The Cherry Wood Gobbler Part 2

Will Starr arrived at the cemetery promptly at 4 p.m. the following Wednesday afternoon just as Jonas had requested. Jonas and several other people were raking leaves and picking up small limbs.

“Good to see ya’, Mista Will,” Jonas said with a big smile. “Mista Hardy, he got sump’n for you….”

He nodded toward the back of the cemetery.

The permanent tombstone had not yet been set in place, but a temporary sign marked the freshly covered grave site. Will paused.

“Go on…” Jonas said. “See what he lef’ fo’ ya’.”

He smiled like a kid at Christmas time.

Will walked to the back of the cemetery as Jonas followed. Staring down, he saw a wooden box call on the ground next to a vase containing a beautiful arrangement of flowers. Jonas walked up and stood beside him, leaning his chin on the rake handle.

“Go ahead,” he said. “Pick it up. It ain’t no snake. It ain’t gon’ bite.”    

Will leaned down and picked it up.

“It’s beautiful,” he said.

“Made from cherry.”

He turned the box call on its side and noticed the large letters etched on the side: ‘Miss Irresistible.’ Underneath the inscription were the initials ‘H.M.’

Mista Hardy, he make it special,” Jonas said. “He planned to use it on da’ Ad’mral. But he never got the chance…”

Will made a few faint clucks with the paddle.

“Miss Irresistible… Mr. Hardy was a real artist.”

“You got dat right,” Jonas said. “He make three box calls all jus’ alike, but he say this’n have the best sound. Miz Hardy give it to me the day her husband pass on. Mista Hardy give the other two away to his friends. Miz Hardy told me how special this one was, and that I knew what to do with it. And she right. Now I’m givin’ it to you ’cause you got to finish the job.”

“The job?” Will asked. “What job?”

“It up to you now, Mista Will… to shoot da’ Ad’mral. That’s what Mista Hardy woulda’ wanted. Now you got all da’ ammunition you need to call him in.”

“That’s a pretty big order,” Will said. “And some pretty big shoes to fill. Why is it up to me? What about all of his friends?”

“You’re da’ best man to get da’ job done,” Jonas said. “Ain’t no question ’bout dat. It’s meant to be. The minute we meet at da’ service last week, I knew you were the one. The Good Lawd works in mysterious ways, and he put you here to finish the job. Anyway, the Ad’mral been spending mo’ time on yo’ prop’ty lately than he has on Mista Hardy’s. Believe me, by the time the season gets here in a few weeks, he be takin’ up wid all your hens. And when you do finish da’ job, you let me know. That way I can let Mista Hardy know.”

“But I didn’t even know Mr. Matthews,” Will said.

“Don’t matter. You’re the one he sel’cted. Oh, and one mo’ thing, ‘fore I forgets… Last year, da’ Ad’mral always have two jakes with him whenever Mista Hardy saw him. They still with him, but they ain’t jakes no mo’. They full-grown 2-year birds now. You see them two gobblers a’comin’, you betta’ get ready, Mista Will, ’cause da’ Ad’mral ain’t gonna be far behind.”

“This is getting more intriguing by the minute,” Will said. “Last year, I saw old Tree Stump two times in the woods, and both times he had two jakes with him.”

“See? I ain’t been lyin’ to you, Mista Will,” Jonas said. “Da Ad’mral spend plenty time on your prop’ty.”

“It’s a beautiful piece of wood,” Will repeated, looking down at the box call, trying to take it all in.

“Reckon you got any idea where that piece a’ wood come from, Mista Will?” Jonas asked.

“Well it’s made from cherry wood like I said,” Will answered. “But…”

Jonas looked back at the three larger cherry trees whose sprawling limbs hung out over the back corner of the cemetery. The largest, which had been forked about two-thirds of the way up its 14-inch trunk, was now missing one side of the fork. A 3-foot section with a ragged edge was all that remained of the thick, arching 20-foot limb that had once hung out over the edge of the cemetery. It had come crashing down one year earlier during a fierce wind storm, and Jonas had cut several small blocks from the salvaged wood while cleaning up. He had given them to his boss.       

“From that cherry tree?” Will asked. “You’re kidding.”

“Yes suh, Mista Will. From that tree!”

“Man, this really is special then,” Will said.

“That’s right, Mista Will. That’s why it your dest’ny to call in da’ Ad’mral. Nothin’ in dis’ world would please Mista Hardy more.”

“But my friend Greg is the best hunter in our group,” Will said. “He always kills the biggest buck and calls in the biggest gobblers.”

“Don’t make no nevermind, Mista Will. Mista Greg may be a mighty good man, but you done been hired for da’ job, and you gon’ be da’ one to pull da’ trigga’.”

   

•  •  •  •  •

“Do you really believe the Admiral and Tree Stump are the same bird?” Will asked his friend.

Opening day was still two weeks off, and the two hunters were discussing their strategy. Despite the strong evidence, he still couldn’t reconcile in his mind that both birds might be one and the same.

