A Tall Thanksgiving Tale By: Michael J. Files

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Matilda
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A Tall Thanksgiving Tale By: Michael J. Files

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By: Michael J. Files

It was cold and dreary in the early pre-dawn as the eleven year old William Shaddox stepped out of his mother's single room shanty. Behind him, he could still hear the quiet noises of sleep made by his older siblings, his mother Mellie, his brother Henry and his two sisters Lilly and Bobbie, still in their warm bed fast asleep. His father he had never known. The man whose name he carried had left when William was still an infant neither hide nor hair had been seen of him since.

The gaunt young man cast a weary eye to the east; shades of orange and purple signaled the ascent of the soon to be risen sun. In his right hand, an antiquated, rusty .410 single shot shotgun, in his left hand a single smallish brown shell. This was the last shell in the Shaddox home and young William had hopeful plans for it.

Today was Thanksgiving the year 1937 and the only food in their home was perhaps enough flour for another mess of biscuits and watery gravy. Enough if they were lucky, to provide another breakfast for the family.

His face was grave as he started down the path toward the river. The task ahead was a serious one. Devoid of almost, all even their most basic staple items. It was not only Thanksgiving dinner he hunted but for the continued survival of those he cared so much for. Having only one shell for the gun, William knew he had no room for error. He had to make his one shot count.

Slowly the damp darkness began to give way to the dawn. Earthy smells filled his nose as he made his way between the trees and through the low underbrush. Black shapes had surrounded him, now they were turning wet. Standing in a small area free of brush, a drake was apparently searching for its own meal. It was an open shot and not too far, William knew for the small firearm in his hands.

He raised the gun to his shoulder slowly, careful not to alert his quarry of the prescience of the hunter and took a step forward. He sighted the weapon on the unsuspecting fowl. Just as he was beginning to squeeze the trigger, a noise above him and to his right caught his attention. Keeping his aim on the duck, William glanced in the direction of the noise and once again found himself not believing his luck.

On a relatively low branch of a hickory tree, maybe ten long paces away, were two wild turkeys sitting side by side. "Momma's gonna be so proud" he thought to himself. He slowly turned the gun in the direction of his new targets. He knew he could only hope to get one of the birds, but even one of the large turkeys could easily make three of the drakes across the river. And turkey, on Thanksgiving! Shifting his weight onto his left foot and pivoting, he moved his right hand planted it firmly and prepared for his triumphant shot.

Once again as he began to squeeze the trigger another noise caught his attention. Unfortunately this time the noise was familiar and dreaded. The staccato tat-tat-tat of a rattlesnake about to strike was not unfamiliar to the boy and he knew in an instant he was in trouble. He lowered his gun gingerly, his eye staying on the sight at the end of the barrel and brought the shotgun to bear on the snake. Barely a foot away from the foot William had just put down. There it was three feet long, marked with grey and black, lay the large snake. It was coiled and ready to strike; its tail rattled menacingly. All thoughts of the duck and turkeys and Thanksgiving dinner were gone from William's thoughts as he pulled the trigger and fired the lone slug into the head of the viper.

The slug instantly struck its target, killing the snake.

William ducked as he heard the zing of the slug ricocheting off a stone slightly under and behind his target. Instinctively he dropped the gun and crouching down low, brought his arms up protectively around his head. At the same instant from above he heard another crack and zing as the projectile bounced off yet another object and went wheezing over his head and across the river.

He slowly rose, shaking and his eyes fell on the remains of his would be assailant. As the pounding of the heartbeat in his ears subsided, shrieking squawks and squabbles made their way into his thoughts. Turning back to the tree where the to turkeys had been roosting, the site William saw there stunned him.

Slowly a giggle rose up in the boy, giving way to outright gut bursting laughter. The two turkeys were still there, flapping their wings, screeching and flapping about wildly. The ricocheting slug had struck the branch on which they had been resting and the old hard hickory had split. In the instant the branch was burst open, the resting birds feet had fallen into the gap. Then the limb had snapped back together, trapping the now obviously distraught gobblers.

