be active at this time. He knows
that only the best and worst of humanity is awake at this hour; the
moon, the alcohol and the aggressive feline have all conspired to
produce victimised you. My disgusting revenge streak is in condition
Red, pulsing deep in my subconscious. So, Clémentine and I stalk
through the forest, she controls the bow, I hand her arrows and let
the hound guide me – Like Robin Hood gone mad on tequila and poison
cherries, responsible for my inner integrity and the safety of an 11
year old Princess.
Where were you when
the arrows began to fly?
...
Shrieking to my
right, the hound pulls to the West; we are close, apparently.
Clémentine looses an arrow deep into the undergrowth, Manu laughs
150 yards to my left. The river runs fast, swollen with the winter
rains and everything is darkness. The Hound pushes on, she is born
with an innate understanding of survival. 40 days & 40 nights
alone in the desert, it will change a man and his dog - you can never
catch us now Mr. President. An arrow buries itself into a tree to my
right, I am deeply disturbed – screw the Boar. Arrows fly again,
three or four of them and now I am shooting in the direction of the
scuffling noises, as advised. I have been reduced to the famous
Nuremberg defence of 1945 - “I was just following orders!”. The she-dog is barking now, echoed in sequence by the fat man's
German Shepherds. In their ignorance, these creatures think only of
chaos and decay.
There is a kind of
sexual psychology, placed deep in the mentality of the chase. The
virgin strives to outpace her oppression and must settle instead for
flesh and bone. The prey desires only what she is allowed to know –
constrained to a rudimentary understanding of love and the inconstant
tryst, a lover's rendezvous.
I think Clémentine
might have wounded the beast, but I was not paying attention. I heard
the sounds of panic and mauling ahead of me. But no, the moon sinks
low and I am tired of pursuing a corrupt ideology – firing arrows
into the curious dark and stopping only to pet the dog and
re-establish my connection with this earth. God knows that blood has
been spilled by the riverbank, but God also knows that this Boar will
run free. The deep winter is no time for death. He is what you would
call his own man. Autonomy is a rare commodity, and the soil here is
dark, rich and wet. I trust that the Boar has survived our assault
and I know that he will continue to wreak havoc here, long after we
are gone.
Damn, I am finished writing this trash and my fuel tank
struck empty about twenty minutes ago. The Boar is sleeping or
healing – we should not drop bombs on him or pierce his hide -
this will kill our vibe, possibly forever.
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