“They have to be,” Greg answered. “It makes sense because those two times you saw ol’ Tree Stump last year he was always over on your side of the property with those two jakes that Jonas talked about. And you’re not that far from the cemetery. We’ve never seen hide nor hair of him back near the swamp where I hunt. It also makes sense that he probably spends a lot of time on Mr. Matthews’ property last year because there were plenty of days he certainly wasn’t over on our side. If he had been, you’d of seen him. But he had to be somewhere close by.”

“I guess you’re right,” Will said. “I guess ol’ Jonas knows what he’s talking about. Whichever bird it is—the Admiral or Tree Stump—it sure looks like things are adding up to be one remarkable season. I’ve never started a season quite like this before…”

“And you probably never will again,” Greg said. “The stars must be lining up a certain way this year because we’ve never had anything like this happen before. You couldn’t make this stuff up if you tried. First the unbelievable funeral service, then meeting old Jonas, and now this cherry wood box call… it beats all I’ve ever seen.”

“You left out one thing,” Will said. “This box call is a piece of art. Mr. Matthews sure knew what he was doing. I don’t know anybody who could make something like this.”

“Me neither,” Greg said. “Maybe I oughta just stay home this season and let you do all the hunting. I think you and your cherry wood box call are gonna do some real damage in our turkey woods this year. ”

“Nah, I need your support too much for you to lie low this season,” Will said. “And your expertise. This whole thing is almost overwhelming. If I get a chance to call him in, I’m gonna need a good luck charm.”

Greg smiled and said, “Well I think your good luck charm is going to be that piece of cherry wood, but I certainly don’t mind being there to witness the fireworks when they start!”

  

•  •  •  •  •

Opening day on March 25 was eventful only in the sense that Will watched two coyotes skirt the far edge of the pasture along the creek well out of range. Since this was the usual gathering place for the flock of turkeys that he hoped Old Tree Stump would be attracted to now that spring was erupting in full force, he vowed to do something about the coyote problem as soon as the opportunity availed itself.  Instead of hunting together, he and Greg had split up before daylight. Greg went to his usual spot on the far side of the property, while Will hunted his favorite area near the large bottomland pasture that bordered the creek. Neither man heard a single turkey in the predawn darkness. An hour after spotting the coyotes, Will saw a band of eight hens in the pasture with three jakes tagging along behind, but the woods seemed void of longbeards.

Later on, he and Greg met at their campsite behind the cemetery and shared their disappointing observations while eating a couple of sandwiches.

“Seems like all the he-birds have lockjaw today,” he mused as he and Will ate their lunch. “I never even heard any crows raising Cain this morning like I normally do. It was a strange opening morning.”

Greg had seen two hens scratching in the leaves near the swamp, but other than that, his morning had been uneventful. After a 30-minute siesta, the two hunters decided to spend the afternoon walking and calling along the creek near the pasture. Two hours later, they still had not heard a single gobble. An hour before dark, they split up to see if they could roost a couple of birds, but that too proved to be fruitless.   

The following Saturday, Greg was called out of town on business, so Will drove to the property alone. He had no sooner parked, gotten out of his truck and loaded his shotgun when he heard a thundering gobble over in the direction of the cemetery. That’s strange, he thought. “All these years of hunting here, and I’ve never heard a turkey gobble in that direction. Maybe today is going to be the day,” he said to himself.

The adrenaline was pumping as Will quietly tip-toed over toward the cemetery in the darkness. The woods were fairly open, and he made his way slowly and deliberately, stopping to listen every few steps. Ten minutes later, another earth-shattering gobble broke the morning silence. Will almost jumped out of his boots with excitement. He’s got to be either in the cemetery or close to it, he thought. Maybe he’s in one of the cherry trees. That would just about take the cake if he is.      

Will steadily made his way in the direction of the gobble. When he was about 80 yards from the edge of the cemetery, he stopped to wait for daylight. He thought he heard a couple of soft tree calls, but he couldn’t be sure. Nervously looking at the dial of his digital watch every few seconds, he counted down the minutes until he would be able to see. He could make out the trunk of a large oak tree about 20 yards ahead, and he decided to sneak over and set up there. Better not push my luck by getting too close, he thought.

After he had settled down on the ground and started scoping the area in front of him with his binoculars, he was confident that his commando-like tactics had worked and that he had gotten to this spot undetected.

Fifteen minutes later, he could make out the hazy forms of several monuments in the cemetery. Just like the week before, the morning was eerily quiet. The fact that he was sitting near the cemetery—a first in his hunting career—somehow added a curious atmosphere to the scene. Just like the week before, no birds were singing, and no early morning crows were getting ready to greet the day with their usual endless racket. He felt as if he were the last man left on earth. Except for one thing… Somewhere ahead he knew a large turkey gobbler was sitting on a limb near the edge of the cemetery. Could it be the bird he was after?

“Looks like it’s just me and you now,” he thought. “I know you’re out there somewhere, and I’m gonna be ready for you when you fly down.”

Will quietly took out the cherry wood box call and put it on the ground within easy reach. He also took out his favorite slate and corncob striker and put them next to the box call. “Just in case I have to make some very soft clucks,” he thought.

