CHASING SHADOWS

A shadow of movement zipped across the forest floor. Peter tried to convince himself it was his imagination. He stared at that spot for thirty more seconds. Nothing. He listened. If the turkey had indeed quietly closed the distance as his father said, he might hear it rustling. His father had stopped calling and his quiet stillness seemed impossible for Peter to mimic. The boy tried, but caught himself fidgeting every few minutes. The stern reprimand he expected never came. His father did not make a sound. His father did not move.

                Finally, Peter heard a whisper. “Get ready.”

                Peter gently lifted his shotgun to peer down the barrel and a turkey gobbled so close it seemed he could feel his veins vibrate. Peter jerked back in surprise and had to stop himself from calling out to his father. He wanted to ask where it was. He wanted to tap his father on the shoulder, but he was afraid to move. His father had told him not to. 

                Peter listened to the silence. He knew birds had to be chirping. He knew squirrels were probably chattering somewhere. He knew the breeze must be rustling the leaves overhead, but he wanted to hear the turkey and in his focus on that, it was only the silence that registered in his ears. 

He tried to look at his father beside him without moving his head, but could only tell for sure that he was there. He could not tell which direction his father was looking in. Peter had been told that a turkey might see him blink, so he sat there listening, staring into the brush ahead of him, and trying to subdue his trembling with slow breaths. It was not working. 

He heard a rustle. There was movement to his right. At least, he thought there was.

“Shoot,” his father whispered. 

Peter pulled his head away from the stock just long enough to see the turkey strutting to his right. He swung the barrel and fired too quickly. The turkey slapped its wings into the dirt and stumbled, but in a moment was up and running.

Peter’s father grabbed the boy’s sleeve near the shoulder and pulled him up. “We have to get him before he gets away. Don’t reload and stay close.” His father ran after the wounded bird. 

Excited, startled and a bit confused, Peter hesitated before opening the chamber to verify his 20-gauge was unloaded. Then he jump to his feet and sprinted after his dad, making sure to keep the shotgun pointed in a safe direction.  

His father had increased the distance between them and was now entering the brush line. Just as Peter was a ready to crash head first into the bushes, he saw a turkey rush by through a small opening into the woods to his left. It looked to Peter as if it were limping. 

“Dad,” he half-whispered, half-yelled. His dad could not have heard him running through the brush. If he chased down his father, they would surely lose the tom. But if he chased down and finished off the wounded bird, his father would be proud of him. His father hated wounding game. Peter could imagine his father’s reaction when he realized they had lost the turkey. Following the turkey would be a direct disobedience to his father’s direction. But he had seen the turkey go into the woods. His father was leading him in the opposite direction. Peter had to get the turkey. It was important. And just like that, he chose to follow the wild bird. His father would soon realize what happened and be right behind him. If not, Peter could find him later. 

                After five minutes running in the direction the turkey had led him, Peter stopped to listen for it. He heard nothing, but was certain the turkey went in the direction he was headed. How far could it actually go if it was wounded? He pressed on a bit further but at a slower, more cautious pace. 

                If he could just get the turkey. His father would be proud. He would finally be a true turkey hunter. His bird would be the one his father smoked for all the neighbors to enjoy. And he would be sure to tell them it was his when they commented on how it tasted. It would be his turkey, his success, his glory. He just had to get that turkey. He had to find it. He had to.

                After another ten minutes chasing shadows and rustling sounds, Peter’s stomach began to burn with nervousness. He had not seen or heard the turkey at all since chasing after it. Now, what he saw or heard seemed only half-real. He realized had no idea where he was. Worse than all of that, he had no idea where his father was. His father—whom he had disobeyed. 

  Fear, confusion, and shame seemed to consume him from the inside.

                As he stood there wanting to cry, he realized he was chasing a shadow. He should have never left his father. He should have never went his own way. What if he could not find his way back? What if his father could not find him in time? What if he had to spend the night alone in the woods? His father would be angry. Peter was afraid of being found. But he was more afraid of not being found. 

                The woods no longer held the promise of adventure. Now, the shadows seemed to move toward him—a creeping darkness threatening to engulf him. What had he done? He fell to his knees and shouted. “Dad! Dad! I need you!”

                There was no answer. How far had they run apart from each other? Peter searched for a clue to where he was. Each tree was different, but contained a sameness Peter could not decipher. And the brush was like an unending  tangle of branches and leaves and thorns. Which way had he come from? Which way was the road? Which way was his father?

                Peter took off running in the direction he thought was right. After a few branches slapped him in the face, he stopped. Was this the right direction? How could he know? His father had mentioned something about going to the west. That would be toward where the sun had just set. He ran a few yards, but the branches seemed to be reaching out for him, so he slowed down. A few minutes later, darkness had overwhelmed everything. 

                Peter called for his father again. Then he dropped to his knees and began to whimper. A cold crept around the edges of his neck. It felt as if it slithered around his shoulders. All he could think was that he did not want to die. “Daddy, where are you?” he said more to himself than anything else. 

                He heard it first through his own sniffling, but it was so quiet he thought he must have imagined it. Had someone actually said his name? He tried to subdue his breathing and listen to the silence.  For some time, it seemed he could only hear the sound of his own breath. 

                Something rustled to his right. It sounded like a growl at first, but ended in something like a hiss. He knew coyotes hunted at night. He imagined snakes and spiders and monsters from nightmares he thought he had forgotten. 

Peter closed his eyes and started to weep. “I’m sorry, Daddy,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

             From the opposite direction, he heard something else. 

“Peter!” This time it was loud and familiar. He opened his eyes to see a light shining toward him. “I’m here, Peter. It’s okay.”

                A moment later, his father consumed him in an embrace. Peter’s fear and shame and confusion evaporated. In that moment, nothing else in the world existed for Peter but his father’s love.

                That knowledge, that clarity, changed everything.