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Show 192 It was Wednesday. Hunt fed the marten the last time, liver ^nd mice. He loaded the carrier in the back of his Caprice, pointed the car toward the foothills. As he drove, he could feel the marten watching the back of his head. He felt a foolish sadness. What was happening? What was the name of this event? This station? What was the meaning of it? What did it have to do with Hunt's war on himself, Hunt's battling Hunt-The-Unrestrained? He drove to the trail head, parked the car and lifted the carrier, with the marten, from the back seat. "The balance of nature restored," he said through the wire. The marten cocked her head. "I say foolish things," Hunt went on; "Don't try to understand." The air was dry. It was cool; no snow fell as had happened weeks before, but it was chilled more. The undergrowth, the trail, the mulched foliage smelled like brandy. I've stopped drinking, Hunt told himslef. So did that mean -- at heady moments in the World - he should stop breathing too? Walking up the trail, with a cat carrier in his hand and a pine marten lounging on his blue crewneck sweater in the cat carrier, Hunt began to feel increasingly absurd. When they reached the place, Hunt set the carrier down. He was amazed at the accuracy with which he remembered: how the scene matched the negative in his mind. Clearing. Slope above. Tufted oak and wild grass. Configurations - branch and rock. Hunt squatted by the carrier. He unlatched the door. He paused a moment before opening. "O.K.," Hunt said to the marten. Hunt stood and stepped considerably back. |