Hunting Elephants

by James Roy

  That was where Harry was going to walk. It isn't every day you get the chance to cross the horizon, he decided, and zipping his jacket all the way up to his chin, he set out, across the crunching gravel and the damp, frosted lawn. And beyond that, the red, hard edged rocks and soil and tussocks of patchy grass.

  He passed by a small paddock. Inside the fence, standing next to an old bathtub, a horse stopped tearing off the grass long enough to watch him go by. 'Hey, boy,' Harry said, slowing, then stopping completely. Stepping closer to the fence, he reached out his hand, but the horse snorted and backed off a couple of steps. 'Fine – be that way,' Harry said. 'I was just trying to be friendly.'

  Hands back in his pockets, he continued on, past the muddy dam in the lowest part of the valley, then up the steepening hill towards the top of the saddle and the horizon. In a way, he was glad it was so cold. As far as Harry was concerned, the only thing scarier than being trapped underground was snakes. Unless you counted being trapped underground with snakes. But he'd read somewhere that cold weather makes snakes sluggish and dim-witted, which suited him perfectly.

  The hill was steeper and longer than he'd expected, and by the time he reached the top of the saddle, his breath was coming in great foggy plumes, his chest was aching with the huge lungfuls of freezing air, and his thighs were burning. He crested the hill and headed straight to a large stump near the edge of the path.

  Checking around the base of the stump for sluggish and dim-witted snakes, Harry sat down and hugged himself. It was nice up there, with the house almost out of sight, and ahead of him more hills and valleys, more bush, more of the stuff he didn't get to see all that often.

  Stuff like the skull, which lay a couple of metres away. It was narrow, probably from a kangaroo, he guessed, and it was bleached harshly white from time in the sun. Long cracks and gaps ran along the top of the snout, and the eye sockets, together with the lower jaw and teeth, formed a leering face.

  He looked around. A handful of other bones lay in the grass nearby – a long one, which might have been from the roo's leg, and a couple of thin, curving ones, probably ribs. Something had found the carcass and taken it apart, piece by piece, and scattered it around. Harry wondered how far afield the various bones of the kangaroo might be. Taken by dogs, dingos, feral cats, other creatures that were hopefully tucked up safely in their beds. Or Curious Reg the bitsa.

  There were so many sounds for such a peaceful place. He'd expected it to be quiet out here in the bush, so early in the morning, and in one sense it was. Just like at the alpaca farm the night before, there were no growling buses, shrieking trains or swooshing cars. There were no voices either, or the ding-dong messages on station platforms. But at the same time, it was far from silent. The birds were making most of the racket, he decided. None of the birdcalls were at all familiar except for the crazy cackling of a kookaburra somewhere far off up the hill to his left.

  Harry took out his phone to check the signal. There was only one bar, even up there in Frank's recommended spot, and when he tried to send a text to Michael to wish him a happy birthday, it quickly bounced back. He swore under his breath, and was just jamming the phone back in his pocket in disgust when his attention was caught by a flash of white in the clearing below.

  The rabbit was quite large, and now that he was looking directly at it, Harry could see that it was actually more pale grey than white. After scampering across the open space, it had stopped about fifteen or twenty metres from Harry, to have a bit of a nibble at its front paw. Then it sat up tall, looked around, its ears never stopping, and scratched at the side of its neck with a back paw.

  Harry wondered how close he could get. It wasn't because he wanted to see it more clearly – he could see perfectly well. He was just curious. He found it kind of funny, in fact, the thought of being the hunter. He'd never really seen himself as a hunting kind of guy, and the fact that he didn't have any kind of weapon made it even stranger. What was he going to do with the rabbit if he got close enough to touch it?

  Nothing. He knew he wouldn't hurt it. Rabbits might have been pests, but not to him. Besides, judging by the way those huge ears never stopped twisting, and that nose never stopped twitching, he wasn't going to get within ten metres anyway.

