There are times when some unknown force directs us to do something for a reason. Such was the case the evening that I went to the bulletin board in my study and took down my Spirit Feather. When my seven year old came out of the shower dancing naked with his towel, I presented it to him.

At first he was angry, thinking I’d taken his turkey wing feather. He had taped a felt tip marker to the feather to pretend it was an old-timey quill pen.

"No, it’s mine." I had to tell him over and over. "I made it several years ago."

Nolan dared to disagree.

"Remember when we dressed Fiddler up for Halloween? I made it to hang from his bridle to make him look like an Indian war pony. And we painted bloody handprints and blue lightning bolts on him? Remember?"

Okay, he did remember, especially after I showed him his quill pen was still intact.

The Spirit Feather is a gobbler wing feather strung with beads and bone on a leather thong. For a while it had adorned the appaloosa’s bridle and then I hung it from the fore stock of my rifle. It made me feel primal and was a good wind direction indicator. But I became self-conscious about it and for two years it had hung lifelessly on my bulletin board.

I attempted to explain it to him.

"This feather is for luck. It is strong medicine."

"What is that?" Nolan asked.

"When you hunt, tie it to your gun and it will bring you power and luck on your hunt. Like the Indians on Dances with Wolves."

Oh, yes, he knew Dances with Wolves.

Then I showed him how to tie it around the barrel of his very ancient Red Ryder BB gun.

The next evening when I arrived home from work, he ran to hug me as usual. I was running late and very quickly I washed my hands and began to pull out pots and pans for a meal.

"Just a minute, Mommy," he said, "I’ve got something to show you."

He ran out on the porch and was back in seconds, flashing his gap-toothed grin, holding something behind his back. With a flourish, he brought out a gray squirrel tail.

My grin, I’m certain, was wider than his.

"You killed that? With your .410?" I exclaimed.

"Yes!"

And he rushed into my arms.

Like all hunters do, the story was told and retold. About how he and his daddy spotted the squirrel. About how he aimed and pulled the trigger.

"He was yelling ‘Did I get him? Did I get him?’" said my husband.

"Yes," said Nolan, "and then I saw something heavy fall, and we ran over to it. It was so big, I thought it was a raccoon. Then Daddy poked it with a stick to make sure it was dead."

He told of cleaning the squirrel, of how there was no blood on the outside but when they skinned it, blood ran out from under the skin. It was decided he must kill more so that we could make a meal. Squirrel dumplings.

The next morning he dressed for school while I prepared for a morning in the deer woods. The season had been a let down, to say the least. Hot, dry weather, no acorns and just plain bad luck had plagued me. In a normal year, I would already have two deer in the freezer.

"Nolan, would you mind if I borrowed your Spirit Feather?" I asked. "I think I really need some luck on this hunt and it truly brought you good luck yesterday."

He was more than happy to agree and watched as I tied it to the sling swivels on the front of my new Remington.

It was miserably hot and windy in the oak flat that morning. Noise from a farmer plowing his field and a construction crew nearby added to my distraction. And if things weren’t bad enough, I needed to take an unscheduled nature break.

That, I suppose, is how the buck managed to slip in on me. That or help from some Spirit. Suddenly I looked down and he was feeding under a beech not fifteen yards away. Not what I want, I thought, but a gift I’ve been given. A gift I may not get another opportunity for. And so I fired.

I saw the buck fall but out of habit walked to the spot I’d marked when I took the shot. Finding bubbly scarlet spatters, I practiced my blood trailing to the little buck, which had run about fifty yards. At his side, I knelt reverently, dipped my finger in blood and christened my new rifle with it.

That afternoon, I picked Nolan up from his after-school program.

"I’ve got something to show you," I said and walked towards the hatch of my SUV.

His eyes lit up.

"You’ve got a deer back there!"

"No, not a deer, but the antlers."

"You got a deer!"

He hugged me hard and kissed me. Seven, it seems, is a most affectionate age.

I showed him the spikes, tiny little spikes. Many hunters would consider them insignificant, even embarrassing. Right now, they are my greatest trophies ever.

"Mommy, can I have them?" he asked, gushing with enthusiasm.

"Yes, I saved them for you," I said. "But we have to let them dry out first."

* * * * *

That night I untied the Spirit Feather from my rifle and handed it back to him.

"It brought you luck and then it brought me luck. I think we should put it in a safe place."

Without a second thought, he went to a mounted gobbler on the wall and tied it to his legs. It hangs down, linked to its own kind and to mankind to remind us that there is powerful medicine at work in this world.