Fathers

by David J. Daniel

  “Nah, nothing,” I said as I took the binoculars away from my eyes.

  “Are you looking where I said?”

  “Yeah, three gorse bushes in a line then a clump of manuka and on the other side of that is the deer. Except there’s not. It must have moved.”

  “Give us those here,” said Dad as he snatched the binoculars off me. He peered through them again. “Nah, it’s still there. Have a look again but this time don’t try and see the whole animal in one shot, look for parts of the deer. The colour. Look for any movement like an ear twitching, something subtle. Then put all that info together, build a jigsaw, and then realise what your eyes are telling your brain,” he explained as I took back the binoculars and searched once again and...And there it was. The patch of brown that I mistook for a log was its body. A brown leaf was its ear and I saw it move, ever so slightly, just a flick. The deer was lying down alright with its back to us; its legs tucked underneath like you see cows resting in paddocks. Its head was erect and every now and then its right ear would flick away a persistent fly or something that kept landing on it. I kept watching, fascinated as it turned its head so that its face was side on. I could see it chewing its cud, its bottom jaw grinding away on grass or leaves. It had no antlers and I assumed it was a female, a hind. I knew enough about deer to know that only the males grew the antlers.

  “Do you see it yet?” My father asked impatiently.

  I was so engrossed in what I was seeing that some time had passed and I hadn’t said a word “Oh, yeah sorry. Yep, I sure can. See it plainly now. Amazing. A hind is it?”

  “Maybe. Maybe a yearling too young for antlers... Have a look around there may be others nearby.”

  And I did, remembering what I had been told. Looking for pieces of the puzzle, colour, slight movements but saw nothing, and told my father the same.

  “Be patient. We’ll just sit here a bit longer and see what shows up. There may be other deer there but just hidden at the moment. Take a breather and then look again in a minute or so.”