  Sliding down from his stump, Harry began to sneak forward, taking care to only step on bare ground, away from loose sticks and leaves that might crack or rustle and alert the rabbit. He was going all right, too. Once or twice the rabbit looked his way, and he'd instantly freeze, trying to be as shrub-like as possible until it turned its head away once more. Then Harry would be back in stalking mode, lifting his feet high, lowering them into position, edging closer and closer.

  A thick log lay on the ground between him and his target, only a couple of metres away from the rabbit. Since his sneakiness was going so well, Harry chose the log as his first objective. Getting that close would be a pretty good result, he decided, perhaps a little smugly. And once he was there, he'd work out what he should do next.

  He'd almost reached his objective. Three more small, silent steps, and he was crouching down behind the log. He felt quite proud of that, as if he'd achieved something. Leaning his elbows on the log, he peered over the top at the rabbit. 'If I was looking for food and I had a weapon, you'd be mine,' he whispered. 'I'd have you for breakfast, Mr Bunny.'

  The sound of his whispering, as quiet as it was, must have caught the rabbit's attention, because it immediately turned its head to look his way, tuning its ears in like satellite dishes. Harry swallowed and returned the rabbit's stare. It was so cute, so beautiful. Hard to imagine that it was considered a pest.

  There was a sudden uproar of noise from the right, and through an explosion of dirt and pebbles, Harry saw the rabbit cartwheel away, end over end, floppy legs over floppy ears. It landed two or three metres from where it had been sitting, and lay almost completely still, except for a few tiny twitches in one of its back legs.

  'Gotcha, you little bugger,' a voice said. To his right, a tall, sandy-headed boy a bit older than Harry, wearing black jeans and a thick green polar-fleece jacket, was striding down the hill, a gun hanging loosely from his hand.

  Harry stood up, his heart thumping. 'Hey, what are you trying to do – shoot me?'

  The boy seemed startled to hear a voice. His eyes scanned the area around Harry, then settled directly on him. 'Jeez, mate, where did you come from?'

  'I was here the whole time. You shot my rabbit.'

  The boy raised his eyebrows. 'You're a good stalker. And your friend the rabbit is a pest.'

  'So they say. Still, he's cute.' Harry looked at the rabbit. Its fur was stained with blood, and it had stopped twitching. 'Or at least, 'he was cute until you shot him with your gun.'

  'It's a rifle, actually,' the boy said. 'It's different from a gun. So, you the kid staying with us?'

  'Yeah. I'm Harry.'

  'Trent.'

  'I guessed you were.'

  'So, I heard your brother died.'

  This guy didn't muck around. 'Yeah, almost a year ago,' Harry replied.

  'What was that like?'

  Harry frowned. 'It sucked, actually. What do you think it was like?'

  'Well, I don't have a brother or a sister or anything, so I wouldn't know. What'd he die of?'

  'CF.'

  'What's CF?'

  'Cystic fibrosis. It's this disease –'

  'How'd he get that?'

  He was born with it. It's congen ... You're just born with it.'

  'So have you got it?'

  Harry shook his head. 'No, I'm fine. Thanks.'

  'Lucky,' Trent replied flatly. 'You ever shot anything?' It was such a simple, direct question, and such a weird change of subject that it made Harry blink with surprise.

  'Shot anything? Uh ... no, not really.'

  'Not really? Well, either you have or you haven't.'

  'Then no, I haven't.'

  'Do you want to?'

  'I don't know ...'


  'I don't mind.'

  'I'm not really licensed.'

  Trent chuckled. 'No kidding. It's fine, if you want to. I can teach you. The only thing they'll know back at the house is that someone's shooting, and they'll assume it's me.'

  The rifle was so solid and real-looking. Harry knew a couple of boys at school who were always reading hunting magazines, and he found those guys a bit scary, to be honest. But there was something about Trent's rifle that attracted him, too – something about the way it could only really be used for one thing. There was no way you could confuse its purpose. No way a gun could get its story wrong. But that repulsed him at the same time as it fascinated him.

  In the end, he just held up both his hands. 'No thanks, I'm fine. But thanks.'

  'It's not a big deal, seriously,' Trent replied. 'I've been shooting since I was about six.'

