THE START OF THE SEASON

New Zealand Listener, Volume 30, Issue 772, 7 May 1954, Page 8

THE START OF THE SEASON

A Short Story by

PHILIP

MINCHER

MAN and a.boy were walking through a plantation of pines, in rich pasture land in a.valley. They were quail-shoot-ing. A'dog ranged ahead, but the boy was in the lead, setting pace, proud and awkward with the gun a pound afd’ a half too heavy for him. He wore big boots turned down below bare knees, and he was pleased about the soft, sliding give of the pine needles beneath his feet, and always the strong, clean smeli of pine. He was tired from the walk, but nowhere near through with it. The man was not tired, and had only ‘begun to feel the first itch of sweat where his cartridge belt pressed tightest. He carried his gun easily, as a hunter. knows how, and he took his time now and let the boy set his own pace, knowing exactly what the distance they had covered would have been when he himself had been twelve yeats old. The boy had followed him all morning, believing he was leading, and he knew what it meant to the boy. This particular day of the year meant @ great deal to the man, too, although it never now meant to him as much as it used to mean. He hoped now only to recapture a small part of it, the memory "Of pleasure, past and a little stale. A brace of ducks flipflopped against his thigh as he _ picked the easiest course through the pines. He had taken them with the sun, the one a gift shot low over the water, and the other a good, long barrelful with a quick, accurate moyement that had really pleased him. The boy had missed an easy one, which he, the man, could haye taken easily with the second gun for himself, But the springer had been over the side and back again before the feathers of the brace were damp. He a a

had a good dog, and a bag to show for his first two shots of the season, and now he was going to try for quail. "We'll get out of here and try the boxthorn, Fainy," he said. "All right, Joe." The boy was only a little nervous about shooting again, after the easy shot he had missed with the ducks. Joe had sworn to himself, because he was a _ real hunter and would hate to see a wasted shot. Joe was as good a shot as you would ever see, anywhere, and a leader you had to follow. You had to shoot easily and kill cleanly, and not be afraid of the big, heavy butt banging up into your chin the way you supposed a punch would be, and of the powder

Durning, -it > was ail 4n seer eeer sr: the way Joe did it, the easy way he used the big double-barrelled gun, end his boots firm and sure in mud or over the smooth slopes of pine-needles; it wes his hands, big and sure of themselves, and his eyes, and his man’s strength. And it was all real. It was never the hunt so much as being one of the hunters. They came down out of the pines, and skirted them, then made for the thick, ragged cover of boxthorn hedging gone wild. Fainy could feel grass seed inside his boots, and the boots harsh where his socks had worked down over his heels. He was starting to worry about shooting again. Joe had the lead now. A

wore rrr rrr rrr rrr "You don’t get much time," he said. "You've got to swing quick and there’s no time for playing around with your aim." There was a quick, urgent alarm of whirring wings, sharp on the afternoon’s hot-heayiness;' and Joe was showing whet he ment about being fast. He got three quail with one barrel while Fainy was watching the last quick flash of the others with his gun in a tight hand at his side. Joe said: "That’s one hell of a fine kuri, son. He knows what it’s about." He replaced the spent cartridge without looking, while the dog did his work. "T didn’t hardly see the blasted things," Fainy said. He wanted to talk A

big to cover it up, but his voice would not come strong enough. "You've got to be quick," Joe. said. "You'll get it," They were moving again. Watching the dog, Joe said: "You've got to reckon it out before they flush; nut out where they’re going to fly, and make sure you’re not in the way so you can get a straight shot-Watch the dog, son!" As the second bunch of quail whirred up and away Fainy let go with the single barrel before the butt was up to his shoulder, and without aiming at anything. The wasted explosion nearly knocked him over, and with the split second he knew that Joe would be finished with him. Then came the crash of the bigger gun as Joe blew a straggler into the boxthorn. He had waited to give Fainy a chance. Joe replaced his cartridge without speaking, watching the dog. They walked on. Fainy followed in silence, his ears hot and his throat hard. He was too old to cry. At the end of the boxthorn Joe said: "We'll take a rest and then make tracks."" He whistled the dog. They sat in the long grass on a slope, and Joe made himself a cigarette. "That’s a smart way to let boxthorn go," he said. "You’d think a man could take care of his boundary.’ He was not looking at Fainy. He smoked his cigarette through in silence and pressed it out on his boot; them he said quietly, "You got another shell in?" "Yes," Fainy found his voice. "You might still get something." Joe was fixing his cartridge belt. He said gently: "You got to be more careful with your aim. It’s just practice." They walked up the slope and Joe was thinking well, he thinks I’m God and I could break his heart without starting to unwind. That’s what a man gets for having blue eyes or living clean, or whatever’s supposed to make a good shot. It’s brought me a lot of things, tepo, and not all peaches. Not when the target shoots back. But a kid’s god is always a man, and with a healthy kid it’s a man with a gun. It doesn’t seem to matter what else he is, He said kindly to the boy: "Day after tomorrow we'll get the rifle down and take in a bit of target practice." Fainy did not say anything. "Aren’t you keen?" "I don’t know." The boy coughed away a catch in his voice. "I wouldn’t be any good." "Hell," Joe said. "I fired a couple of thousand rounds before I even made a mark on the target." He could see it was not the line to plug. "You keep your eye on the dog, kiwi," he /said. And he thought, all right; so the taste had to go out of it. I had a god when I was twelve, too, and it didn’t matter tuppence what he was, except that he could shoot. There was a certain amount of practice involved there, too. "You know how I learned to shoot, mate?" he said. *No." "Well, the man who taught me used to give me two cartridges. If I got anything with one he’d give me another. If I missed and got something with the second I got two more." Joe was remembering it, seeing it happen. "If I missed twice," he said, "I waited till another day." And he swore till I was worse than you are now, Joe thought. So why is it ‘important that a man knows how to use a gun? It goes deep. Old Ryan thought of his aim than his whisky, and look how he was; I guess he took the (continued on next page)

(continued from previous page) hell of a lot more than I ever saw. I remember the time I asked him why they burst one kind of fieldgun shell in the air. And he told me. That was when I was twelve. They crested the slope and took their time towards another thicket, the sun punishing them now with its afternoon heat. The birds at Joe’s belt were stiff and dried in the sun, and black where blood, had run and thickened. The day hung heavily upon them both now, although each for a different reason. Fainy was trying very hard not to let show in his face the beaten-up way he felt inside. He felt broken and empty and the gun was heavy now, aching his arms. He had forgotten about watching the dog. Then came a quick, threshing alarm, and he saw what appeared as the greatest, most colourful bird in the world leaving the grass from ahead of the dog, a great flash of colour lifting up into the air in urgent though effortless flight. He had no thought of action, or of killing. Somewhere he knew Joe was standing, with his big double gun, and

his confidence, and his manhood. And the paddock had become very wide and everybody was watching-the whole world, it seemed; and all his life he would remember the colour of the great pheasant’s plumage as it rose into the sun. Very carefully he put the end of the barrel over his vision of the bird, and. down until he saw the dot of his sight upon it. All of the explosion seemed to be in the butt coming up to jump free of his shoulder, and sharp against his cheek. Still in his vision beyond the gun, the dead bird crumpled in the air and went down heavily into the grass. Right away the dog was active. Fainy felt for the first time how his heart was beating. The powder had got in his eyes and was stinging. "I got him, Joe," he said, needlessly, trying to keep his voice steady. He knew it would be all right now; he wanted to shout. Joe straightened up from taking the bird from his dog. There was a kind of smile about his face. "That wasn’t the worst shot I’ve ever seen, anyway," he said.