  I rested the binoculars on my knees and lay back on the damp grass. I closed my eyes and listened to the sounds around me. The birdsong had increased in volume as the day got brighter, and as the chill of the night waned and the sun warmed the day, the cicadas joined in, competing for the airwaves until they eventually drowned out the melodies of the birds with their monotonous screeching, yet strangely soothing mating calls, probably going all out, getting in their last songs in the hope of attracting a mate before the winter set in and replaced the balmy temperatures with chills and frosts. I sat up again and scanned the area once more, starting at the prone deer and then methodically searching the surroundings. Seeing nothing I was just about to sit back when a magnificent pair of antlers rose above the scrub a short distance from the other deer. It had obviously been doing the same as the other, laying down, chewing its cud, but now it was upright, a massive head supporting a spectacular rack of white tipped antlers. Dad had seen it too and I heard him say “Crikey!” under his breath. I carried on watching through the binoculars, not willing to share this visual feast just yet. Its throat and neck was covered in a dark shaggy mane, the rest of its enormous body was a grey-brown colour and scruffy looking as it changed its coat from summer to the longer winter coat. As it turned, it showed off a cream rear end to contrast it all. It dwarfed the prone animal, made it look puny, insignificant. It shook its body like a dog shakes off water and then it stretched its neck out and up, tilting its head right back, so that its antlers reached all the way along its spine. And then it roared. A spine chilling, frightening sound, more akin to a lion than a deer. The hairs stood up on the back of my neck and I was covered in goose bumps as its bellow echoed around the valley, causing birds to take flight from the nearby bush and scrub. And the stag strutted around, prancing like a show pony as it trotted back and forth. Then it ran at the other deer, causing it to spring to its feet, bounding away just in time before it was pierced by the sharp antlers. Then it turned, and with head down charged into a large shrub, attacking it like an enemy, thrashing its head side to side, ripping off the leaves and branches in its anger and frustration. Other deer miraculously appeared, six or seven could now be seen, all previously resting, now disturbed and milling around. The stag lifted its head again and roared once more and this time from over in the other valley, the left side of the ridge, an answer, another roar, a challenger to this behemoth. And it turned, when it heard the Other, and roared again and waited. Alert. Listening. Sniffing the air. Nerves taut. But not as taut as mine as the Other answered again. Closer this time. And I was agog and maybe a little afraid as I lowered the binoculars and looked at my father who merely winked and smiled and said, “The roar’s started early this year.” And we continued watching as this age old ritual played out before us. Our stag roared again and then on hearing the reply, trotted off in the Other’s direction. Not going directly towards the sound, but circling around, trying to ‘wind’ the Other, catch its scent on the light breeze. And then the Other appeared, on top of the ridge only a hundred metres from us. It was slightly smaller than our stag, but still powerful, awesome. Regal, majestic, a Prince. Like a crown it carried its antlers as it strutted up and down the fence line, but only for a short time before it effortlessly bounded over, the fence a minor inconvenience, and then galloped down the hill towards our stag, the King, grunting and barking as it went. The Prince was younger than and not as cautious as the King, for he was a wise old head and in his prime. He had survived this long by being vigilant, not foolhardy like this testosterone fuelled newcomer. And I could see that the King knew where the Prince would appear, had chosen this place, was standing his ground, waiting for this upstart, this contender, intent on toppling him. To overthrow him, the heavyweight of the forest, and become the champion and ruler and the head of his harem of hinds. And then my father suddenly said, “Pass the pack, quickly!” And I thought that he was going to get some ammunition, thought that he needed to load his rifle, thought that he would then lay down and take aim; would fire a shot and pierce this beautiful creature’s heart with his bullets. Slaughter this beast, so that it would no longer roam the mountains, no longer roar at its rivals, no longer copulate and procreate and spread its awe inspiring genes. I thought that he was going to kill this giant, this colossus, this King. But I did as I was asked; I mournfully and reluctantly passed the pack to him. And quickly, frantically, he undid the straps and rifled through inside, tossing out the food and water bottles and other gear in his haste. And it wasn’t ammunition he produced but a camera. Quite a large contraption with a telescopic lens and a small tripod, and he set it up in an instant and immediately started taking photos. The rifle was discarded, bullets and death rejected in place of film and life and I smiled to myself as I watched my father shoot again and again, as he tried to capture the perfect picture. And the stags came together in a loud clash of antlers as they barrelled head first into each other. A battle from medieval times. The Prince versus the King. Their horns locked for an instant before they tore apart, a tine or two breaking off in the struggle. And then that was enough. In a blink of an eye the fight was over. The Prince knew it wasn’t strong enough, not big enough, yet. And it was off sprinting away with the King close behind, its head down trying to gore its opponent in the rump. But it only followed for a short distance and we watched as the Prince, the loser this year, leap the fence again and disappear over the ridge. The King, the victor, trotted quickly back to his hinds knowing that to leave them too long would give an opportunity to the immature stags that were forever present in the background; waiting for the master to be distracted, so they could get in there and spread their own seed. But the King had returned to the harem and he puffed and blew and strutted and chased away the pretenders that had tried to take advantage of the battle. He roared again, seemingly louder than before and then mounted a hind and his lip curled back as he released his load.

  “That would have to be the most amazing thing I
have ever seen in my life,” I said as I sat there absolutely astounded.

  “Pretty neat eh,” grinned Dad, the camera now silent. “I was hoping the roar had started. Sure is something special to see. Got some good photo’s too.”

  “I’m surprised Dad. I really am. I didn’t take you for a photographer. Thought you would’ve had a shot at that stag for sure.”

  “Why would I?”

  “’Cause that’s what I thought people went hunting for. To bag a trophy. To shoot the biggest animal, the one with the biggest head?”

  “Nah, not me. Not anymore. I’ve got nothing to prove. I’ve shot animals like that in the past. I’ve got a trophy head hanging up already, don’t need another one. These days I’d much rather see them running around in the hills, doing their business so that we keep getting good quality animals. So were not left with the smaller, weaker ones, the ones no one wants to shoot.”

  “Why take the rifle then?”

  “Oh don’t worry I haven’t turned soft or anything. I still want to get a deer. Something younger, better eating. We’ll head down in amongst that lot in a minute and see if we can’t pick up a young stag on the outer circle of the mob...Here put this back in the pack,” he said as he handed me the camera.

  “Do you want some ammunition?”

  “The magazine’s loaded already.”

  “Oh... Is that safe?”

  “Yes son,” he said sounding exasperated. “I haven’t got one up the spout. I’ll do that when we get down the bottom closer to the deer.”

  “What sort of gun is it? It looks like a cowboy gun. The sort you see in the movies only it’s got the telescope thing on the top.”

  “Jeez Keith,” he said as he shook his head. “It’s a telescopic sight and it’s not a gun it’s a rifle, because of the rifling in the barrel.” After setting me straight he continued. “It’s a lever action. A .308 with a 4 x 40 scope. It’s a good little rifle. Done me alright anyway...Right you set? We’ll head down there and try and get in amongst them. Put Scrappy on the lead and make sure you both stay behind me. Keep quiet from now on, watch where you’re stepping and follow me. Do what I do. Okay?”

