Chapter 22

"It's far better to speak only by using hand signals."

Lanker arises from the bed, moving quickly to put on his clothes. His grandfather is already dressed in dark brown, well used coveralls. He grabs his wood brown felt Fedora while he pours himself a steaming cup of charcoal black coffee from a depression era stainless steel pot sitting on the burner of the wood stove in the kitchen. By the time Lanker finishes putting on his clothes, grandfather absorbs two cups of coffee. Soon Lanker thumps down the hallway, toward the living room, and into the dining room, then steps across the threshold.

"Are you ready to go boy?" his grandfather asks.

"Yeah."

"Now boy, you have to keep quiet when we step out this door. Try to walk quietly, even though you have on those casts. Sound will carry for hundreds of yards in the morning and evening air, especially when it's cold out. You'll learn how to trap birds today. We're after quail and turkey, which there are plenty of hereabouts. Are you ready?"

"Let's go! I'm ready when you are," replies the little boy.

The child follows the old man as he steps out the door. Thank God for the rubber stoppers on the bottoms of his casts. As the two make their way off the brick steps, and out into the two-acre yard; for all practical purposes they are already in the woods, since many trees and bushes of all types flourish throughout the entire yard space. Many times, rabbits, squirrels, quail, turkey, and even fairly large deer are often seen foraging for food in congregated herds, right there in his granddaddy's yard.

As they both make their way through the yard, Lanker's grandfather is amazed at how quietly Lanker can already move about on dried leaves, even though he still wears casts on both feet and legs, from below the knees, down. In no time they both are stepping into the edge of a twenty acre, gradually thickening wood stand behind the home of his grandparents.

"Do you see in the distance there, where the vegetation begins to thicken?" his grandfather points, whispering to him as he pauses beside him.

"Yes."

"Always go inside there to set any trap. A good rule of thumb is to step out at least thirty yards into the wood stand, and never use any type of established trail. If you do make use of an animal trail, look at the bend of the trees, and find one that is unusual to the point where it stands out, then walk twenty yards outward from it. If animal sign is anywhere around, and one uses good bait, they'll still come to your trap. I like to find four productive areas, determine from the sign what game is using the area, then make a good trap. Never completely harvest an area out, and you can always collect meat, son."

His grandfather begins glancing around into the treetops, then he suddenly points.

"Do you see that black oak, with the double trunk?"

"Yeah, I do," whispers Lanker.

"That is what I mean by noticing trees with unusual features. That yonder is my trap sign for this area."

In complete silence his grandfather begins easing forward in that direction. Lanker follows along, trying to do so as his grandfather, but feeling as though he is failing to maintain his silence walking about in dried leaves. Having casts on both feet certainly doesn't help his situation any. His grandfather stoops down to his own level, as the thick vegetation forms a natural tunnel. This tunnel winds a few turns, then seemingly out of nowhere, this log cabin type of box crafted from tobacco sticks, angling into a flattened point about three feet upward, appears before them. Inside are at least thirty chirping, fluttering quail, some more colorful and larger than others.

"Do ya see those birds in there, boy? The more colorful ones are the males, and the smaller, duller ones are the female," his grandfather whispers.

His grandfather reaches from upon his shoulder and pulls a gunny sack made of very well used and patched over denim blue jeans, with a strap crafted from an old worn-out leather belt. He hands this to Lanker. As he steps over to the trap, he removes several limbs the size of an adult male's forearm from the flattened top, then reaches down to remove four tobacco sticks from the top, which creates a door.

"When I take these birds out, boy, and pull their heads off, you place them into that sack there."

His Grandfather holds the tobacco sticks with his left hand up against his right arm to prevent any escape, as he reaches down into the trap, catching one of the fluttering birds. As he extracts the bird, he quickly places the tobacco sticks back onto the set so the others fluttering about inside cannot escape. He hands the bird's bloodied body over to Lanker, who gingerly places it into the bag.