  'Six? Really? Still ...'

  Trent shrugged. 'It doesn't matter. Come on, let's see if we can find some more little fluffy things to shoot.'

  Harry glanced back towards the house, suddenly aware of a strange gnawing in his stomach. 'You know, I'm going to go back now,' he said. 'I think I'm hungry.'

  'You think you're hungry?'

  'I am hungry. I need some breakfast.'

  'OK. Well, tell Pop and Greta that I'll be coming in soon.'

  'Your Pop doesn't mind you shooting on his property?'

  Trent tipped his head to one side as he thought. 'I don't think he minds. I've never actually asked him.'

  Harry wanted to say, 'Well, maybe you should ask if he minds.' But he was a guest here in this place, so instead he just said, 'I guess it's good that you can keep shooting, if that's what you enjoy.'

  Trent frowned. 'What are you saying?'

  'I'm just saying that it's good to be able to do something that you like to do. I mean, I've never fired a gun, but you obviously like it so ...'

  'Do you think you're better than me?'

  That was a surprise. 'What? No! Why would you think –'

  'Is it because you come from the city?'

  'No. I don't think there's anything special about coming from the –'

  'So are you going to have a go or not?' Trent was still frowning, even as he held the rifle out again, one hand under the barrel, the other under the stock. 'What are you waiting for?'

  'I'm not waiting for anything. But why is it so important to you that I fire it? So you can laugh at me when it knocks me on my bum? Well, I'm sorry, but I don't really want to give you the satisfaction. Sorry, but I don't want to fire your gun.'

  Harry saw the muscles around Trent's jaw tighten. 'I told you before, it's a rifle. Use its proper name. Do you even know the difference between a rifle and a gun?'

  Harry shook his head. 'No, I don't. Should I? Is it important? Would my life be changed if I did know? Look, I'm sorry we got off on the wrong foot, but I'm going back to the house now. I'm hungry.'

  And very deliberately, he turned and headed for the house, conscious of the burning stare in the back of his neck and the slight quiver of his hands.

  'Are you all right?' Mum was at the bedroom door.

  Harry looked up from his book. He was starting to understand why he'd never read much fantasy in the past, because this story was long, slow-moving and pretty unbelievable. 'Yeah, I'm fine,' he said.

  'Really? You don't look fine.'

  'I am. I'm just reading.'

  'Did you get through to Michael to wish him a happy birthday?'

  Harry shook his head.

  'Oh, shame. Well, anyway, there's some breakfast out here.'

  'I had some already.'

  'So are you going to come out and be sociable, or are you going to hide in here all day?'

  'I'll come out in a minute.'

  She didn't leave, though. She just stood there and looked pained. 'Harry, have you met Trent yet?'

  'Yes.'

  'And?'

  He considered telling her that Trent had been shooting stuff, but knowing how she'd react, in the end he simply replied, 'He's OK, I guess. A bit weird.'

  Mum rolled her eyes. 'Of course he is. His dad's a complete waste of space who can't look after him.' She sighed. 'Tell me, Harry, when you met Trent this morning, was he shooting?'

  'Like a rifle? Oh, no,' he said quickly. To lie slowly would be to give himself up as a liar. 'He'd finished shooting when I ran into him. Why, is he OK?'

  'Yes, he's fine, but I'm a bit cross, really. I'm going to talk to Frank. I'm not comfortable with guns in the hands of kids.'

  'I don't think he's all that young, Mum. He's a bit older than me.'

  'I don't care.'

  'Mum, it's their farm. You can't just tell them what they can and can't do. Anyway, country kids shoot all the time.'

  'I know, but I'm still going to have a chat with Frank. Oh, and promise me something, Harry.'

  He knew what was coming. 'What?'

  'Promise me you won't touch any guns while we're here.' And there it was. 'I don't want you shooting. I don't want you around guns.'

  'Guns don't kill people, idiots with guns kill people,' Harry said, quoting a bumper sticker he'd seen.

