Hauk (Part One)

Hauk (part one)

Anyone watching the sports car that brakes and turns so sharply, would
realise that the driver has seen the signpost too late. They'd wince as
the tyres fight for grip on the loose surface, suck their teeth as
nuggets of gravel are scattered across the junction and shake their
heads in wonder as the driver somehow manages to correct the under
steer before fish-tailing up the single-lane track.

Hauk is close now, he can feel its presence drawing him like a magnet
draws a needle. The woodland clearing, high above the river and
shielded from the pressing winds by a knot of distorted pines, has
become almost mythical in Hauk's mind, a place of deep foreboding, full
of childish fears that have barely diminished, even after thirty years.
They'd discovered the patch of open land seemingly by chance: his
father, declaring there must be a fine view of the river somewhere from
the cliff ahead, had struck a determined path through the forest. Hauk
had followed, enjoying the snap of twigs, the crunch of crisp
undergrowth beneath the soles of his trekking boots, dodging the moist
bracken his father playfully let swing back into his face, a bitter
smell rising from the dark earth. They'd pushed through the tunnel of
forest for half an hour before stumbling upon a small circular clearing
bordered by pine trees and the tangle of overgrown blackberry bushes,
an oasis of tall grass, seed heads as soft as sighs. Just beyond the
pine trees: a narrow, rocky ledge and the view his father had promised.
They'd sat side by side on an outcrop of granite, in silence as usual,
the rock beneath them weather-smoothed and warmed by the afternoon sun.
The pine trees on the bluff scrambling away from the precipice,
gripping the rock with gnarled roots as if afraid of tumbling backwards
over the edge, their limbs, stunted and deformed by years of enduring
wind, hardened and bleached to bone by the sun. The smell of sage from
the tinder dry undergrowth where they'd dropped their packs something
Hauk would recall twenty years later, honeymooning in Greece. Far below
their swinging boots, the river lay across the grassy land, a glinting
scythe polished by the afternoon sun. A warm buffeting wind swirled the
aromatic smoke from his father's pipe around their heads before sucking
it away across the valley, riffled the crisp packet clutched in Hauk's
greasy fingers and snatched the blue packet of salt, tossed it down the
cliff making father and son laugh. Hauk unaware that this was would be
the last time he'd feel truly happy, that within hours his world would
shift, skewing his life along a bitter course.

His father said he enjoyed Hauk's company, explained that sometimes
there was no need to talk, that the silence and shared experience was
far more valuable. The silence, he said, settled his nerves, gave him
chance to recharge his batteries but swore he preferred Hauk's company
to being on his own. Drawing words from his father had always been a
little like pulling teeth, but Hauk had caught the tail end of one
conversation, his mother's voice sharp with a ring like struck iron:
"&;#8230;you insist on going, you can take Hauk with you!" Hauk's
silent partnership apparently the price his father paid for these brief
respites. But respite from what? His mother, a dull working life?

The trees squeeze the pass that Hauk now negotiates, pressing in from
both sides like blinkers as he hunches forwards to peer over the
steering wheel, finger nails digging into the leather rim, his nose
almost touching the windscreen as he searches for a turn-in. The spot
he's looking for, highlighted on the map that lays crumpled across the
passenger seat, is etched into his memory like graffiti on glass. The
pass seems to have changed little over the passing years, since that
cool morning he'd frantically stumbled down to the main road, alone and
confused. Although the road has been re-surfaced in places with pools
of tarmac like giant gobs of black gum, in others the ruts and holes
make the small car jolt hard enough to loosen teeth. Hauk's head
throbs, the lunchtime beer has been a mistake; his body's intolerance
to alcohol is something else that time hasn't changed. He'd sat in the
pub, swirling the half-pint of cloudy beer around his glass wondering
why he'd stopped. The metallic tang of stale beer, sunlight blazing
through windows made opaque by years of smoke, the room raw as an open
wound. The mesmerising lights from a fruit machine and its jarring
electronic jingles depressing. Two old boys, the pub's only other
customers, nursing glasses of stout and clattering dominoes across a
wooden table. Hauk watched as they played their game until one of them
raised his face and smiled a toothless grin back at him. Embarrassed at
the eye contact, he stood and left the pub, tired with studying the
faces of men who's ages roughly matched that of his father.

He pulls the car over in a place where the verge widens, parks at the
edge of the forest, two wheels still on the road. Lays his head back on
the headrest, a thin veneer of sweat glistening his brow, breathes
deeply and evenly, concentrating until his heartbeat slows and the
pounding soothes to a dull ache. Something his wife taught him, a
technique she'd learnt in her Yoga class. A memory like the crack of
rifle fire of the two of them lying together on her bed, segments of
sunlight tumbling through the blinds. The fervent talk of marriage, of
children, of escape from his mother's tyranny. Out of the frying pan,
into the burning flames of his wife's domination; their barren
relationship struggled on for ten years before finally unravelling in a
bitter scene of recriminations. Hauk's mother had died barely two
months later as if she'd clung to life just long enough to enjoy the
satisfaction of seeing his marriage fail.

He hauls the pack from the boot and swings it up onto his back, runs
fingers under the shoulder straps to straighten them, pulls the straps
tight until the load feels comfortable then snaps the buckle across his
waist. He uses the remote to lock the car and watches the headlights
set the undergrowth alight; the sports car a present bought after the
divorce, a treat to cheer himself up, a pathetic attempt to feel
younger. Who had he been kidding? He sighs, looks up and down the
deserted road then turns towards the forest.