"That one is a female," he says, as he carefully drops the head down to one side. Before much time passes, they place twelve of the birds back into the trap. His Grandfather steps over to a nearby puddle of water, carefully washing the blood from his hands.

"Never forget to clean up, son. Doing that is as important as knowing the woods, and how to trap."

"Why?" inquires Lanker, with an air of curiosity in his voice.

"We must always keep any and all activities to ourselves. Nobody anywhere needs to ever know our business, and never trust anybody. Blood sign speaks tales to anybody looking. We don't need ole Shylock's night stalking goons dropping in on us uninvited. Life around here is tough enough, without any of them making it more difficult."

"Have you ever seen ole Shylock, granddaddy?" whispers Lanker.

"Indeed, I have, and many a time."

"What was he like?"

"I laughed and talked with him a bit. I sometimes caught myself thinking that he was alright, just to be honest about it, but I never forgot who it was that I was dealing with. I know of the things happening in this province he was behind; but I have to live here, son, since this is my home, and the only land I have ever known."

"I thought you moved around a lot when you were a little boy, granddaddy."

"I did, son, that I did."

"Whereabouts did you live, granddaddy?"

"Well, I lived in Clink-vile down the road there, and in Cruds-Town some eight or ten miles over. I even lived in old Bum-lick Town for a while, but I had to leave due to a certain unfortunate circumstance," he whispers to Lanker as he gathers up the bag filled with slain birds.

"What circumstance?" Lanker asks, as the two continue to work and walk.

"The town had a bully in it way back in my day, who was a raging gangster, intimidating and threatening the others into handing him their money, and whatever it was of value they had with them when they crossed his path. He made the mistake of threatening me and your uncle James, who carried the four-foot staff. There were five of them, but what they didn't know is that we knew how to fight well with a staff. Me and your uncle James beat this bully and his gangsters badly, until the police came around and put a stop to it. These policemen warned us afterward that our best bet would be to move on down the road and find another town to call home. We didn't spend much time arguing with them."

Lanker gazes off into space, then sighs as he says.

"Well, that was not nice of them."

"What are we going to do with the other birds still in the trap?" Lanker asks.

"Remember what I told you about never over-harvesting the supply? We are going to release the others. The fact that we made the harvest and reduced the bird numbers, should keep any other person from making a harvest in our territory. There will be much less sign of birds, should any person ever pass through here looking to collect our meat."

His Grandfather removes the four tobacco sticks from the top of the trap, allowing the birds to thunder upward into freedom. He folds up an old cloth ripped from a worn-out cotton T shirt, with the bird heads wound up in it, then arises. Both of them quietly ease out of the woods. When they make it back to the house, they both step onto the back porch, where his grandfather instructs him in regard to how a trapper goes about cleaning his catch.

"What are you going to do with all of these feathers and scraps from the birds, granddaddy?" little Lanker asks.

"We'll use them for bait in other sets. A real trapper never throws anything away. That much you'll learn soon in this business, and it will always serve you well, son. Today you learned the proper place to set the trap, and how to avoid sight of it by others who may pass through the area. Come first light tomorrow morning, you'll learn how to construct the trap and the set. It really is a simple process to undertake, Lanker," his grandfather says with a smile as he gently pats him on the back. "We'll make a woods runner out of you yet."

With the rise of the sun, Lanker and his grandfather step out into the yard. There is a relatively large arm load of tobacco sticks lying beside the hand pump, out by the back doorstep. His grandfather separates two from the wood pile. These sticks are approximately three and a half feet long, and square, being maybe an inch and a half in diameter. They are obviously factory made, rather than made on site at the tobacco barn two hundred yards by the field side, directly in front to the right from where the cottage of Lanker's grandparents sat in the edge of the woods. His grandfather ties a piece of hay baling twine the same length as the sticks, from the end of each stick. He then flips one of the sticks over, so that the string crosses to form an X.

"See boy, you just do it like this," his grandfather says, as he pushes the next two sticks on top of the first two laying on the ground, and underneath the hay baling twine X. The next two sticks he pushed underneath the twine on opposite sides, which forced them to move inward slightly, at least the width of the stick. He keeps repeating the process until the sticks form a cone, then he simply lays the sticks on top of this cone, so that they form a door.

