Man from the South ee-3

by Roald Dahl

  Five minutes later we were there. The path ran right up to the wood itself and then went round the edge of it for about three hundred metres, with only a few bushes in between. Claud slipped through the bushes on his hands and knees and I followed.

  It was cool and dark inside the wood. No sunlight came in at all.

  'This is frightening,' I said.

  'Sh-h-h!'

  Claud was very nervous. He was walking just ahead of me. He kept his head moving all the time and his eyes were looking from side to side, searching for danger. I tried doing the same, but I soon began to imagine a keeper behind every tree, so I gave it up.

  Then a patch of sky appeared ahead of us in the roof of the forest, and I knew this must be the feeding grounds.

  We were now advancing quickly, running from tree to tree and stopping and waiting and listening and running on again, and then at last we knelt safely behind a big tree, right on the edge of the feeding grounds, and Claud smiled and pointed through the branches at the pheasants.

  The place was absolutely full of birds. There must have been two hundred of them at least.

  'Do you see what I mean?' Claud whispered.

  It was an amazing sight - a poacher's dream. And how close they were! Some of them were not more than ten steps from where we were kneeling. They were brown and so fat that their feathers almost brushed the ground as they walked. I glanced at Claud. His big cow-like face showed his pleasure. The mouth was slightly open, and there was a kind of dream-like look in his eyes as he stared at the pheasants.

  There was a long pause. The birds made a strange noise as they moved about among the dead leaves.

  'Ah-ha,' Claud said softly a minute later. 'Do you see the keeper?'

  'Where?'

  'Over on the other side, standing by that big tree. Look carefully.'

  'Good heavens!'

  'It's all right. He can't see us.'

  We knelt close to the ground, watching the keeper. He was a small man with a cap on his head and a gun under his arm. He never moved. He was like a little post standing there.

  'Let's go,' I whispered.

  The keeper's face was shadowed by his cap, but it seemed to me that he was looking directly at us.

  'I'm not staying here,' I said.

  'Sh-h-h!' Claud said.

  Slowly, never taking his eyes off the keeper, he reached into his pocket and brought out a single raisin. He placed it in his right hand and then quickly threw it high into the air. I watched it as it went over the bushes, and I saw it land within a metre of two birds standing together beside an old tree. Both birds turned their heads at the drop of the raisin. Then one of them jumped over and ate it quickly.

  I glanced up at the keeper. He hadn't moved.

  Claud threw a second raisin; then a third, and a fourth and a fifth. At this point I saw the keeper turn his head away to look at the woods behind him. Quickly, Claud pulled the paper bag out of his pocket. With a great movement of the arm he threw the whole handful high over the bushes. They fell softly like raindrops on dry leaves. Every pheasant in the place must have heard them fall. There was a noise of wings and a rush to find the raisins. The birds were eating all of them madly.

  'Follow me,' Claud whispered. 'And keep down.' He started moving away quickly on his hands and knees, under cover of the bushes.

  I went after him, and we went along like this for about a hundred metres.

  'Now run!' Claud said.

  We got to our feet and ran, and a few minutes later we came out through the bushes into the open safety of the path.

  'It went wonderfully,' Claud said, breathing heavily. 'Didn't it go absolutely wonderfully?' His big face was red. 'In another five minutes, it'll be completely dark inside the woods, and that keeper will be going off home to his supper.'

  'I think I'll go, too,' I said.

  'You're a great poacher,' Claud said. He sat down on the grass bank and lit a cigarette.

  The sun had set now and the sky was a pale blue, faintly coloured with yellow. In the wood behind us, the shadows and the spaces between the trees were turning from grey to black.

  'How long does a sleeping pill take to work?' Claud asked.

  'Look out!' I said. 'There's someone coming.'

  The man had appeared silently and suddenly out of the half-darkness, and he was only thirty metres away when I saw him.

  'Another keeper,' Claud said.

  We both looked at the keeper as he came down the road towards us. He had a gun under his arm, and there was a black dog walking at his feet. He stopped when he was a few steps away, and the dog stopped with him and stayed behind him, watching us through the keeper's legs.

