My Hawk's Last Flight
by Griffin Grimes
Rating: R for subject matter
Warning: this is likely to be upsetting to some people. Please don't go further if you have trouble reading about children in traumatic sexual situations. As this story is a conglomeration of actual events with real people, names have been changed.
******************
People sometimes ask me why I have a large, soaring hawk tatooed on my upper left arm; I always just say something like "it's a protective symbol for me," and they never really ask more about it. Well, here's the real story behind it.
I grew up in the hills. I haven't been back there for many years; I am 36 now. when I was 14, we moved down to the valley and left everything I knew as a kid behind. Still, those ten years of childhood living above the then-smogless vista, in my memories, seem like most of my lifetime. Our house was near the end of a road which twisted and turned higher and higher from the valley floor to end in a cul-de-sac. Custom built by my parents as their dream house when my dad made it big in his career, our brown-stained, high-windowed Redwood house looked down on the flat panorama of Santa Clara County.
The house was on the highest plateau, just as the road leveled out one last time from the series of rises; it was a sentry to the eventual cessation of road and the real beginning of wilderness. Beyond the circle of pavement and beyond the few houses lining it was nothing but forest and fields. My elder brother and sister and the other kids used to tell me all kinds of legends about horrifying things that went on in the far reaches of the trees, but deep down I knew the stories probably weren't true.
Although only a few families lived on our street, almost all of them had kids and almost all of the kids were boys. I was the youngest kid in our neighborhood by at least three years, until two girls moved in when I was about seven - a year or two younger than me, they were always off doing whatever it was they did, playing Barbies or horses or whatever, and my goal was always to fit in with the older boys.
The only time I ever got to play with the big guys, which always turned into more like tagging along, was when my older brother got involved in the game and made them let me join in. My brother was the coolest and bravest kid on the street, and they did what he wanted because he was the oldest of all of them. Inevitably, though, my brother eventually got to be too old to play with them. Without him to stick up for me, I was always battling to be included and, more often than not, shunned completely or allowed to play and then ditched later on.
All the guys ever wanted to do was play Army. The real idea man behind these games, Peter, was the leader once my brother outgrew them. Peter's brother was always sending him all kinds of cool stuff from Vietnam - from army supplies to foreign flags to uniforms. I'd never even met his brother, but Peter idolized him and was fascinated with anything military.
I don't even remember ever seeing Peter wear anything but army fatigues, and even when I saw him years later when he was in high school and college, he would wear them all over the place and fixed up a genuine army jeep as his first car. I heard he tried to join the army but got rejected because of his bad eyes.
I never heard what happened to his brother, I don't even remember what his name was supposed to be, but he never came back after the war was over. Maybe he got killed, maybe he just didn't want to come home. I don't know.
See, I barely said a word to Peter after one day when I was nine and he was 13. I'll admit, I used to have a little crush on him. I never would have told him, though, or even let out a hint, because I thought he'd murder me if I suggested anything so repulsive to his macho sensibilities. He had a girlfriend, you see; he'd even gotten the clap from her and proudly announced it to us all one day. So it was clear to me that he only thought of girls, or I guess I mean, he didn't like boys like I did. Back then I didn't know anything about sex, I just knew what I liked.
Today, more than a quarter century later, I have no idea why I ever felt like that about him. Now, just thinking of him sends me into a turmoil of emotions. I get angry and ashamed at the same time. Images I wish I'd just forget, ones that seem like a dream but which I know are not, make my throat go tight and my stomach ball up hard, almost like I'm going to throw up.
It feels just like when I found the hawk.
I told you about how my neighborhood was surrounded by forest. Well, directly across the street from my house was a stand of three enormous pine trees, trees so tall and probably so old that the balding tops swayed and creaked in the breeze. Now I realize they were probably dead even back then, but they were very impressive to a small kid, easily 80 feet tall each. They were the main part of a little patch of forest, at the time separated from the rest of the woods by a large field of weeds that were dry yellow year-round, it seemed like. A couple of years before we moved the field was erased by the newest house in the area.
Since I developed into something of a loner in my neighborhood, this mini-forest with the protected field beyond was my favorite place to play, to carry out my own private fantasies of being George of the Jungle swinging on vines, or some brave explorer, seeking Bigfoot in the wilds of Canada.
What was really special about my forest and field was that a hawk had its nest in the very top of the middle of the three tall trees, the trees that provided all the shade for the foliage underneath. I don't remember it ever not being there, and we'd moved to that house when I was only four years old. It seemed like the hawk had always lived there.
The great bird was magical to me, looking so strong and confident and graceful all at the same time as I used to lie on my back in the yellow weeds, dreamily watching it fly overhead. I imagined being grown and strong someday, leaving the nest like it must have at some point in its life, and being free to soar.