"Did you see what I did, boy? Did you see how I pushed those sticks underneath this twine, and how tight the twine got as I stacked more underneath it? You do it just like you are building a log cabin, son. Now we can pick up this hammer and these slender nails here, and tack these sticks down, like this," he says, as he grabs the hammer and the nails, then begins tacking the sticks down.

"If we didn't have the hammer and nails, then the string would work perfectly well, son. Matter of fact, if we didn't have tobacco sticks, we could have used river cane, or even reeds. Any kind of straight, one inch diameter wood will do in a pinch, and the string would hold perfectly well for you son."

When he finishes fitting the sticks together, he picks up a hand saw laying on the ground. He begins sawing the tobacco sticks off where they overlap, so they will not stick out.

"Most of the time, boy, I make my traps at the place where the set will be made, when I can do so. This saves me the hassle of having to carry the set into the woods with me. If I didn't use a hammer and nails, I could do it in absolute silence."

He picks the trap up, then carries it over to a cleared-out section of the yard, setting it with the opened end down in an area with the leaves cleared out.

"See, you make the set up like this."

His grandfather begins to dig a small trench, some three inches deep underneath each side of the trap. He reaches into his pocket, then retracts a small pill bottle filled with dried peas.

"You bait this trap like this, with breadcrumbs, cracked corn, or peas," he says, as he dropped in one piece after the other inside the trench, and in a line going outside down from the trench. He drops what remains of the bait into the center of the trap.

"You see, now the trap has been set, and the birds will soon come."

Lanker's grandfather then picks four or five fallen dried limbs about the size of a man's leg calf, laying them over the three or four tobacco stick pieces used as a door. This will hold them firmly down even in wind, heavy rain, snow, or whatever. He tosses a few more handfuls of leaves and sticks onto and into the trap.

"Now the trap is foolproof, son. No night prowler or day prowler will ever find it, nor anybody else, when one is careful about how and where he makes the set."

"Wow, this is a neat way to collect quail!" says Lanker, as his eyes widen with excitement.

"Yeah, you just make certain ole Shylock's prowlers don't ever find you out, or they 'll nail a tin cap to your head, so I am told."

"Really grandfather, they would do such horrible things?" asks little Lanker.

"Yeah son, they really will. All kinds of unspeakable horrors go on inside that dungeon they will throw you into, should they ever find you out, boy," his grandfather says to him with a hard manner of speaking. "People who are good at what they do, don't get caught. In the overall scheme of things, it really is just as simple as that, son. If you can't be good at it, then simply don't do it. Today we have learned about setting a quail trap. Tomorrow, we shall learn all about how to make a turkey trap, and a good one that is guaranteed to work well every time."

The night arrived and is gone, soon the sun is rising above the treetops in the distance. Lanker and his grandfather are moving very slowly through the wood thickets with a perfect silence. After covering several hundred yards they begin to notice rather large areas where the wind has cleared away the dried leaves. These areas are stomped over in prints appearing to be those of rather large chickens.

"These are turkey tracks, boy," his grandfather whispers as he points.

The two continue walking until they come to an old rotten tree stump.

"Here is where we'll make our turkey trap," Lanker's grandfather continues to whisper.

Grandfather stoops down and begins digging out the center of the stump. The loose rotten wood dips out easily with his bare hands. Soon he digs down some four feet, with the hole being large enough that his grandfather can easily slide his body down into it. He finally stands up, carefully picking the rotten wood up with both hands together, then transporting it some fifty yards away, scattering it. He continued this activity until the area around the hole was perfectly clean, and completely natural in appearance.

