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The Hunting Party

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Lucy Foley

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“The father and daughter made their way north, through unknown sylvan paradises where only the owls and skunks know their way around. The hard work of paddling non-stop for many hours had long since stopped being difficult for Saweyimew. In spite of her beauty and grace, her back had grown strong and sinewy from years of canoe trips. She reveled in the exhilaration it always brought her, after the first few hours left her body insensible to pain or discomfort. Warm and tingly, lulled into peaceful contemplation by hours of the rhythmic paddling, the smell of the water, exotic blooms, animal musk. It all combined as one to make her feel so alive. Especially when it rained, and her body steamed against the cool drops, feeling invincible against the elements. The mountain of her father's back was like a rock against anything nature could throw against them. The stream of fragrant pipe-smoke still flowing from his lips, regardless of any obstacle. She felt at that moment, nothing would ever stop her father's pipe from smoking. Nothing, not death, not any force of the living or spirit world, would ever still her father's heart. Rain cleansing her to the core, she was a spring of raw power and self-reliance, paddling against all adversity--their master completely. Her father's daughter. At times like that, when it rained, she entirely understood and shared her father's outlook on life.”

“From the Introduction to Coldhearted River: A Canoe Odyssey Down the Cumberland: As I read about the Cumberland before the trip and began to scout it, its distinct personality began to emerge. It was colder, in a literal and figurative sense, than the Tennessee. Long stretches were empty, desolate, antisocial. It seemed haunted, distant, aloof, while the Tennessee was warm, embracing, pliant. The Tennessee was the friendly sister, close to my age, perhaps older, the Cumberland the younger one with a wild reputation. And like an outlaw, complex and difficult, it winded and twisted its way through Tennessee and Kentucky, still wild and ornery, roaring through high bluffs and narrow gorges, fogging up and flooding, resistant to human control. The Tennessee’s wildness was subdued, less confrontational, nine dams sedating, directing, and harnessing its power. While the Tennessee’s ghosts had whispered stories to me, the Cumberland’s, I suspected before the trip, would wail through the night, telling lies and creating mischief.”

“Mr. Charles Dickens was serializing his novel Oliver Twist; Mr. Draper had just taken the first photograph of the moon, freezing her pale face on cold paper; Mr. Morse had recently announced a way of transmitting messages down metal wires. Had you mentioned magic or Faerie to any of them, they would have smiled at you disdainfully, except, perhaps for Mr. Dickens, at the time a young man, and beardless. He would have looked at you wistfully.”

“oh bleep I was going to die. I was going to die a horrible, gruesome, painful death. My hand twitched at my side, reaching for the pink taster I knew wasn't there. why had I ever wanted this? what was I thinking? working at the International Paranormal Containment Agency might have been close to indentured servitude, and sure, I had some nasty run-ins with vampires and hags and creeptastic faeries, but that was nothing compared to the danger I faced now. Girls' gym.”

“انا امضى وحيدا فى هذه الحياه . لكن هذه الوحده ايجابيه لاننى احتاج مساحتى الخاصه من اجل الابداع فى هذه الحياه لان مااقوم به من اعمال يوميه بشكل روتينى قد تتعارض مع الاخرين الذين لن يتفهموا حاجتى للابداع المستمر فى هذه الحياه ، لذلك اعتدت على ان لا احتاج الو اى شخص فى حياتى . اقوم بعملى كله وحدى و بسعاده غامره”

“Here there is buried legend after legend of youth and melancholy, of savage nights and mysterious bosoms dancing on the wet mirror of the pavement, of women chuckling softly as they scratch themselves, of wild sailors’ shouts, of long queues standing in front of the lobby, of boats brushing each other in the fog and tugs snorting furiously against the rush of tide while up on the Brooklyn Bridge a man is standing in agony, waiting to jump, or waiting to write a poem, or waiting for the blood to leave his vessels because if he advances another foot the pain of his love will kill him.”