 jumping frenchmen of maine by michelle honey mullet the felled death of another hickory tree signaled the end of one more logging day in moose lake maine philippe du monde inhaled a lungful of sawdustseasoned air the taut muscles across his back and shoulders ached stretching like visceral mizzenmasts across some lost weathered ship all 16 men on the frenchcanadian crew gathered their tools and pulled their ragged bodies towards the bunkhouse philippe saw his 20th birthday fly past him just a few weeks prior that night of debauchery had ended with a broken front tooth a strange burn on his calf and a patch of hair missing behind his left ear whittaker flack led the men back towards their living quarters the welltrodden path between the work site and the camp site swiveled a muddied line a heavy wet snow began to descend whittaker s mushroom cap ears stuck out beneath his grey felt hat the crisp staccato sound of axes still played inside his exhausted skull most of the men on the crew built the main camp bunkhouse themselves the year was 1880 thick notched spruce trees were logged shaped and filled in with deliberate handfuls of soft moss and ubiquitous mud an entire camp could be built without a single tapped nail the men handled axes and froes like butchers wielded cleavers and mallets sixteen men slept in one open room measuring 20x20 feet inside the acrid smell of wet woolen socks pickled bully beef boiled codfish and deficient bodily hygiene could hit you like joe louis fists if you weren t inoculated warren jackson loaded firewood into the dusty castiron stove the sharp crack of splintering knotted wood made jack cloche jump while removing his boots what sa matter jackie afraid of a little fire warren said his overgrown mustache trembling while he continued his task hey why don t you keep working while i start drinkin jack snapped his calloused fingers and headed for the keg sounds good brother sounds good warren rubbed his forehead a leathered patch of skin lined with a week s worth of filth several men removed their steadfast black work boots some used one as a pillow in their designated spot on the community bed one long bed with one abrasive blanket engulfed the entire low side of the camp at moose lake small boughs of balsam fir lined the makeshift mattress while damp thick socks and washed underwear hung above their heads like laundered ghosts an uncompromising grindstone sat in the corner simply to keep all the axes murderously sharp unbridled snow entered the lodging through a half inch of space beneath the wooden entryway the wind brushed the sides of the structure like an arctic refugee shivering for asylum though the bunkhouse had no windows there was nothing to see but willow and tupelo trees covered in blue snow for many lonely miles whittaker slouched into a corner chair drinking a stiff wood alcohol concoction he stared into oblivion raking his right hand across his greasy black head of hair he steadily pulled out one stringy hair at a time he would surely go bald in a few months with such an obsessive habit warren enjoyed irritating whittaker and set about the evening shooting spitballs from his hairy upper lip whittaker seemed immune to the oppressor warren drank three mason jars full of alcohol to whittaker s one the night dragged its cloak across moose lake like a surgeon draping the dead a turgid twilight of bruised northern lights slid into night as the weary men indulged in drink after drink the slurred conversations dwelled on visions of loose women and hot homemade biscuits soaked in clover honey philippe and jack locked left hands in an arm wrestling contest the long picnic bench they used as a dining room table shook with splinters and ash from the fire jack s unkempt and lousy brown hair stood straight up in the back distracting philippe from the fight philippe s small intense grey eyes locked onto jack s twitching handlebar mustache jack added pressure to his grip squeezing philippe s wide clammy hand like a pale moray eel trying to escape sensing his impending defeat philippe leaned into that irresistible mustache and looked for a fuzzy barley wheat kiss jack lost his grip to push philippe away forfeiting all the glory of a backwoods arm wrestling match a roar of laughter filled the bunkhouse with masculine levity as the men bumped into each other and smashed glasses jack smiled at philippe and then swiftly broke his friend s nose with one stiff jab philippe fell back stunned from the blow but still conscious warren jumped from his grindstone shenanigans and put jack into a chokehold jack s amber eyes rolled back in their soft sockets as he slipped into an episode of syncope warren let the lumberjack hit the ground and headed straight for whittaker within thirty seconds every single crew member including the kitchen help had jumped into the freeforall of drunken fisticuffs heavy leather boots hit unsuspecting glass eyes dirty socks landed into stale cups of barley the taste of boiled blood and sourdough lingered in the mouths of these belligerent men the walls of the bunkhouse swelled with heat and pressure as bones were broken lips were busted and spleens were punctured warren pulled the denim shoulder straps of his coveralls back up and wiped a blood clot from the lobe of his outer ear he looked detached and deformed as he made a beeline for the wiry and gullible whittaker warren lunged at whittaker with the force of an unmanned locomotive a drunk across the room started whistling and making an awfully strong pot of chicory coffee whittaker continued to pull at his own scalp as warren strangled him with a steady pulsing death grip the young whittaker s face flushed with crimson then swelled with a grey sickly pallor warren s repulsive act left whittaker lifeless without a whisper to his last helpless breath no one noticed warren as he slipped on an old greasy piece of salt pork a fellow lumberman grabbed warren by the coveralls and handed him another drink warren blinked away any blurred recollections of guilt and hopped back onto the back of total annihilation the threadbare cuffs of whittaker s work pants soaked up the froth of ongoing inebriation a plain aluminum can of butter beans exploded from its contents of botulism and startled several men in the room philippe flailed his arms in a ridiculous undulation that lingered somewhere between a curious octopus and a drowning boy he looked terrified and stricken to the core by some unseen and unholy ghost none of the men noticed him until a whip of winter air licked the sour innards of the bunkhouse philippe sunk into the thick black ink of night with just one boot and his long johns one of the cooks closed the door and shrugged as he returned to his tall glass of golden oblivion as philippe approached the lip of the lake he spied a dark figure struggling across the open body of water blocks of ice floated around the electric animal frightened by its slippery circumstances a few seconds passed as philippe kept vigil the fragile animal disappeared beneath the glimmering silent surface philippe nodded shivering from the subzero surroundings gently he murmured a harrowing lupine howl filled the night with a velveteen yearning the feathery dawn lulled the jumping frenchmen of maine into slumber back at the bunkhouse one red wolf found philippe curled up in the snow the last thing he heard was a rough brisk exhalation from the wolf s moist muzzle issue 3 michelle honey mullet 