As William bent over, holding his sides, with tears of laughter flowing from his eyes, he turned his head back toward the river. What he beheld there only increased his already uncontrollable glee. It seemed the duck, to had fallen prey to the wild slug. It lay still on the far bank of the river.

After a few minutes his laughter finally subsided, and despite the wet and cold, warmth filled the boy's body. He decided that the duck wasn't going anywhere, so he had better get to work on the turkeys before their thrashing might get them free. He walked over to the tree in which they were trapped, thinking to himself of how no one was going to believe this story. He pulled his knife from his pocket, clambered up to a limb just below, the one holding the birds. Grasping the rent branch in one hand he began to whittle it off at the base. Presently the limb snapped under his steady hacking. Knife still in hand, he quickly reached up and got the free hand on the branch, trying to steady the ever increasingly wild flailing birds.

Trying desperately to escape, the gobblers lunged forward. Pushing William backwards and losing his balance, he braced himself for a fall. But the impact never came and for that matter neither did the fall. Not relinquishing his grip on the branch, the turkeys had taken flight, carrying him with them. Petrified the young boy was helpless and his fright forbade him to let go. So slowly upward the strange trio rose, crossing the river and looking like they had a really good chance of clearing the tree line beyond. William watched the ground get further away and thought he didn't know what. He knew he must do something and fast.

As some of the smaller trees passed below his feet, he looked ahead to see an old rotten dead tree. The snag looked like the only thing the boy had a chance of getting a hold of. So as the birds drew him near it, he let go and flung himself mightily towards the old tree.

His intent had been to wrap his arms and legs around the tree and once on it, slide down to the safety of the ground. But the tree rotten as it was did not support his intentions and so through the side of the tree he went, sawdust and old worm eaten bark filling his eyes and nose and mouth. With a dull thud he struck the inside wall of the back of the tree, which showed itself now to be not only rotten, but hollow as well. In the darkness he tumbled until he finally came to a stop in the dank, dark softness that was the bottom of the hollow tree.

He rubbed the dust from his eyes, nose and the raucousness from his mouth, took a deep breath and began to check himself for injuries. He felt himself over and satisfied that nothing was broken he righted himself in the tight hole. Looking up, daylight seemed to be a long way away. A small dim circle was all of the outside world he could see. Propping up on one weary arm to think, Williams hand came to rest on his pocket knife, which as far as he could tell had seemed to survive the tumultuous fall, too.

As he was thinking things just couldn't get much worse, the dim light above him abruptly blinked out. Dust rained down on him and great scratching noises came from above. As the noises drew nearer, now accompanied by the grunting and breathing sounds of a great beast. William did the only thing he could think of. Rolling into a ball, he raised his left hand over his head and prepared to fight for his life.

It happened to be the bear's tail that reached the hand first and as that hand latched onto it. The other rose up from the darkness to shove the small knife deep into whatever it could reach. The unsuspecting bear who never knew that he wasn't alone until it was too late, let out a terrible roar. Well actually it was more like a terrible scream, but who could blame him.

Faster then lightening, the howling bear changed his direction and shot upwards through the tree. William without a chance to think or even react maintained his grip on the animal's tail. Upwards and out of the old rotten tree the pair flew, and at the top the boy let go. The bear went one way and William the other.

Crashing down through the limbs and vines and nearby trees and finally coming to a rest in a rather awkward position amid the brambles of the forest floor. The only sign of the bear the boy could hear was the sounds of the bear crashing through the underbrush as he fled away, still expressing rather profoundly his indignity. The wind had been knocked from him and it was several moments before he gained his composure. Oddly he realized laying there among the brush, it had stopped raining, though the clouds overhead still darkly threatened to resume their previous relentless punishment.

