North East Venison

We woke at dawn. Usually I hate getting up in the small hours, but this time I was glad to be up before the sun. It was cold, bitter clod. Frozen fingers had been tickling my nose and cheeks all night, giving them a bright red hue. I looked like a drunk when I got up to go to the toilet; frost bitten red nose, fumbling with my thermal underwear as I staggered over to the water closet, lethargic. Steam poured out from me as I relieved myself, watching the hot ammonia stink waft up in a vapour cloud. The noise in the bowl was far too loud for this hour of the morning, so I re-directed and aimed for the porcelain to help muffle the splashing. I didn’t bother flushing but went over to the basin to refresh my face. Ancient pipes groaned and grey, coppery tasting water coughed out of the tap; first in violent bursts, then as a stream. The water ran for about twenty seconds before it ran warm. 

While I was drying my face with an old shirt, there came a rapping upon the front cabin door. The sound filled the quiet room and echoed in its silence. Still patting the back of my neck dry, I opened the door and let Hugh in. He was dressed not quite in army fatigues, but a distinctive style of autumn leaf camouflage; along with 10-lace boots and a matching cap, despite the absence of sun. His clothes fit with the warming feel of the wood cabin. Around his neck were a pair of binoculars and slung over his shoulder, a high-powered rifle. 

“Mornin’” I said through a yawn as he clapped me on the shoulder. 

He agreed it was a good morning and handed me a thermos, it was hot to the touch; so much so that I quickly put it down on the little wooden table beside the fireplace. 

“I’ll just put my kit on.” I told him as he sat down on one of the two chairs that accompanied the fireplace table. Hugh bent forward and warmed his hands in front of the dyeing embers of the previous night’s fire.

“Take your time” He insisted. 

Still with sleep in my eyes, I hunched over and pulled on my pants. 

Now in matching attire, equipment ready, and the cabin fading behind us, we set off towards the woods. With half a thermos full of Irish coffee warming me from the inside, I was ready to face the morning. 

Full daylight wouldn’t come for a few hours yet, so nearly all the townsfolk were still in bed. Nestled away in a cocoon of blankets, they lay dreaming in sleeping houses, and silent black, blinded bedrooms. 

Hugh and I marched along a well-worn path that cut between the border of the town and the edge of the woods. Though we didn’t happen upon another person whilst trekking down the path, Hugh didn’t hand me the rifle till we were well away from the village. 

In the woods there was a dense fog that hung in the morning air; it was strung up from tree to tree like a spider web. The fog was so thick and seemingly malleable, I constantly had the urge to reach out and manipulate it in my hands. 

I’d forgotten these country mornings. There was something pure about them. The timeless forest, ancient but for a few early morning hours. The thin sliver of glaucous sleet was still frozen on the dirt track, and would crunch like broken ice cubes under our feet. 

Not much was said between Hugh and myself along our walk. I was still somewhat groggy with sleep, and he knew not to make unnecessary noise. 

We walked briskly for two-and-a-bit kilometres before Hugh slowed down. He lifted his feet deliberately and was precise when he placed them back down. I followed suit. We stalked like this a little way further, until we came upon a clearing. The woods stopped abruptly and opened up onto a vast patch of empty land. The clearing graduated up a fairly steep incline that ultimately put our horizon line up above our heads.  Hugh walked right up to the edge of the opening then signalled for me to follow. Together we crouched down on the stiff icy earth and positioned ourselves behind a large rock. Hugh laid the rifle on my lap.

“Okay, now,” Hugh began, “for the last three or so days we’ve been spotting some big buck out here in this patch of land”. 

We both turned and rested our forearms on the rock so as to look out onto the clearing. Hugh continued, “You see where the forest comes back around on the left there?”

I nodded and followed his pointing finger.

“They come out from there and into this patch of grass for grazing”. 

His voice was barely a whisper and I could hear his throat clicking as he spoke.

“Usually it will be the Doe and her babies first, then the big Bucks come out shortly after”.

I wondered what he meant by Big.

Having never been Deer hunting before I didn’t have a reference by which to judge size.  I’d heard stories out of the Americas of Deer standing 6ft high (antlers not included). Did our Deer grow to that size? Jesus! 6ft, that’s as tall as a man. Do all Deer stand as tall as man? If so, would shooting a Deer therefore be like shooting a man? I’d shot feathered game before. It was quick and easy. Buck hunting however is very different, much more personal; planned and methodical, premeditated. You stalk the prey, follow it; study its movements to a degree where you can identify its individuality, its personality. It’s not simply a pigeon stray from the flock. This is a worthy counterpart. It has a face; and presumably a better understanding of what fate befalls it in that split second from when it hears the explosion of the rifle, to when it is pierced by the bullet. 

We both swung around and put our backs to the rock, resting on the frozen earth. I turned my head towards Hugh. 

“How do we know they’ll come? Shouldn’t we lure them with food, or look for tracks?” 

Hugh smiled broadly and his teeth cut through the fog. “No Congo Bill … we wait, patience … they will come”. 

The sun was just starting to come out but it was hidden behind the hill in front of us. I couldn’t quite see it yet but I could feel the change in the air. 

Hugh and I were crouched over the boulder, he with the binoculars, I with the rifle. I aimed my gun out into the clearing and looked through the scope. I saw a small bird with a yellow beak and a fantastic red plumage. He looked so stately and distinguished. His breast sticking out, he walked around, occasionally jerking his head into the ground and plucking out worms from the earth. Streaks of sunlight would occasionally spill out from over the cloudy hill and lick at the little bird. When this happened his colour became so much richer, fuller, almost surreal. If I concentrated, I could almost pick out individual feathers splaying in the wind.

