Crutchfield County, Virginia
Friday Morning, September 2
The Visions Begin
The heavy heat of late summer lingered in the Piedmont. Horsemen scheduled their exercise rides early before the air turned to steam and the sparrow-sized horseflies massed for full assault. Thumper Billington rode out from his home, Montfair, shortly after sunrise. Cantering down a shady tunnel through the pine woods, he saw Ryman McKendrick walking across the open field ahead.
McKendrick’s appearance showed he’d taken a tumble. He walked stiffly, with a limp in his left leg. His hardhat sat askew on his head. Grass stains smudged the back of his white polo shirt. A smear of gritty soil slashed across one cheek of his blue jeans.
“Ry,” Billington called out, “you okay?”
Ryman stopped and turned to face the approaching rider. Billington knew well the unfocused look of a concussion. He’d seen it dozens of times on the faces of others, a few times in his own mirror.
“Damnedest thing,” Ryman said. “Biggest deer I’ve ever seen. A buck. Must have been at least a twelve-pointer, maybe fourteen. And this thing—something in the middle of its rack. Couldn’t tell what.”
Thumper dismounted and gave Ryman a critical assessment. “Deer spook, huh? Anything broken?” He lifted a hand, three digits raised. “How many fingers am I holding up?”
“Sumbitch flew out of the woods. I mean he really flew. Like airborne. Right in front of my horse. What was that thing? Shiny. Like it was hanging between his antlers.”
“Ryman, listen to me. What day is it?”
“I musta gone over the horse’s head. I was riding Colby, that youngster just off the track. Probably never seen a deer that close before.” Ryman looked around. “Musta hightailed it home. Or he could be halfway back to Charles Town by now.”
“Okay, Ry, you got yourself a royal concussion. We can skip the President of the United States question.” Thumper pulled out his cell phone. “I think we’d better arrange for a trip in the red light limo.”
“And there was this mouth.” Ryman’s eyes suddenly regained their focus and he grabbed Thumper’s arm before he could push the 911 button. “It was, like, floating above me. I was on the ground, on my back. And I could see the mouth, with the lips moving, trying to tell me something. But I couldn’t hear any sound. And it wasn’t human. I… I remember thin lips, black maybe, and square teeth.” He released his friend’s arm and the unfocused gaze returned. “Where’s my goddamn horse?”
“I’m sure he went back to the barn. I’ll get you home. Then we’ll get you checked out.”
Ryman’s hand shot forward again and blocked Thumper’s second attempt to push the button. “You were holding up three fingers, it’s Friday, and the President of the United States is your typical asshole who says one thing, does another. Half the country thinks he’s God and the other half thinks he’s a commie.”
“Damn, that was a quick recovery.”
“I probably do have a concussion. Hell, just another day at the office, right? But I really did see this, Thumper. Huge goddamn deer, enormous rack. And something else. It all happened so fast. I was galloping along the edge of the woods over by Caleb’s Forty and this sumbitch just came outta nowhere, right in front of me. Next thing I knew I was on the ground, horse was gone. When I sat up, the deer was standing across the field, looking at me. The sun was shining off some strange thing, like it was… sort of… suspended above its head. I stood up to get a better look and the damn deer just… disappeared.”
“I don’t know, Ry. A nasty head bump can come back to bite you later.”
“Shit, Thumper, I’ve had a lot worse than this. So have you. I’m awake and standing upright, ain’t I? Besides, I don’t have time for all that medical crap. I gotta get to town, run some errands, then get to the shop.”
Billington put his cell phone away. “All right. But I’m escorting your ass back home.”
During the long walk to the McKendricks’ place, Fair Enough Farm, Thumper kept Ryman’s bruised brain engaged with light banter, discussing the success of the summer exercise program for their horses and hounds. Joint-masters of the Montfair Hunt, the most important concern to both men was that the informal season of the foxhunting calendar was scheduled to begin the following morning.
The conversation drifted in and out of lucid exchange. At times Ryman spoke with clarity of a specific hound, a promising new entry, and his expectations of how well the hound would hunt. Then he mumbled the same remarks about the deer that spooked his horse, the height of its leap, the size of its rack, his glimpse of some strange object between its antlers, and the image of moving lips floating above him as he lay on the ground. He then looked around, wondered where his horse was, and the loop—hound, deer, leap, rack, mysterious object, moving lips, where’s my horse?—repeated.
They found the young Thoroughbred outside the Fair Enough barn. It hadn’t taken him long to learn where his new home was and the pull of the herd guided him back. The only damage was a broken set of reins.
After untacking and turning the horse out to pasture, Ryman limped toward his F250.
“You sure you’re okay to drive?” Thumper asked. “Looks like it’s not just your head that got smacked.”
“Ah, hell, I’m fine. Back’s a little sore. Hard damn ground to be landing on. Nothing broken though. Got some ibuprofen in the truck, gotta hit the ABC store for some scotch to wash it down with. That’ll fix me up.”
“Maybe the errands can wait. Have Nardell keep an eye on you. If you were having hallucinations, you probably have a more serious concussion than you realize.”
“They weren’t hallucinations. Anyway, Nardell’s got appointments this morning and I got things I gotta do. I’ll see you at kennels tomorrow morning, bright and early.”
Thumper watched as Ryman drove down the dusty road leaving Fair Enough Farm. He could only hope in some vague way that his friend would not pass out behind the wheel. Neither of them were praying men. Chasing foxes was their faith, scotch whiskey their savior’s blood, ham biscuits their wafers. Their “Hallelujah!” was “Tally-ho!” and “Amen” was “Gone to Ground.”