Another 15 minutes went by, and the woods were still void of sound. Will began to second-guess himself. Did I really hear a turkey gobble over here by the cemetery? Or did I get the direction wrong? Maybe those two gobbles came from the woods way over to the right of the cemetery near Mr. Matthews’ land. Maybe they came from across the road…

“No! I heard a turkey gobble right here by the cemetery, and he’s still here! Just be patient, and don’t blow it.”    

The light was still dim, but now he could see clearly ahead into the cemetery. He could see the trunks of the three cherry trees about 50 yards ahead on the edge of the cemetery, but he could not see into their tops because of the other trees in the woods. Suddenly he heard the distinct sound of sweeping wings. He saw a blur of something arching toward the ground in the dim light, and he quickly trained his binoculars on the dark object just to the right of the graveyard. Two more birds flew down beyond the first. All three turkeys were gobblers, and they started walking away from him along the edge of the cemetery.

Then the largest of the three stopped and sounded a blood-curdling gobble that ran chills down Will’s spine. Will slowly got up on his knees so he could see more clearly.

“That’s gotta be you, you son of gun,” Will whispered. “Like ol’ Jonas says, nobody has a gobble like that!”

He watched through his binoculars as the largest of the three longbeards began to weave in and out of several grave markers. The other two gobblers remained where they were, apparently searching for insects in the short grass. Will glimpsed the bright red head and heavy waddle as the big turkey weaved his way between the marble markers.

Then, in one particular opening, he got a clear view of the thick, protruding chest that boasted a massive gray beard that curved out in front of the turkey’s bulging chest. Will’s heart started pounding. Could this be the Admiral? It had to be, and the big bird was slowly making his way toward the back of the cemetery. Even in the dim light of early morning, one moment the feathers of this great bird seemed jet black, the next they seemed to radiate a rainbow of bright iridescent colors that gave Will goose bumps.

Almost in a panic, Will desperately tried to figure out what to do. Should I start calling with the box? Should I use the slate? Should I do nothing and wait?

The question was answered before he could make a decision. With one quick flap of his wings, the turkey hopped up on top of a marble tombstone. Now Will had a perfect view of the bird’s entire body through his 10X binoculars. Looking directly toward the woods from which Will was watching, the animated bird raised his red head and brought forth a thunderous gobble that seemed to shake the ground like a minor earthquake.

“I’ve heard that gobble before,” Will thought, “on the day of Mr. Matthews’ funeral!”

One of the 2-year-olds followed suit, but his rendition was not nearly as impressive.

Will was so emotionally affected by the sight before him that it took a few moments for the true essence of what he was witnessing to sink in. This stately bird had not just casually alighted on top of any random tombstone; he was standing on top of the recently installed, polished gray marker that designated the final resting place of Mr. Hardy Matthews.

“This can’t be happening,” Will thought.

Will’s mind was spinning. Despite the pure shock of it all, the hunter instinct in him quickly took over, and he knew he had to figure a way to get close enough for a shot. At that moment, the big bird pivoted his position on top of the tombstone and faced the opposite direction, looking toward the two gobblers that were standing to the side of the cemetery about 20 yards farther away. The Admiral raised his head and belted out another earth-shaking gobble.

Knowing this was the answer to a prayer, Will silently put the two calls in his coat pocket and grabbed his shotgun. He stood up quickly and stalked about 20 feet ahead to another large oak tree. He stood behind the tree, slowly raising his gun to the shooting position and propping it against the side of the tree while he watched and waited.

Suddenly the Admiral jumped off the tombstone and began walking toward the back of the cemetery. This is too good to be true, Will thought as he silently released the safety.

The Admiral stopped next to one of the large cherry trees. Will knew the distance was less than 40 yards as he drew a bead on the ever-alert red head. Caught up in the heat of the moment, he started to squeeze the trigger. Then he hesitated.

“What am I doing? I can’t shoot him in the cemetery. He’s not even on our property. Even if he was, how could I shoot toward Mr. Matthews’ gravestone? It wouldn’t be right.”

That brief moment of hesitation was all the time needed for the huge gobbler to reverse directions and start walking back toward his friends. Within seconds, the charmed bird had skirted around the edge of the cemetery and rejoined his two lieutenants. Within a few more seconds, all three gobblers had crossed the grassy field next to the cemetery and walked over to the edge of Mr. Hardy Matthews’ property. Will lowered his gun and got out the box call. He made a series of low clucks, but he somehow knew his efforts would be in vain. The three turkeys paid no attention. They were on a mission. Will called louder, but to no avail. One by one, the trio of gobblers disappeared inside the tree line.      

Will sat down on the ground, emotionally exhausted.

“Next time, old buddy,” he said out loud. “When conditions are a little different. Next time you won’t be so lucky. Man, I can’t wait to tell Jonas and Greg about this. They’re not gonna believe what just happened.”

Then, looking across the opening toward Mr. Matthews’ property where the three turkeys had gone, he added, “Greg calls this whole thing serendipity, and he’s probably right… You might be the Admiral to Mr. Matthews and Tree Stump to us, but today you got yourself a new name. Today you earned the title of the Cherry Wood Cemetery Gobbler because you’ve got a sound that can wake up the dead!”

 

Conclusion of The Cherry Wood Gobbler