  'Good evening,' Claud said in a nice friendly way.

  This one was a tall man of about forty with quick eyes and hard, dangerous hands.

  'I know you,' he said softly, coming closer. 'I know both of you.'

  Claud did not answer this.

  'You're from the petrol station, right?' His lips were thin and dry. 'You're Cubbage and Hawes and you're from the petrol station on the main road. Right? Get out.'

  Claud sat on the bank, smoking his cigarette and looking at the keeper's feet.

  'Go on,' the man said. 'Get out.'

  'This is a public road,' Claud said. 'Please go away.'

  The keeper moved the gun from his left arm to his right. 'You're waiting,' he said, 'to commit a criminal act. I could have you arrested for that.'

  'No, you couldn't,' Claud said.

  All this made me rather nervous.

  'I've been watching you for some time,' the keeper said, looking at Claud.

  'It's getting late,' I said. 'Shall we go on?'

  Claud threw away his cigarette and got slowly to his feet. 'All right,' he said. Let's go.'

  We wandered off down the road, the way we had come, leaving him standing there, and soon the man was out of sight in the half-darkness behind us.

  'That's the head keeper,' said Claud. 'His name is Rabbetts.'

  'Let's get out of here,' I said.

  'Come in here,' Claud said.

  There was a gate on our left leading into a field, and we climbed over it and sat down behind the bushes.

  'Mr Rabbetts is also due for his supper,' Claud said. 'You mustn't worry about him.'

  We sat quietly behind the bushes, waiting for the keeper to walk past us on his way home.

  'Here he is,' Claud whispered. 'Don't move.'

  The keeper came softly along the road with the dog walking beside him, and we watched them through the bushes as they went by.

  'He won't be coming back tonight,' Claud said.

  'How do you know that?'

  'A keeper never waits for you in a wood if he knows where you live. He goes to your house, hides and watches for you to come back.'

  'That's worse.'

  'No, it isn't. Not if you put what you've poached somewhere else before you go home. He can't do anything then.'

  'What about the other one - the one in the feeding grounds?'

  'He's gone, too.'

  'You can't be sure of that.'

  'I've been watching these men for months, Gordon. Honestly, I know all their habits. There's no danger.'

  A few minutes later, I followed Claud back into the wood. It was dark in there now, and very silent, and we moved cautiously forward.

  'Here's where we threw the raisins,' Claud said.

  I looked through the bushes. The area was illuminated by the moonlight.

  'You're quite sure the keeper's gone?'

  'I know he's gone.'

  I could just see Claud's face under his cap, the pale lips, and the large eyes with excitement dancing in each of them.

  'Are they asleep?' I asked.

  'Yes. In the branches.'

  'Where?'

  'All around. They don't go far.'

  'What do we do next?'

  'We stay here and wait. I brought you a light,' he added, and he handed me one of those small pocket
torches shaped like a pen. 'You may need it.'

  We stood there for a long time, waiting for something to happen.

  'I've just had a thought,' I said. 'If a bird can keep its balance on a branch when it's asleep, then surely there's no reason why the pills should make it fall down.'

  Claud looked at me quickly.

  'It's not dead,' I said. 'It's still only sleeping.'

  'It's drugged,' Claud said.

  'But that's just a deeper sort of sleep.'

  There was a silence.

  'We should have tried it first with chickens,' Claud said. 'My father would have done that.'

  'Your father was clever,' I said.

  At that moment there came a soft thump from the woods.

  'Hey!' I said.

  'Sh-h-h!'

  We stood listening.

  Thump! 'There's another!'

  It was a heavy sound, as if a small bag of sand had been dropped from about shoulder height.

  Thump! 'They're pheasants!' I cried.

  'Wait!'

  'I'm sure they're pheasants.'

  Thump! Thump!

  'You're right!'

  We ran back into the wood.

  'Where were they?' I asked.

  'Over here! Two of them were over here!'

  'I thought they were this way.'

  'Keep looking!' Claud shouted. 'They can't be far.'

