Village Squire, 1980-11, Page 17flicked back the bolt, inserted into the
breech a bullet he had dug from his
pocket, and slammed the mechanism
shut. He had twenty minutes - a half
hour at the outside - to get what he felt he
had to get.
He moved throught the underbrush
beyond the fence as carefully as he was
able but twigs snapped and leaves
crackled under his feet however
cautiously he stepped. He imagined
animals and birds poised silent and
invisible listening to his clumsy
approach, some no more than inches
away. Pausing, he changed his finger
position on the trigger and scanned the
bush about him for a tell-tale movement
but even the wind had dropped away and
nothing stirred. He breathed slowly and
deeply and shifted the rifle in his
sweating hands. Then he moved again
forward, softly, placing each step with
studied care.
Suddenly. almost beneath his feet, the
brown carpet exploded in a frenzied
shower of leaves and twigs as something
shot upward inches from his terrified
face. His finger closed in a spasm on the
trigger and the bullet whined away into
the cold distance. His heart crashing
against his ribs, Billy fumbled in his
pocket, flung back the bolt, and jammed
in a new bullet. The partridge had dipped
into the bush about forty feet away. Billy
slammed the bolt shut and stumbled in
pursuit through the underbrush. He
stopped where he thought the bird had
come down but there was no sign of it.
He stared furiously at each cluster of
leaves, at stumps and boulders, aiming to
penetrate its camouflage and pot the bird
sitting.
Then he saw it. About twenty feet
away, a squat and complacent brown
bundle under a fallen tree limb. Billy
raised the gun. He tried to steady his
hands to take proper aim. His breathing
was hard and painful. He could see its
head, its beady bird's eye watching him.
Slowly he squeezed the trigger. The
hammer clicked, There was a slight
recoil, a thump and a flutter and then
silence.
Perfect! Trembling with excitement,
he rushed forward to where the bird lay
but just as he reached into the space
beneath the limb he herd a clatter of
wings behind him. His hand full of
leaves, he turned to see the partridge
disappear into a tangle of swamp cedars
in the hollow off to the left.
How could he have been mistaken?
Maybe there had been two birds. He was
certain he had seen its eye. He looked
again. Traces of morning frost glistened
on the soggy leaves, little melting eyes of
water. He brushed the bits of wet leaf
from his hand. His cheeks burned with
the feeling that he was being watched
and ridiculed by a thousand animal eyes.
Billy struggled through the bush away
from the scene, paying no heed now to
the noise he was making or to the brush
that scratched and stung his face.
Snagging on branches and pulling him up
short more than once. the gun was an
encumbrance and he wanted to drop it,
let the forest have it for all the good it had
been to him. But it was not his to abandon
so, each time, with angry frustration he
tore it free and went on.
"Billy
approached
for a
closer look."
He stopped finally in a small clearing
and lowered himself to the sun -warmed
surface of black rock that had for
centuries held back the invasion of scrub
brush and poplar. He felt helpless and
inadequate and found himself wishing he
were home in the warm darkness of his
room buried beneath the covers,
swimming off into comforting sleep.
His yawn was interrupted by a move-
ment at the edge of the clearing. He
squinted to cut the glare of the sun. There
on a stump sat a chipmunk, upright and
alert. It sniffed the air, licked both paws,
drew them rapidly across its face, and
sniffed the air again. It flicked its nervous
tail twice before darting into the open end
of a log.
Billy approached for a closer look. A
turf of wild grasses had grown where the
log had rotted and collapsed at the far
end, blocking off what would have been
the other exit. He positioned himself at a
right angle to the opening and quietly
loaded the rifle. Then, cross-legged with
the weapon resting on one knee, the tip of
the barrel about four inches from the
hole, he waited.
He was uncomfortable in the sun.
Beads of sweat dotted his forehead and
beneath his heavy shirt his back was
dripping. There was a rustle in the bush
off to one side but he checked his impluse
to look. He felt squeamish about what he
was doing but dismissed it as a childish
scruple because, after all, was this not
the whole issue - being strong enough to
kill if one chose?
Because of the suddenness with which
it appeared, the rodent's head seemed
enormous in his gun sights. It sniffed the
air and hesitated as though sensing
something amiss. Billy pulled the trigger.
There was a thud and a frantic scramble.
The animal lunged from the hole, spun
about, and fell writhing on the rock. It
made an awful squeaking sound.
Billy watched, appalled. The creature,
which should have been dead, kept on
jerking senselessly. Billy wanted to
scream at it to stop. Afraid to touch the
beast, he reloaded the gun with
trembling hands, aimed, fired, and
missed. Barely able to see thorugh his
tears, Billy tossed aside the gun and
picked up a stone. He knelt and brought
the stone down hard, missed, and hit
rock. The next blow was cushioned by the
animal's soft body.
Billy let the stone slip from his hands
and it clattered down the granite incline.
The small carcass lay splayed and bloody.
"You bastard," Billy sobbed. "You filthy
little bastard!" He made no effort to stem
the flow of tears as he pushed the
shameful mess into the underbrush and
covered it with leaves.
Stunned, Billy made his way back to
the road where he sat in the grass with
his back against the fence waiting for his
father. He closed his eyes but the spectre
of the smashed body filled the darkness
and he opened them again. He did not
want to be sick.
When he saw his father in the distance
he pulled himself to his feet. Harry waved
and Billy motioned in return.
"Hey! What the heck's the matter?"
Harry asked when he was close enough to
see Billy's face.
Shamed and feeling that no pardon his
father could provide would be enough,
Billy shook his head.
Harry put his arm about the boy's
shoulder. "Come on, now, pal. You
haven't missed much. Believe me."
They walked in silence. Billy wanted to
reach out, to offer an explanation, even
apologize, and like a child be comforted
but that was no longer possible. Feeling
more alone than ever he had before, he
pushed his hands deeper into his pockets
and kept pace with Harry.
Mr. Shoveller is an English and drama
instructor at Mohawk College.
Hamilton. His plays have appeared on
the CBC and BBC television networks,
as well as in a collection of Canadian
plays. Currently. a completed novel
by the author. 7'he Oval Surround, is
being considered by a Toronto
publisher.
VILLAGE SQUIRE/NOVEMBER 1980 PG. 15