Everything changed for me one summer day when I was nine. I'd played my private fantasy games under the cool of the trees for much of the morning, and had gone to lay in the field and feel the warm sun beat down on m. Maybe even nap. I liked to just lie flat on my back and daydream there, and I was just getting into one of this lazy meandering of the mind when I stretched my arms out to either side of me as usual. This time, though, my right hand fell on something soft settled among the rough grass. I turned my head and saw it. It was the hawk, lying lifeless with its wings outstretches, still a bit warm with life, or possibly warmed by the sun - I couldn't know which.
With an instinctual revulsion, I pulled my hand away from the corpse of the dead animal and rolled away out of reach of it. I was in shock that I had not noticed it when I laid down, but more in shock that someone must have killed it. I felt immediately queasy, and imagined my hand was crawling with the germs of death.
Before I could get up the nerve to go look at it more closely, to see if it had been shot or if it could have possibly just fallen to its death, I heard faint voices carried on the wind. They were followed by the regular beat of legs brushing a trail through the dry grass several yards beyond where I sat.
I turned and got to my knees, bringing my head high enough over the brush to see Peter and his two closest buddies, Scott and Sal, walking in a line past me. Peter was 13, pale and thin with short-cropped, spiky blond hair covered mostly by an Army cap. He walked in the lead, carrying a genuine-looking black Army-issue automatic, the kind you see in all the Vietnam footage, the kind with the curved clip hanging down. Although it must have been real heavy in Peter's thin arms, the guy swaggered confidently with it, looking like a soldier who'd been seasoned in combat and had come to feel his gun like a natural extension of himself.
Scott, 12, followed close behind Peter. He was brown-haired and stocky compared to his slim comrade, and just as tall: about five-foot-seven or eight. Not fat, but at 12 he was already getting some muscle on him. He lifted weights, maybe that was why. I didn't like Scott much because he always put on an act of being a straight-assed Presbyterian, lording it over me that my family wasn't Christian and therefore we were all going to Hell. What bugged me the most about him was that he'd push this holier-than-though attitude on me, but then he defied his parents' code of morality every time their backs were turned.
Stoner Sal, 15, was almost stereotypical: a big, dark Italian type. He had really wild, almost kinky shoulder-length black hair, like a frayed Brillo pad. He kept quiet most of the time and pretty much did whatever the Hell he wanted. His parents were 'hippies with a house on the hill', not following the lifestyle of hippiedom much, but embracing its philosophies. They were against squelching their kids' spirits in any way.
Adding to the evidence of this free-spirit attitude, when I was about 11, after I'd lost my innocence on that day of the hawk, I'd caught Sal fucking his little sister in an empty dumpster in their driveway. Both were obviously enjoying it, and I guessed they had engaged in this often enough to need a change in scenery and seek out a "kinky" place to get it on. Both just laughed when they saw me peek over the edge of the dumpster, and didn't even pause for a moment as they waved and grinned at me when they saw me.
Sal, apparently having no shame in acceding leadership to the smaller and younger Peter, brought up the rear. He and Scott both held what looked like bb gun rifles, or possibly real .22s. I don't know, I knew nothing of guns, and really don't want to know about them now, either, even more so since back then.
It didn't look like they saw me, as they were intent on going from my forest, across the field, to the larger body of forest that eventually turned into Peter's back yard. But then, as I peered up through the weeds, Peter held up a hand to stop them and turned toward me. He pointed right at me, and then the line of boy soldiers trudged in my direction.
The bird momentarily forgotten, excited that maybe they would let me play with them, I stood up as tall as I could, maximizing my four-foot, seven-inch frame. The three older boys were each at least a foot taller than me, Sal probably close to six feet tall.
"Hi, guys," I said, trying my best to sound older than I was for once in my life. Then I remembered what I had suspected about the bird. I pointed to it lying in the grass. "Did you guys kill that hawk?"
A good twenty yards from where I and the dead hawk were, Scott peered toward where I was pointing. "Naw, we didn't shoot it. It must've just died."
Somehow I convinced a superficial part of me that this was what happened. I don't think I wanted to believe that these guys I'd been growing up with would be so heartless as to kill something so beautiful.
"Well, how do you think it died?" I asked, curious why they weren't running forward to investigate. After all, dead hawks weren't an everyday thing to find.
"Shut up, meat, you're our prisoner of war," Peter broke in icily. His mirrored aviator glasses gave away none of his emotions. I really think he had none to give away.
Again pushing the thought of the hawk aside, I felt a sudden wave of disappointment. "That's not fair...I didn't even get a chance!" I knew from past experience that being a prisoner of war was nothing but discomfort and boredom, and sometimes meant ending up with a bad case of poison ivy to boot.
Sal and Scott stood flanking Peter, both smirking a bit at me and waiting for their lieutenant to do all the standard interrogating.