To the side lays a very brittle dead stick. Several of these his grandfather picks up, laying them over the hole he has now dug. He pulls some broom straw growing nearby, laying the grass stems over the dead sticks' crossways. On top of this he neatly scatters handfuls of dried leaves and a bit of the rotten wood from the stump. Soon the site appears perfectly natural and completely undisturbed. With his right hand he reaches into his pocket, producing the pill bottle filled with dried peas. He places a handful into the center of the hole directly on the leaves; then drops one pea behind another, forming a line with what was left, running on out for six or eight feet.

"Did you watch while I made the set, son? When these turkeys come through here late this evening, they'll spot these peas, follow the line, then fall into the hole headfirst, where their bodies will wedge inside. They'll only sit there until we return tomorrow morning," his grandfather continues to whisper while being very careful about how he moves around in the bush.

"How many will we catch?" whispers Lanker.

"Sometimes four or five, "grandfather replies.

"Wow, that's neat," snaps Lanker.

The days and the weeks pass by as Lanker and his grandfather move about, deep inside the swamp across the field from the twenty-acre patch behind his grandparents' home. Lanker quickly learns the art of managing the resources therein. They silently ease their way farther down into the Labyrinth from Crazy Woman Creek, where he and grandfather once hunted leprechauns. He learns how to track and trap the dragon, the giant wolves, the gigantic bushy tailed tree rat, the colossal log chompers, and many others.

Soon the long-awaited day arrived when Lanker will have his casts completely removed. His heart races as the family car rides the long trip down that narrow road until they arrive at the medical university maintained by the Baron Duke, some three hours later. His heart races from both fear and excitement. Doctor Roldoge' smiles, as he bursts through the stainless-steel double doors to greet the family sitting underneath a cloud of dark anticipation in the waiting lobby.

"Today is your happy day, isn't it their young fellow?" he asks Lanker, as he smiles broadly.

Lanker replies by nodding his head up and down, though with a bit of nervous trepidation.

"Is there anything new that you would like to inform us of, Lanker?"

"Yeah, I had a dream, and a boy in my dream called me Beau Weible. It's a word in another language that means the gifted one, so this strange boy from beyond told me."

The smiling doctor then chuckles, as he begins speaking.

"Well, if you want your new name to be Beau Weible, then Beau Weible, it shall be, rather than Lanker. Is this, O.K.?"

Beau Weible nods his head up and down.

"Mom, how do you feel about this new name?" the doctor chuckles as he asks.

"I don't know. I just don't know what to make of it, but if it makes him happy, then so be it."

This time in the hospital, Beau Weible spends three days inside before he is finally released. His legs from the knees down and his feet are blue, as if they are near death. Both feet hurt and itch to the point of him feeling as if he can never stop scratching them. When he attempts to stand, they collapse beneath him as he cringes in pain. As he sits upon the cold floor of the hospital, a thought passes through his mind. Since his legs bowed beneath him, and his feet hurt so badly when he walks that he wobbles, the name Beau Weible fit him rather well. Even though he struggles, he knew this uncomfortable time would pass, and he would one day walk into a new horizon laying in waiting, faintly beyond his grasp. He begins to cry when he tries.

"You can do it, Beau Weible, just do it!" cheers his mother.

"Yeah boy, get up off that floor, and rise up to growl like a wounded giant Callisto! Go at it with all you got, and never give up!" his father would yell.

For another day he struggles to walk, as he holds onto a railing that runs down the hallway of the hospital. With each passing hour, his ability to walk feels to improve, and the pain is less intense. Soon the smiling face of doctor Roldoge appears from the swinging double doors to greet the family inside their personal room. In his right hand he holds a brown manila folder of papers. Beau Weible instinctively knows those are his release papers.

"I think all of you know what time it is, don't you?" asks doctor Roldoge'.

"Yes, I sure do," smiles Beau Weible, as he commences to clap.

"Yes, and you are so right there, young fellow. At 0900 tomorrow morning you can leave. I might give a prescription for some pain killers, but other than that, you may go at that time. So how do you feel there, young fellow?"

"Good! Good! I can walk!" announces Beau Weible, as he cheerfully smacks both hands together.

"I wobble when I walk, and my knees may bow, but at least I can walk."