  'Yes, idiots like Frank, who let younger idiots like Trent play with guns,' she muttered as she stood up to leave. 'I love Frank to bits, but I'm not sure where his head's at.'

  Through the bedroom window, Harry watched the topmost leaves of the big gum trees behind the house. They were golden and still in the early light. He would have appreciated their beauty a little more had it not been for the crazed gunman wandering around in the bush nearby. He went back to his book, but it was hard to concentrate, especially when he was keeping one ear open for the explosion his mother was about to cause.

  Twelve

  It was all kicking off in the next room. It was meant to be a private conversation, but the way Frank was shouting at Trent was anything but private. So Harry drank his water, read Made in the Philippines moulded into the bottom of the glass, and tried to listen without making it look obvious.

  'Your father made it absolutely clear to both of us that you go shooting only with my express permission, and when I can come with you,' Frank was yelling. 'Do you remember him saying that?'

  There was a brief pause, while Trent gave a reply of some kind, which Harry couldn't hear. Meanwhile, at the end of the table, Dad cleared his throat in embarrassment.

  Frank was shouting some more. 'So why the hell do I wake up at seven to hear the sound of a three-oh-three being fired?'

  Trent said something else, again very quietly.

  'I don't care what calibre it is, Trent – why are you helping yourself to the gun cabinet anyway?'

  Again, the quiet murmur of Trent explaining himself to his grandfather, but his voice was still too low for Harry to make out any of the words.

  'Besides, where did you get the ammo? You what? You brought your own? Are you serious?'

  Greta leaned against the kitchen bench, her head hanging low as she stared into the sink. 'He brought his own,' she sighed.

  'I don't care how much better it is than mine – you're not to bring your own ammo, ever,' Frank was saying.

  More murmuring from Trent.

  'Well, guess what, Trent? There'll be no more shooting here – not for a long time. What's that? I don't care if you go out shooting ten times a day back in Nyngan, you won't be shooting here until I say. Where's the key to the cabinet? What? Where? You put it back? Well, I've got some bad news, son – it's getting hidden where you can't find it. I don't care, Trent. You can whinge to your father as much as you like when he gets here, but it's my house, and you're not going to be shooting any more – not here. Harry was out walking this morning, and you were firing near him. You could have shot him.'

  Even more murmuring, and Harry wasn't game to catch his mother's eye. He didn't need to.

  'No, I don't agree, Trent, and it's over. We've talked about it before, and you've gone too far this time. No more shooting. Now go and get ready for s
chool – the bus'll be at the gate in about ten.'

  The door from the next room flew open, and Trent came charging through it, a thunderous expression stretched tight across his face. He stomped away down the hall, pushing past a startled Robyn who was coming out of her room, and slammed his door. Through the doorway at the end of the kitchen, Harry saw Frank staring out the window. His face was red, and from the slightly hunched way he stood, it was as if he'd just been in a fight. A real fight, with pain and blood and bruises.

  'What's going on?' Robyn asked.

  'Sorry about that, everyone,' Greta said with a forced smile, before standing up and going into the next room to put her arms around Frank.

  'Should have shot him with his own gun,' Dad muttered, but he was immediately shushed by Mum. 'Well, he should have,' he added, taking a loud crunchy bite from his toast.

  Go-karting would have been fun, Harry was thinking. And it's not a gun. It's a rifle.

  There was a book shelf in the front room, full of novels and books about sport and gardening and birdwatching, plus a couple of fairly big, glossy books about motor racing, which reminded Harry of Joel and had him feeling all glum again for a minute.

  It seemed that one of the shelves was dedicated to history, mostly of the war variety. There were a couple of books about planes, one about battleships, a few that dealt with battles from World War Two. A number featured Gallipoli. None were about the Vietnam War, as far as Harry could tell from a quick scan along the spines.

  'Hey,' said Mum, who had come in behind him. 'You all right?'

  'Yeah, I'm fine. Why?'

  She ignored his question. 'What are you doing?'

  'Just looking.' Harry lowered his voice until it was barely more than a whisper. 'He likes war stuff.'

  'Yes, he does.'