  I nodded hoping I wouldn’t cock it up and we headed off towards the bottom of the valley. There was more cover down there and it seemed the better way to go rather than sidle and hope to look down on top of them. We entered the Manuka bush that was predominant on the valley floor. It was cool and quiet and reasonably open with small sunlit clearings dotted throughout. The floor of the forest was a mixture of fern and moss and was soft and quiet to walk on. Flowing down the centre of the valley was a small stream, running faster than normal because of the rain, and in places there was mud churned up from the numerous animals that had traversed the area. A pungent, powerful odour was smelt as we came across a large puddle. A foul smelling muddy pond obviously frequented by a large animal, if the tracks were anything to go by. A ‘Wallow’ my father called it, used by a stag. Probably the one we had seen earlier had bathed in it. ‘Wallowed’ in it after urinating in there first. A stag’s version of Eau de Cologne. It covers itself in this smelly mixture to ‘attract the ladies’, Dad told me. It makes him more appealing to the hinds somehow. We skirted around this and crept slowly forward, stopping every now and then to look and listen. I was surprised that it was so quiet considering the large amount of animals we knew to be in the area. I was amazed that there wasn’t a ruckus, a din, but the only noise we heard was our own breathing and the trickle of the stream. A Miromiro or Tom Tit; a wee black and white bird flitted around, squeaking at us, stealing disturbed insects on the wing and I pulled hard on Scrappy’s leash as he sprang for it. He gave a tiny yelp and my father turned and held his finger up and out to us, a warning for us to behave, which we did, immediately. The bird flitted away and we moved on. Then, a crack; a stick breaking, from behind us. Then a slurp; a sucking sound, as a hoof was pulled out of the sticky mud. We stopped - dead still - and held our breaths, waiting, eyes and ears straining, trying to see, trying to hear, anything. But nothing. We waited and waited. Still nothing. Silence. Nothing. Waited, then moved, silently back the way we had come. We saw a hoof print in the mud over the top of a boot print. The deer had circled us, had come behind us, crossed where we had just been, trying to wind us. And then, my heart leapt as a loud cough was heard, a guttural ‘woof’, similar to a dog’s bark. A warning from one deer to the others, to be careful, to be cautious, there are predators about. And we looked to the sound but saw nothing and then there was silence again. My heart was pounding, my throat dry, my senses on high alert and I remembered to look for a part of a deer, not the whole animal, I searched with my eyes, not turning my head, when...

  BOOM!

  My father fired the rifle. I almost crapped myself! Wasn’t ready. Didn’t know he was about to do it. The noise from the shot was deafening! Had no idea it would be that loud. My ears were ringing as my father headed off briskly towards the direction in which he had fired. I followed, adrenaline pumping as we pushed through the undergrowth and there, only twenty metres away was a deer, thrashing about on the ground. My father knelt down behind its back, pulled back its head exposing the throat, and slashed it from ear to ear with his sheath knife. The kicking slowly subsided as the blood pumped out in great spurts until there was no movement and no more blood, and I watched horrified as a blowfly buzzed passed me and settled on the lifeless eye. I sat heavily on the ground and just stared at the deer that lay before me, amazed that only a minute ago, this was a living breathing creature. One of God’s creations. It’s life extinguished in an instant. In a heartbeat. One second living, the next second dead. And I sat there and thought about it and I then I thought: Yeah, why not? Why shouldn’t it be this way? It had a chance. Way more of a chance than a domesticated cow or a sheep or a farmed deer ever has. It should have a predator. The yin and the yang, black and white, good and evil, prey and predator, each needing each other to exist, to survive, and to be. So I smiled and I said, “Nice shooting Dad!” And he looked up and smiled back at me and said, “Thanks son.”

  ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  My father had the deer gutted and the head removed in no time. I stripped down to my tee shirt and was helped with loading the deer on to my back. It weighed a ton and it wasn’t long before I was soaked through to the skin with sweat and with blood from the carcass. Dad carried the pack and rifle and it was a slow trip back to the quad bike with me having to take numerous rests to recover and drink gallons of water.