"I thought maybe you were tough enough by now to take it, Griffie," Peter said. "I guess not. Okay, you don't want to do stuff with us, you little cry baby, you won't ever have to again. See ya." He turned and started walking away.
I watched for just a moment as the three turned their backs on me before putting up my protest. "Hey, I'm not a cry baby, I'm tough."
The three turned in their tracks and exchanged whispers while they looked me over and appraised my worthiness. Finally, Peter reported their decision.
"All right, you're our prisoner of war. But I swear, if you start crying even once, or if you go tell your mommy that we treated you bad, we'll never speak to you again. Right, guys?" He looked left and right at his comrades and got nods and a "sure won't" from Scott.
I nodded, gritted my teeth as good as G.I. Joe, and steeled myself to be every bit as tough as them. I'd never told my mom anything about what had gone on in playing with other kids, but I would cry on occasion when they picked on me. Well, I was determined to make that a thing of the past. "I won't cry or tell anyone," I promised.
They seemed satisfied with that. "Hands on top of your head, Gook," Peter ordered, and I complied as he walked toward me again. I suddenly realized I wasn't very well dressed for being led to a prison camp. Being a hot summer day, I had no shirt and wore only cut-off jeans and thin rubber sandals, which we called Zories.
Despite my minimal clothing, he took some time to frisk me before shoving me forward down the path they had beaten into the larger woods. I followed stoically, getting into the act of being a real POW. It seemed a bit ludicrous to me the way my Zories echoed a loud slapping flip-flop sound next to their heavy tread of boots. It kind of destroyed the tough image I was going for.
Once we entered the shelter of the forest, I quickly discovered it wasn't easy to walk as fast as they wanted me to through the loose covering on the ground under the trees. Spiky dry oak tree leaves slid between my toes, and I wanted to keep shaking them out. Then we crossed a steep slope with slippery, hard clots of dry dirt, from fist-sized to marble-sized to pebble-sized. The clumpy, grainy dirt ran over and under my feet, the smaller pebbles getting trapped between my toes, and between the tender soles of my feet and the rubber of my sandals.
Hands still kept laced on the top of my head, I focused on not whining, but it wasn't easy. The slope of the hill kept trying to suck me downward, my feet were burying themselves in the painful dirt with each step, and my sandals were falling off every time I tried pulling them out of where they were buried. I complained a bit to my captors, Peter in front and the other two behind me, that I couldn't keep up with them. All I got was gruff orders to shut up.
Finally one of the flimsy Zories broke; the rubber stopper that attached the straps to the toe area of the sole ripped out of its hole. I decided to just abandon it, and used my foot to throw its mate down the hill as well. From there on I went barefoot, something I never did outside of the house or off the lawn. Still, I proudly stayed tough and uncomplaining, and maintained the fast pace the others set.
After what seemed like hours, we got to a more level part of the woods. A very deep creek ran through this area, long dry by this time in the summer. At one point in the creek, a section of it that would have been downstream from a clump of exposed roots had been dug even deeper, so it was probably six feet down to the dark floor, about four feet wide by eight feet long, the length following the creekbed. A white parachute covered most of it, just one end of the hole exposed.
When we got beside the hole, I looked down and saw the rough roots that served as walls. Large dragonflies buzzed a few yards further up the creek, and terror struck me when I thought of being forced to go down there and getting attacked by the huge creatures. I had always been more frightened of bugs and insects than anything.
To only terrify me more, Peter showed me a dime-sized scab on his shoulder which he claimed was from a dragonfly sting. I didn't think dragonflies stung. The older boy assured me: "This kind do. And their stingers are as big as your finger, and they go in two or three inches." I gaped in wonder at the new variety of insect as Scott and Sal nodded their serious agreement.
I don't remember how I ended up in the pit, if I was pushed in or if I climbed down under coercion, but I was sobbing hard by the time they covered the rest of the hole with the parachute with me under it. I was begging them to let me out, to not leave me there. All I got was "Shut up, prisoner," and the sounds of them retreating.
I was left alone in the pit, in nearly complete darkness, for I don't know how long, at least a half hour, hearing the buzz of the dragonflies growing louder in my imagination, trying to climb out on my own but unable to get even one solid foothold, holding back all impulses to panic. Then they returned, and I stopped my tears, demanding they let me out.
"We'll let you out," I heard Peter say through the thin parachute silk, "but if we do, you have to promise not to tell anyone what we did."
"Okay, I promise, just get me out!" I pleaded, my firm resolve to be brave gone.
"And you have to swear you'll do whatever we want," he added.
"Okay, I swear, whatever you want!" I was desperate and didn't even think of what this promise could possibly mean.
They lowered a rope for me to tie around my chest, and they pulled me up and out of the terrifying, dark hole. I can still smell being in that hole, the dusty dirt mixed with a cold dampness and my fear permeating it all.