  We searched for about another minute.

  'Here's one!' he called out.

  When I got to him, he was holding a wonderful bird in both hands. We looked at it closely with our torches.

  'It's unconscious,' Claud said. 'It's still alive. I can feel its heart.'

  Thump! 'There's another,' he cried.

  Thump! Thump! 'Two more!'

  Thump!

  Thump! Thump! Thump!

  Thump! Thump! Thump! Thump!

  Thump! Thump!

  All around us, pheasants were starting to rain down out of the trees. We began to rush around madly in the dark, sweeping the ground with our lights.

  Thump! Thump! Thump! This lot fell almost on top of me. I was right under the tree as they came down, and I found all three of them immediately. They were warm, the feathers wonderfully soft in my hands.

  'Where shall I put them?' I called out. I was holding them by the legs.

  'Lay them here, Gordon! Just pile them there where it's light.'

  Claud was standing with the moonlight streaming down all over him and a great bunch of pheasants in each hand. His face was bright, his eyes big and bright and wonderful, and he was staring like a child who has just discovered that the whole world is made of chocolate.

  Thump!

  Thump! Thump!

  'I don't like it,' I said. 'It's too many.'

  'It's beautiful!' he cried, and he threw down the birds he was carrying and ran off to look for more.

  Thump! Thump! Thump! Thump!

  Thump!

  It was easy to find them now. There were one or two lying under every tree. I quickly collected six more, three in each hand, and ran back and threw them with the others. Then six more. Then six more after that. And still they kept falling.

  Claud was madly happy. He was rushing about under the trees. I could see the beam of his light waving around in the dark, and each time he found a bird, he gave a little cry of pleasure.

  Thump! Thump! Thump!

  'Mr Victor Hazel ought to hear this!'

  'Don't shout,' I said. 'There might be keepers.'

  For three or four minutes, the pheasants kept on falling. Then suddenly they stopped.

  'Keep searching!' Claud shouted. 'There are a lot more on the ground.'

  'Don't you think we ought to stop?'

  'No,' he said.

  We went on searching. We looked under every tree within a hundred metres of the feeding grounds - north, south, east and west - and I think we found most of them. At the collecting point there was a very big pile of pheasants.

  'It's wonderful,' Claud said. 'It's wonderful.' He was staring at them in a kind of dream.

  'We'd better just take half a dozen each and get out quickly,' I said.

  'I would like to count them, Gordon.'

  'There's no time for that.'

  'I must count them.'

  'No,' I said. 'Come on.'

  'One, two, three, four ...' He began counting them very carefully, picking up each bird and laying it down gently to one side. The moon was directly above now and everything was illuminated.

  'I'm not standing around here like this,' I said. I walked back a few steps and hid myself in the shadows, waiting for him to finish.

  'A hundred and seventeen, a hundred and eighteen, a hundred and nineteen, a hundred and twenty!' he cried. 'One hundred and twenty birds! It's an all-time record!'

  I did not doubt it for a moment.

  'The most my father ever got in one night was fifteen.'

  'You're the champion of the world,' I said. 'Are you ready now?'

  'One minute,' he answered, and he pulled up his sweater and began to unwind the two big white cotton bags from around his waist. 'Here's yours,' he said, handing one of them to me. 'Fill it up quickly.'

  'You don't think that keeper is watching us right now, do you, from behind a tree?'

  'There's no chance of that,' Claud said. 'He's down at the petrol station, as I told you, waiting for us both to come home.'

  We started loading the pheasants into the bags.

  'There'll be a taxi waiting for us in the road,' Claud said.

  'What?'

  'I always go back in a taxi, Gordon. Didn't you know that? A taxi is impersonal. No one knows who's inside a taxi except the taxi driver. My father taught me that.'

  'Which driver?'

  'Charlie Kinch. He's glad to help.'

  We finished loading the pheasants, and I tried to carry my bag on my shoulder. The bag had about sixty birds in it and it was heavy. Very heavy.

  'I can't carry this,' I said. 'We'll have to leave some of them behind.'

