The Sighting

There had been talk, lots of it. The same conversation echoed through bars, shops and offices. News of the sighting travelled through the little town ofMiddlestoneand on to the surrounding cities. Reporters flocked to the town to interview the locals, and a stream of rubbernecking tourists flooded in to see if what they had heard was in fact true.
Middlestone was the local farming community; the place where those from the outlying farms came to out of necessity. If you weren’t in of need groceries or didn’t have sheep or cattle to trade, then Middlestone was a town you simply passed through on your way to somewhere else.
Since the sightings however, it had become a town of destination.
Middlestone’s two hotels had, for years, been making ends meet on the strength of increased trade on market days. But now they were experiencing market day levels of turn-over seven days a week, and would have welcomed having twice as many rooms at weekends. The town’s bars were the same.
All the time the undercurrent of conversation remained unchanged. Al didn’t mind the talk. He didn’t believe it, but he went along with it. If people wanted to flood through his doors on what he believed to be a wave of myth and hearsay then he’d happily sell them a pair of night vision binoculars, a powerful spot light and the occasional rifle or shotgun.
Shotguns were Al’s usual line of business. He sold them to farmers to keep the rabbits down and to warn the occasional poacher. The sightings however had moved his market towards the more lucrative image-conscious weekend shooter. Those men who during the week traded in stocks, shares and property deals and who at weekends retreated to the country in pursuit of its pursuits.
Al was more than willing to keep the story going, and to supply the city dwellers with guns, ammunition and camouflage gear, together with the all important night vision equipment, as long as they had the money. He had even started to supply a small selection of night vision video recorders for those who bought all the gear but who, at the end of the day, only wanted to look.
He never mentioned the sightings, he never needed to. The big men with big guns only had one thing on their mind and that was to bag themselves a big cat. They were more than happy to let anyone and everyone in earshot know their intentions, as they peeled hundred dollar bills from their wallets.
Al’s response was always the same, with a dry twist, he’d say, ‘If you do shoot it, bring it here and we’ll stuff it for you,’ before adding, ‘we’re doing a two for one deal at the moment.’ This comment sometimes got a laugh but more often went unnoticed, which in itself raised a smile with Al, which likewise went unnoticed.
The sightings had been rare. Whatever it was, it was black, and often described by the media as ‘panther like’. It was usually seen around dusk, moving through the woodland that stretched towards the hills that rose to the north of Middlestone.
Footprints had been found, but they never seemed to lead anywhere and invariably petered out after only a few yards. There had been a dead carcass found - a fox with its throat ripped out. People said it was the panther, and that it would return to collect its kill. They set up a watch but the only carrions that returned were the crows and hawks who didn’t want to catch its own quarry.
No one had actually come face to face with it, a fact often dismissed. None of the sightings had been reported by any of the farmers, neither had there been any reports of sheep being mauled or killed, just the fox, which, quite frankly, could have been the result of a territorial dog fight with another of its kind. These of course were only local observations and to discuss them openly would probably dampen the market from which everyone was benefitting. So, no-one mentioned it and everyone knew someone who’d seen it.
The weather forecast for the weekend was good. The temperature was starting to drop, and with a full moon and the prospect of a clear night, the weekenders had taken the opportunity to head to the country one last time before the winter snow arrived.
Trade had been brisk at Al’s gun shop and, along with the usual array of hunting paraphernalia, he had sold two 12 gauge shotguns along with a pro-hunter rifle which he was pretty sure had been bought for the name rather than anything else. Business was business and, as he kept reminding himself, it paid the rent.
‘Well I guess it’s now or never,’ said the tall thick set man regaled in his shooting outfit. ‘If we don’t see it today then I guess we’ll have to leave it till spring.’ He picked up the boxes of cartridges that lay on the counter, smiled and turned to leave.
‘Remember,’ Al called after him, ‘if you do manage to hit it...’
‘I know I’ve got to bring it you for your two for one deal... I haven’t forgotten,’ he laughed, opened the door and stepped out in the chilly afternoon sun.
Al smiled, looked at the clock and started to tidy the shop away for the day.
The weather forecasters got it right; it was a clear night. With the moon well into its ascent, Al climbed into his old beat up Vitara. Turning the key, the engine fired and Al took one last look towards the shop, checking that the internal security lights had come on. Happy, he pulled away leaving the shop, the town and its stories, to recede in his rear view mirror.
The daylight had faded as he pulled off the road and onto the single dirt track that led towards the old woodman’s cottage he called home. He always walked the last half mile – it was his daily exercise and he enjoyed the freedom and the solitude.
The rough strewn track gently rose before him, and the trees cast moonlit shadows across his path. He breathed in the cool evening air laden with the ever present scent of pine. His footsteps made little sound upon the pine needle cushion on which he walked. An early evening owl hooted and then fell silent leaving just the sound of a car on the road below, which before long disappeared into the night.
The silence broke to the sound of men; talking, laughing and opening cans of drink with a distinctive click and fizz, which sounded so alien to the natural world that surrounded them.
Al recognised his last customer of the day. His laugh was unmistakeable. Their voices weren’t muffled and Al could hear the excitement in their voices as they talked of the glories associated with bagging the panther on the last day of the season.
Al’s fingers encircled around a stone from the track and he hurled it high up into the trees away to his left. The sound of rock snapping dry twigs and the muffled clump of its landing broke into the consciousness and conversation of the, “would be hunters”. Al smiled and watched as the group reached as for their night vision binoculars, their guns and the boxes of ammunition he had sold them. Together they took their first steps in pursuit of their quarry.
Hushed voices discussed where and how far away the sound had come from. The mist of their conversation hung in the air. The clicking of guns being broken open to receive their shot travelled up the hillside towards Al. He gathered a second stone and released it with similar force into the trees. Twigs cracked breaking the silence of the evening air and raising a whispered chorus of ‘Over there’ from the group below. The sound of closing guns filled the air as tension surrounded the group as they peered into the darkness. A shadow moved, a finger pointed as whispers continued and then fell silent once again.
It was something or nothing but the hairs on their necks stood up, adrenalin pumping at the thought of being so close to that which had eluded them for the so long. The silence and the dark enveloped them before being extinguished by the piercing beam of the spot torch as it scanned the trunks of the trees causing them to dance with their shadows as the beam travelled passed. Nothing.
Al kept low and watched. He snapped a stick bringing the group to attention and the beam in his direction. It passed over him leaving him in a pool of shadow, safe, hidden and protected. The arching beam of cream light swept through the wood going nowhere and revealing nothing.
Al, crouching behind a fallen log, took in the near silence of the night-time wood. He felt safe and alive for this was his home. He knew the men below would get fed up or frustrated at their lack of success. Al decided to sit and wait and watch.
There was a crack of wood, a snap of closing guns, and two discs of green reflected in the moonlight. Al saw them. The shooters saw them. There was a flash of red and blue, sparks of yellow raced through the trees. There was a scream. A body fell and then there was no more talk of sightings.
 
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