That day, his father's car had stuttered and stalled all the way up the
pass. 'If it's got four wheels or a fanny, it's going to cause you
trouble' he'd said but Hauk hadn't understood what he'd meant at the
time. Later, recalling the words, he'd wondered if the emphasis had
been on the mechanics or the anatomy: had his father abandoned the car
because of its faulty timing and hiked down to the main road, or had he
received a lift from a lover in a pre-arranged rendezvous? Hauk had
never really believed that his father would abandon him alone in such a
place, but all the evidence pointed towards it.

Hauk's mother, Karen, was Orkney-born, tall and willowy with hair the
colour and texture of molten gold, cast into coils above a fine bone
structure. With eyes the blue of deep melt water pools, her beauty was
marred only by a temper which bubbled and seethed like soda in a shaken
bottle. She claimed to trace her ancestry back to the Norwegian
invasion, believed she descended from one of Harold Hardrada's
daughters, marooned on the island following Harold's death. An arrow in
the throat from an English archer's bow ending his attempt on the
throne. Karen seemed to take revenge on her ancestor's failure by
ruling Hauk's English father, Tom, with a rod of Viking iron. A small,
prematurely balding man, eyebrows like black toothbrush bristles
hovering over placid eyes, brown and watery as muddy puddles, he was as
gentle and yielding as his wife was strong and stubborn. In Tom, Karen
found a perfect vent for her volatile nature.

When the boy was born, she insisted he be called Hauk. Told the tale
(often recounted as the boy grew up) of an ancestor surrounded by
advancing English troops. With retreat blocked by the crash of shingle
on a desolate beach he had transformed himself into a bird and swooped
mockingly above the troops upraised bows before skimming the surface of
the icy water and soaring into the distance. She said that one-day Hauk
would soar too, a prediction yet to be realised.

His mother would erupt into terrifying fits of anger, spewing words
across the kitchen table followed by cutlery, salt sellers, toast
racks, anything within her reach. On one occasion, a huge black teapot
which hit the wall just above his father's head showering shards of
fractured pot across his forehead and shoulders, tea grounds steaming
like boiled ants. The arguments erupted from nowhere, occurred for no
reason that young Hauk could determine and, though seemingly one-sided,
would continue late into the evening. He would eventually fall into a
fretful sleep to the rigorous creak of bedsprings and dream of gigantic
birds with gnarled and vicious talons.

If this was the place his father had parked, the path they'd followed
that day has long since been strangled by the overgrown brambles, but
Hauk's resolve to find the clearing drives him to step purposefully
into the undergrowth, taking long steps to avoid the barbs and nettles.
After twenty minutes his head begins to pound again and his hands and
wrists are covered in small scratches which sting with sweat. He wipes
his forehead with a handkerchief, feels the salty grains of dirt
against his skin, his resolve diminishing with every footfall. He
begins to doubt that he can find the place after so long, even with the
aid of the Ordnance Survey map. His childhood memory of the forest may
not be as distinct has he believes; the clearing could easily be in
another section of the woodland altogether. It isn't impossible that
he's mistaken the place where he's parked the car. At times he believes
it isn't impossible that he invented the whole episode, that the truth
of what really happened is locked deep inside his brain.

His mother hardly ever spoke about the disappearance afterwards and
never without a stiff drink, or two, inside her. Once they'd been
escorted from the forest, the sound of policemen thrashing through the
undergrowth echoing off the trees, his father's name had rarely been
mentioned. The woodland had been combed, the river below the cliff
dredged and the banks down to the sea checked repeatedly. No body or
suicide note had ever been found, no letter of explanation or apology
ever arrived. Hauk would scour the newspapers and listen to the daily
news reports expecting to hear that a fisherman had dragged a blanched
and bloated body from the water. Imagined his drowned father, dripping
flaccid skin like waterweed, eye sockets leaking fish eggs. Such
episodes stalked his dreams and left him coiled in sweat-soaked sheets.
Weeks later, a policemen stood at the front door laden with the camping
gear and embarrassment. No news, he'd said, no sign of an accident or
crime, they'd just about done all they could do, best just to wait for
Tom to come home, most did. Errant husbands. Quickly asked about the
boy, flashing Hauk an encouraging smile. How was he coping? Had
anything come to mind that would solve the riddle of his dad's
disappearance? Said he was a clever lad, to find his way down to the
main road from such a remote spot without coming to any harm his self.
After the policeman had gone, Hauk's mother had dumped the damp bundles
into a large chest and slammed the lid shut with a noise like the final
shout in an argument.

For a long time, Hauk believed, then hoped that his father would return
with a complex but suitable excuse, that there'd be an almighty row to
clear the air and their lives would settle back into its old familiar
pattern. As the weeks stretched to months, the realisation that his
father had walked away from his wife, abandoned his son in the middle
of nowhere, left them with so many unanswered questions, stung Hauk
profoundly. He took revenge by methodically working through his
father's collection of pipes, snapping the neck of each and every one
with a satisfying crack, the sweet smell of scalded tobacco on his
fingers for days afterwards. He tore pages from gardening books and car
manuals and set fire to them at the bottom of the garden, kicked and
stamped angrily through the smouldering embers, flamed-tinged motes
swirling like fireflies. Ashes to ashes.