  We lashed the deer to the bike and then we all piled on, somehow managing to fit around the animal. Holding on for dear life we headed back to the house. The ride back wasn’t as nearly as bad as the ride up there and it was with some satisfaction and a pleasant tiredness that we finally drove into the yard of my fathers house. I got off the bike and stretched then yawned. Dad switched the motor off and I asked, “What do we do with this now?” Indicating the deer.

  “We hang it for a week or so. I’ll need a hand to hoist it up.”

  “No worries. Then I’m going to have a shower and then grab a bit of shuteye.”

  “You can do all of that son after you’ve plucked the pheasant.” He said with a smile.

  “You are joking aren’t you?”

  “Not at all. There’s no point in you having a shower before you pluck the pheasant. That would mean you would have to have two showers and we need to conserve water around here, since we’re only surviving on what comes off the roof.”

  “Aw Dad, I’m shattered!”

  “So what you’re saying is, your too tired but you’re happy for me to do it. For me to pluck it, then cook it for you? I’m guessing you would be happy to eat it though, eh?”

  “I thought you said it needed to hang for a week? It’s only been a couple of days,” I said hoping he’d lost track of the days.

  “I said up to a week. It’ll be fine. And besides we’ll be taking it to Bill
’s place tonight. Today’s Friday.”

  “So it is. Yeah, that should be good. I’m looking forward to it.”

  “Likewise, and remember the pheasant needs to be gutted first...On second thoughts I might do that part,” he said as he got off the bike. “I don’t want you piercing the guts with your knife and ruining it all,” he added.

  “Well that just suits me fine... Now how do I go about removing this bloody bird’s feathers?” I grumbled as I went to fetch the pheasant.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  W

  e were off. Hurtling along the dirt road towards Bill’s place in the Landrover. Scrappy on my lap, a crate of home brew tinkling in the back and a hot pheasant casserole, straight from the oven, at my feet. I felt good, was looking forward to the evening and even managed to have a snooze after I spent about two hours plucking that damn bird. I must admit that the casserole smelt pretty good though, and I was hoping it would taste as good as it smelt.

  We saw Bill’s letter box first, a red painted, forty gallon drum, stuck horizontally on a strainer post. It had a slot cut in the lid for the mail and the name HOKIANGA was painted on the side in large dripping white letters. We turned into the driveway and went across a cattle stop that shook and rattled the old Landrover so much so that the glove box flew open and a couple of shotgun shells rolled out and onto the floor. Up and onto a rise and there was the house, very similar to my father’s place but needing a lick of paint to tidy it up. A few sheds and buildings could be seen out the back and we scattered the chooks before us as we rolled up the driveway. A large wide veranda ran along the front of the house and I could see Bill sitting at a table nursing a cold one. He waved, and at the same time got to his feet to come and meet us. Dad slammed on the brakes and we skidded to stop. “Bloody dopey dog,” he said. A white dog lay in the drive. Asleep or dead, I couldn’t tell as it hadn’t moved despite nearly being run over. I stared at it through the windscreen looking for signs of life and then noticed a slight breathing movement and realised that it was in fact, alive. Scrappy was struggling to escape so I opened the door and let him out. He immediately went to the prone dog and began biting its ankles and yapping and growling at it. I watched as the white dog lifted its head and opened its rheumy eyes. I saw then, that apart from a patch of black over its left eye, it was in fact, completely white. The dog, realising that there was a vehicle bearing down on it and feeling an annoying nip at its heels, struggled slowly to its feet and yawned and stretched, before wandering around to the driver’s side of the Landrover. Scrappy was continually pestering it until Bill called “Scrappy!” And he took off towards him and ran up on the deck. Dad said, “Watch this.” And he revved the motor. The dog’s ears pricked up, it was alert all of a sudden, and then remarkably it started spinning around and around and barking as it chased its tail. The louder Dad revved the motor, the faster he would spin, around and around, faster and faster until, perhaps fearing it would get dizzy and sick, Dad eventually let the revs die and killed the engine. The dog stopped spinning and tilted its head in a comical fashion as if to say, ‘What the ...?’ He yawned again and then collapsed on the ground, right in front of where Dad was trying to get out of the Landrover. “Move you dumb bastard,” he said as he opened the door and attempted to alight from the vehicle without standing on the dog. “Casper!” called Bill... “CASPER!” He shouted again as the dog remained still and then finally “CASPER!” He screamed at the top of his lungs. Eventually Casper stood up again and slowly wagging his tail, wandered up to Bill only to collapse in heap on top of Bill’s feet.