I lifted my head from my scope; a flicker of colour caught my eye and I re-aimed. Further up the hill and to the right I saw the ears of a hare. He was bent down in the long grass and only his little ears were visible. The left and right ear would wriggle with the rhythm of his chewing. The red-busted bird chirped and the hare raised himself up, still with a mouthful of vegetation. He sat up on his hind legs and looked over at the bird. I spoke to Hugh without looking.

“There’s a hare up over on the right side, near the edge of the ridge”. 

Hugh aimed his binoculars to where I was pointing. 

“Ahh” he started “so there is … fat little fella”.

“Isn’t he though? Should I shoot him?” I asked, goading Hugh. 

“I should certainly think not.” Hugh replied perhaps too vehemently, as if he thought I was serious. I smiled with my eye still pressed up to the scope. 

My back was flat against the rock and I was starting to doze off when Hugh firmly grabbed my shoulder. I carefully got up and turned around. Neither of us spoke. I looked out onto the clearing. I didn’t need the scope to see him, he was enormous. Just with his head out from the edge of the woods, he was alone and seemed to be contemplating his environment. Like a child tests a pool or a bath with one foot to see if the temperature is right. The Deer was testing to see if he should move out into the tall grass. He moved out from the woods and his full presence became clear. He was a magnificent beast. He carried with him the air of an army commander; his antlers dented and nicked with hundreds of tiny medals from his countless battles.  I couldn’t look away. The majesty of this animal far outweighed that of any politician I’d met; any so called ‘Leader’.  He was beautiful. He was beautiful and I was going to kill him.

It was good that he was alone, no Doe or baby to accompany him. I say this was good because I’d forgotten to focus on the end product; he became a living creature again, not a nice cut of meat. I wasn’t seeing the shank, I was seeing his leg. I was glad that his family wasn’t around because the image of a baby deer nuzzling his fathers’ carcass was growing in my mind and it was too much.  

We waited till he was well out in the clearing. He seemed happy enough foraging. I moved into a better position trying to be stealth-like and methodical. The sleet had melted quite a bit and the condensation had soaked the leaves, which stopped them from rustling. 

I went through all the steps Hugh had shown me the day before: preparing the rifle, adjusting the scope …

My breath became shallow. The buck paused, head down eating grass. My hand moved towards the trigger. He pawed at the dirt. I flicked off the safety. A breeze blew above me and the trees spoke. My eye was pressed firm against the scope, leaving a bruise I wouldn’t notice until later that night. He lifted his head and squinted in the wind. I stoped breathing. My finger was on the trigger. I needed to take a breath. I pulled gently on the trigger. I had to breathe. I applied more pressure. I couldn’t breathe, white specks floated in my eyes. Hugh spoke from far away “Easy, take your time”. It went black. I squeezed the trigger.

I blinked away the haze and sucked in the wind. When I looked up from the scope, the Buck was gazing in my direction but seemed to look right through me. I looked back through the scope; he was still lined up perfectly so I squeezed the trigger again; click. Nothing. He hadn’t moved, hadn’t collapsed, he stood still smelling the wind, squinting wistfully a thousand kilometres off into the distance. Click, click; still no bang. All at once Hugh snatched the rifle away from me, swiftly tossed it to his other hand then grabbed me by the collarbone, turning my whole torso under the might of his paws. “Stop it, right now”, his voice was a whisper through sandpaper which he was doing a good job of stifling. “It’s not a fucking western, calm yourself, you got buck fever, you’re going to hurt someone.” 

It had all happened too fast, I wasn’t quite up to where Hugh was. He looked at me, somewhat calmer but still frustrated at my poor performance. Holding up the rifle he pointed to the safety latch, looked at me in a patronising way, and then disengaged it. A moment passed where I could catch up and he could calm down. 

“I’m sorr-“

“No, I shouldn’t …” Hugh almost, half apologised, while still making me feel foolish and guilty. 

He took the gun and aimed it on the buck that had moved a little way up the hill. “Just … Watch.” he told me. I went mute. The rifle was poised in his arms and as I sat looking between him and the Buck, I noticed Hugh come into himself. His breathing slowed; he seemed lifted, as if half of his body was buoyant, with some unseen tether keeping him from floating away. Like a machine he went through the motions adjusting the necessary mechanisms on the rifle and scope. There was an unbearable pause where he showed a degree of patience that I almost couldn’t fathom. I sat, my skin crawling, knowing that at any second the Buck could spring away and be lost. But the animal had already cheated death once this morning. 

I didn’t hear the shot, I just saw Hugh look up from his scope, and over the end of the smoking barrel. The deer wasn’t anywhere to be seen.  Hugh stood up, without care or delicacy; we weren’t hiding anymore. Slinging the rifle over his shoulder he offered me a hand and helped me up, out of the soggy leaves. 

It took a while walking up the hill through the tall grass before we came to the carcass of the animal. Blood had spilled from the small bullet-hole just above the shoulder, staining his fur and matting the weeds underneath. Steam poured from the wound; I couldn’t differentiate if it was from the smoking bullet, or if it was his body in the chilly air, draining life and warmth.  Hugh and I just stood, looking at him; still as mammoth and stately as when I first saw him. He was quiet now; would be forevermore. He had fought his last battle; and it seemed almost disgraceful that he be taken out this way; almost cowardly on our part. I can’t say why though. You could argue the Circle of Life and the Food Chain; to say that we were the apex predator; but still … 

I didn’t realise Hugh had gone until he came back; he carried with him a large tree branch on which to sling the remains, so we could carry it back to the village. Hugh pulled some rope from one of his pockets and trussed the animal to the bough. Together we hoisted him up and positioned the branch so as to evenly distribute his weight. We headed towards the village grunting as we walked. 

He was a ‘Big Buck’ all right; and while it didn’t feel like we’d killed a man, it still didn’t feel right. 

End.