A Day Hike
The Litchfield Hills of Connecticut were the perfect place for a day hike. The rambling hills and dales were only an hour from New York City, and were labyrinthed with trails of various difficulties. When the city-world became too much for me, I drove out to a trailhead and hiked into the trees. That’s just what I had done today, and it had paid off. The sky was blue, the wind was mild, and the smell of burning autumn leaves hung in the air. I struggled up a steep trail to an overlook, where I collapsed on a limestone shelf. Eating a lunch of biscuits and berries, I relaxed, glad to be clear of the week’s work.
I pulled out a pair of binoculars and swept the countryside, over the hilltops and along the river valleys. A few hawks, some new construction on Mt. Riga, and… what was that? I could make out figures dancing in a farm-field below. They sang, sprinted wildly in every direction, and seemed to be having a fine party. A huge old bull stood nearby, chewing grass. Once every minute or so, one of the strange people darted up and caressed the animal. I raised my eyebrows. This was the problem with coming out here to Connecticut- the natives. “Hippies,” I snorted.
Then, as if spurred by my comment, they moved towards the bull one by one, then in a writhing mass, engulfed the beast. I muffled a cry. What were they doing? Fascinated, I scrabbled down the leafy hillside to get closer. In a few minutes I reached a lower outcrop and could see the people tearing meat off the bull, which seemed to be making no effort to stop them. They devoured the raw meat hungrily. I had the feeling that the bull was alive in each of them, though, throbbing with life. Bile rose in my throat, and I heaved my lunch onto the brown leaves.
A shout went up, and I saw someone pointing toward the hillside. Then the group of feasting citizens turned towards me and looked at me with the eyes of madness.