Finally his breath returned and William weakly arose to stand shakily next to the old snag. He began to wearily make his way back towards the river, picked up the mallard from the river bank, and headed slightly downstream towards a ford, where crossing would be easier. As he neared the ford, a sight caught his eye that if he had not been so bedraggled would have brought another laugh up within him. Apparently the earlier flight and weight of the turkey's unwanted passenger had tired them out, and they had come to settle in a somewhat large blackberry patch. The branch, which still held them shackled, had become entangled in the thick thorny spines of the berry bushes. Setting the duck nearby, he carefully made his way into the briars and with his trusty knife made sure that another flight would not accompany his attempt to return home with the birds.

After wrestling the old gobblers from the brambles, he gathered the duck up from where he had left it, and began the arduous task of getting them across the swiftly running, but shallow waters at the ford. On the other side of the river, an exhausted William placed all the birds in a rather large pile and sat down, back against the trunk of an oak and resting wondering silently to himself how he was going to get the rewards of the day's adventures up the long trail home. He decided that after a short rest, he would return home, hitch up the families, old mule to the drag sled behind the house and let the beast bear the burden.

It took the better part of an hour for William to get home, hitch up the mule and return to the spot near the river where he had left his quarry. The rain had begun again, and by the time he had all the birds loaded on the sled and relocated his dropped firearm, it was pouring so hard that he could barely see the trail in front of the mule ahead of him. He ducked his head and peering through squinted eyes, made his way home.

Pulling up in front of the old house, the rain finally slacking off (as of course it would now that he was home?). The cold, wet and tired boy doggedly turned to unload the sled and much to his bewilderment, the sled was no where to be seen. The rainwater had soaked the leather strapping of the harness and all he could see were the leads stretching off into the trees, out of site and down the path. This was just quite simply the last straw, more than the boy could handle and in exasperation, he threw up his hands and sighed and turned toward the house.

The occupants in the house looked on in surprise as a soggy, rag doll version of William staggered through the door of the shack. Not hearing his mother and sibling's questions of where he had been, what happened and why he looked so darn bad, he made three steps towards the bed they all shared each night and collapsed upon it, where he fell into a deep sleep known only to weary adventurers whose names pop up here and there in myth and campsite stories.

He had no idea how long he slept, or even when he did, so hard was his slumber. But when he awoke it was late afternoon, sunlight peered through the windows, adding warmth to that of the old pot bellied cook stove, from which wonderful scents were now emanating.

His older brother Henry, smiling radiantly, told William that after, coming into the house and passing out on the bed. The older sibling had gone outside to try and gather some clue as to what had gotten the best of his brother. The storm had just passed, the clouds had broken and the sun was just beginning to shine. Henry told him. The mule had been standing there looking bored as always, and the leather leads stretched off into the nearby woods with no load to be seen. As he stood there looking at the strange sight, the warm rays of the sun shining down began to dry the soaked leather straps and with squeaks and creaks they began to shorten.

Henry just stood there and watched, amazed as a few minutes later, the sled slowly rounded the bend in the trail and within the space of half an hour it had drawn itself up to precisely where it should have been. The older brother had called out to their mother at the sight of the two large turkeys and the mallard drake on the sled.

After pondering the sight, the family had unloaded the birds and set about preparing dinner, chattering noisily amongst each other, all proliferating their prospective ideas as to exactly what had led to William showing up as he had, a veritable feast trailing, quite literally behind him.

Quietly, William listened and letting his brother finish this account and look questioningly at him, obviously expecting his younger sibling to tell his story. William looked thoughtfully around the room and after a moment smiled softly. Raising his own eyes to meet the warm brown of his mothers, he quietly spoke.

"Let's just say this is one Thanksgiving I don't think I'll ever forget."

Copyright 2002 Michael J. Files

Author's note-This story was told to me several times over campfires and coffee tables by my grandfather, William Wiley Shaddox. He always swore it to be the utmost truth, but judging by my grandmothers sideways glances the story always pulled, I'm not quite sure-M.J.F.

Michael J. Files is a freelance writer from Missouri.

Published by U.S. Legacies: November 2003
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