Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 44, No. 7 & 8, July/August 1999

I strode off alone into the woods, my spear in hand. The last time I went hunting, I was twelve years old. Deep in the forest I had turned and found myself nose to nose with a woolly rhinoceros. He licked my face, and I fainted dead away. When I came to, I resolved to become an artist. I had never picked up a spear again until this day.

I spotted a reindeer grazing in the distance. With all the strength I could summon, I hurled my spear. It landed so far from its target the reindeer lazily turned to me with a look that said, “You weren’t aiming for me, were you? You couldn’t have been aiming for me.” Then he strolled off, extra slowly as if to mock me.

I turned to my next victim, a not terribly large ibex. I threw my spear, and it lodged squarely in his shoulder. This didn’t kill him or even seem to hurt him — this had offended him. He charged me. I ran. He knocked me down. He kicked me and butted me, and when that got boring, he began whacking me with the spear handle, still stuck in his shoulder. Finally, in a fit of ibexy conscience, he let me go. I was beaten, bruised, and soaked with blood, some his, mostly mine.

As I trudged home that evening, I spotted a squirrel gasping on the ground after a bad fall. I conked him on the head with a rock — at least I wouldn’t have to face T.O.W.O.E. empty-handed. I entered my cave holding my puny trophy by the tail. “Mother, I know that this may not look like much, but if you add a few vegetables—” At this point the squirrel, not dead but merely dazed, sprang to life. It bit my hand, did two quick laps around our home, chirping and peeing on everything in sight, and sprinted out the door.

I wished for anything to break the sticky silence that hung between my mother and myself — and I got it. The shaman entered my cave and proclaimed, “Murf, in the name of our people, I accuse you of murder!”

I was stunned. “For the squirrel?”

“For Hax, the artist.” He explained that earlier that day, as Hax set to work repainting my mural, an unseen assailant had entered the sacred cave. There were signs of a struggle, and Hax had been stabbed in the heart.

“Well, surely you don’t suspect me.” As I gestured at myself, I remembered that I was covered with bruises and my clothes were soaked with blood. I started to explain that I’d been hunting alone all day, but that didn’t even sound believable to me. No one had seen me go hunting for fifteen years.

The shaman produced a bloodstained utility knife the length of a man’s foot; the bone handle was an intricately carved horse in full gallop. “This is the knife that killed Hax — its fine craftsmanship indicates only you could have made it.”

“Well... yes,” I said, flattered. It was a terrible situation, but I take my compliments where I can get them. “But I’ve made these for several customers. I kept one knife for myself, and that’s not it. Mine is right here with my art supplies.” I smugly opened my case and fished around inside: no knife. “Look, I know this looks bad, and I really regret my ‘sit on your hat’ remark—”

“I have judged the evidence and find you guilty of Hax’s murder,” said the shaman. “Tomorrow at dawn you will be stoned to death by the good people of this village.” He clapped his hands, and two of the strongest men in our tribe, Oof and Bubo, grabbed me roughly by the shoulders. As they dragged me away, I saw a look in my mother’s eyes I had never seen before. I think it was pride.

Oswald Plummer and the Jeter family stood above a perfectly round hole in the limestone, four feet wide, fifteen feet deep. “We believe a whirlpool created this hole naturally. However, etchings inscribed in the walls near the bottom indicate it had some ceremonial function — a repository for bones or holy relics, a place to contact the spirits of the earth... But it most certainly was not a urinal!”

“Sorry,” said Jason Jeter, zipping his pants.

I was thrown down into the Hole of the Gods to await execution. The hole was too deep and its sides too slick to climb out. The walls were scratched with the names of other inmates who’d done time in the hole. There were even multiple listings for Zaza the prostitute; Lu the male prostitute; and my dear departed dad, I’m sorry to say.

Who killed Hax, I wondered, and why? Perhaps he was killed to avenge my honor or protect my work. Could Mother have done this? No, it had to be someone who loved me. And that’s when I realized who the killer was. I called up to my captors. “Oof, Bubo, get Poot!” What a strange sentence, I thought as I heard it echo off the walls of the hole.