From there I was unceremoniously yanked away from the creekbed, led by Peter and Scott both tugging at the two yards of rope they had knotted tightly under my arms and across my chest, using the extra as a leash. Soon I could see Peter's back yard and driveway and the side of his house. I'd been disoriented in the forest, and had never gone the route they had taken me. Suddenly I knew where I was.
I'd been scared by the game, and took some comfort in seeing civilization again. Civilization with neatly-mowed lawns tended by fathers who would soon be coming home from work, and mothers behind the solid wood doors of every house, maybe starting dinner or finishing up the day's cleaning. That's right, on the surface I lived in a Beaver Cleaver world. At age nine I'd already learned that was mostly show, but it also had always provided me with safety.
Seeing our street again, I was tempted to beg to be allowed to go home, but I was more determined to stick it out until they felt satisfied I had passed the test. I was by then seeing this whole experience as a kind of initiation into their club of big guys, their exclusive brotherhood. I figured it must be close to the end.
Scott and Sal were left to stand guard over me at the edge of the forest as Peter went into his house, to check if there still was no one home. Apparently, his mother had been out of the house all day for some reason or other, and he wanted to make sure she hadn't returned early. He beckoned to us from the back door, showing us that all was clear, and his two goons led me into the house.
Peter's room was a converted attic, something I'd always envied of him. To get there, you had to pull down a trap door that had a ladder that folded out. Peter was unfolding the ladder as Sal and Scott brought me into the hallway.
We all climbed up into Peter's bedroom. I was actually happy by now, as I'd never been allowed in there without a complaint from the owner and his friends that I was too young to hang out with them in such a sacred place. Maybe, I thought, I wasn't too young any more.
Once we were all upstairs, Sal and Scott took positions against two walls, both finding a place to sit casually, and held their guns across their laps. I stood in the middle of the room, looking at them and wondering how the initiation would end, when I heard the trap door pulled up and slammed shut.
"Don't you dare try getting away," Peter said as I turned around and saw Peter seal the door. "Remember, you swore you'd do whatever we said if we let you out of that pit." Peter's tone of voice had changed, somehow softer, but still full of threatening authority. I sensed a change in mood among all three of them, although all the other two would do was sit there and stare from me to Peter and back again.
Peter got up from the floor where the trap door was at the north end of the room, and came to sit down on the edge of his twin-sized bed that was pushed up against the wall. I kept my eyes on him, as he was obviously the one holding my fate.
Behind me, at the west wall sitting on the recessed window ledge, was Scott, who had enjoyed the game all day but had mysteriously grown angry and tense ever since we had arrived in the bedroom. To my right against the south wall was Sal, looking more amused than ever. All I really could think of, though, was how threatening their guns looked draped across their thighs.
I absorbed this all in a bare second or two before Peter spoke again from his seat on the bed. Somewhere, I saw, he had exchanged his heavy gun for a giant hunting knife, which he gripped tightly in his right hand, the gleaming blade resting on one knee.
"Pull down your pants," he said.
I looked at him confused. "Why?"
He smiled. "You'll see." Then he grew harsh again. "Now, DO WHAT I SAY!"
At the time, I only dimly understood what might be on his mind. Like I said, I didn't know anything about sex back then; I was really innocent until that day in the woods. All I knew was, it wasn't something I wanted. I knew it was wrong for me to be up there, to willingly drop my pants in front of these guys, for whatever mysterious reasons they had.
Without a word, I lunged for the closed trap door, but Scott had predicted my movements and stood right on top of it. I shoved hard into his bulk a few times, unable to move him a bit. This only made him laugh, reminding me of my big brother when he would put his hand against my forehead to keep me from taking a swing at him. Even if I could figure out how the lock worked, I wouldn't be able to force the much bigger Scott away from his guard of the only exit to the room.
"You might as well give up, Griffie. You're not getting out of here until you do everything we want you to do," Scott advised with a grin.
The rest of that day, and many days, even weeks, after that, are still forgotten or a hazy blur to me. I don't remember feeling anything while I was trapped in that attic bedroom for hours until Peter's mother finally came home. I vaguely recall being snuck out the back door with a threat of revenge on my brother and my dog if I told anyone.
I remember more clearly days later being constantly aware of a throbbing soreness inside where I'd never felt anything before, still wishing I could tell my parents what had happened to me; still feeling guilty enough that it happened that I didn't dare say a word to anyone. Not anyone, not until today.
This was the first of several childhood rapes on me by these boys; later ones I remember less vividly, although much has come back recently. I remember this day most for that hawk I discovered dead in the field. After that day, I knew I'd never be able to lie daydreaming in the sun and watch the hawk soaring free and strong overhead ever again.
The end
*********************