  'Drag it,' Claud said. 'Just pull it behind you.'

  We started off through the black woods, pulling the pheasants behind us.

  'We'll never get them all the way back to the village like this,' I said.

  'Charlie's never disappointed me yet,' Claud said.

  We came to the edge of the woods and looked through the bushes into the road. The taxi was there, not five metres away. Claud said, 'Charlie boy,' very softly, and the old man behind the wheel put his head out into the moonlight and gave us a smile. We slid through the bushes, dragging the bags after us.

  'Hello!' Charlie said. 'What's this?'

  'Potatoes,' Claud told him. 'Open the door.'

  Two minutes later we were safely inside the taxi, driving slowly down the hill towards the village.

  It was all over now. Claud was very happy, full of pride and excitement, and he kept leaning forward and tapping Charlie on the shoulder and saying, 'What do you think, Charlie? What do you think about this?' and Charlie kept glancing back at the large full bags lying on the floor between us and saying, 'How did you do it?'

  'There's a dozen of them for you, Charlie,' Claud said.

  Charlie said, 'I think pheasants are going to be a bit scarce up at Mr Hazel's opening-day shooting-party this year,' and Claud said, 'I imagine they are, Charlie. I imagine they are.'

  'What are you going to do with a hundred and twenty pheasants?' I asked.

  'Put them in the freezer at the petrol station,' Claud said.

  'Not tonight, I hope.'

  'No, Gordon, not tonight. We leave them at Bessie's house tonight.'

  'Bessie who?'

  'Bessie Organ.'

  'Bessie Organ!' I was absolutely amazed. Mrs Organ was the wife of the local vicar, Jack Organ.

  'Bessie always delivers my birds. Didn't you know that?'

  'I don't know anything,' I said.

  'Bessie's a clever girl,' Charlie said.

  We were driving thr
ough the village now and the street lamps were still on and the men were wandering home from the pub.

  'The vicar loves a roast pheasant,' Claud said.

  The taxi turned left and went in through the gates of the vicar's house. There were no lights on there, and nobody met us. Claud and I put the pheasants in the hut behind the house, and then we said goodbye to Charlie Kinch and walked back in the moonlight to the petrol station. I don't know whether or not Mr Rabbetts was watching us as we went in.

  'Here she comes,' Claud said to me the next morning.

  'Who?'

  'Bessie - Bessie Organ.' He spoke the name proudly, as if he were a general referring to his bravest officer. 'Down there,' he said, pointing.

  Far away down the road, I could see a small female figure advancing towards us.

  'What's she pushing?' I asked.

  'There's only one safe way of delivering pheasants,' he announced, 'and that's under a baby.'

  'Yes,' I said. 'Of course.'

  'That'll be young Christopher Organ in the pram, aged one and a half years. He's a lovely child, Gordon.'

  I could just see the small face of a baby sitting up high in the pram.

  'There are sixty or seventy pheasants at least under that little lad,' Claud said happily. 'Just imagine that.'

  'You can't fit sixty or seventy pheasants into a pram,' I said.

  'You can if it's got a good, deep space underneath it, and if you pack them in tightly, right up to the top. All you need is a sheet.

  You'd be surprised how little room a pheasant takes up when it's asleep.'

  We waited by the pumps for Bessie Organ to arrive. It was one of those warm, windless September mornings, with a darkening sky and a smell of thunder in the air.

  'Right through the village,' Claud said. 'Good old Bessie.'

  'She seems in rather a hurry to me.'

  Claud lit a new cigarette. 'Bessie is never in a hurry,' he said.

  'She certainly isn't walking slowly,' I told him. 'Look.'

  He looked at her through the smoke of his cigarette. Then he took the cigarette out of his mouth and looked again.

  'Well?' I said.

  'She does seem to be going rather quickly, doesn't she?' he said carefully.

  'She's going very quickly.'

  There was a pause. Claud was beginning to stare very hard at the approaching woman. 'Perhaps she doesn't want to get caught in the rain, Gordon. She thinks it's going to rain, and she doesn't want the baby to get wet.'