Five Legs

by Graeme Gibson

  “It takes a steady hand for hunting.”

  “And the eye, don’t you forget the eye.”

  “Oh I wasn’t, no sir.”

  “The eye’s important.”

  “It is.”

  “You’ve never seen a blind hunter now have you?” Ho, chuckling hah, politely; cigarettes from the pack.

  “It’s got to be a quick one too, the eye I mean. If it’s ducks you’re after.”

  “Oh God yes, but . . .” Gulping wetmouthed, glistening. “I like the running game myself, the bounding game . . .

  “Well Martin I don’t know, birds . . .”

  “Gives you.” Fat-smiling confident. “You know, every man basically knows what I mean; it really gives you something to shoot at, a good-sized pow, good-sized kill.” Thumb-cocked triumph, thumb-cocked and sighting along his finger. POW! Dismissing. “I can’t understand, really I can’t, and I’ve . . .” Sharp laughter. “I’ve shot birds, oh God! Thousands of them.” Face and calm humour. “I can’t understand what satisfaction a man, you know, a man gets from blasting some stupid bird out of the sky. Hah, you give me the bounding game!”

  “A really satisfying kill.”

  “Yes oh, when they fall. You know? They really fall . . .”

  “Martin I know what you mean.” Breathless: “You hit a bird, even when you hit birds they’re so small.” Hands clutch the air. “Sometimes you can’t even find the goddamn things.”

  “That’s right, now you take the moose for instance.” Focussing voice. “You ever hunted moose?”

  “Have I? Well,” dropping face away. “No, but . . .”

  “Well there you are. Now when you’ve hit a moose and you know you’ve really hit ’em, when you squeeze the trigger and . . . you know . . .” Gaze past us, awe: the sullen birdman shifts. “By George that’s a, a satisfying feeling!”

  “God damn!”

  “Yes . . .”

  “You just don’ know.”

  “Deer of course, they’re good too, and bear; bear’s got its own reward you know, but moose . . . oh yes.” His face. “Moose,” grinning. “Moose is something special.”

  “Goddamnright!”

  “Rather like the deer myself.”

  “Oh deer are good, I’m not saying, make no mistake . . .”

  “They’re faster I think, and nervous.”

  “I’m not saying you understand.” Gathering Max, “there’s no reward in deer, good Lord no hah. You know I’m.” And Frieda as he swells he pats his chest. “You know me I’ll, hunt anything that moves because I love . . .” Rising voice. “THE OUTDOORS, the great OUTDOORS! I really do, I love it . . .” Arms wide, his arms embrace us all: “I’m only saying that moose is a superior quarry, that’s all: don’t get me wrong, a more rewarding . . . you understand . . .”

  “I’d never” Max what, Christ! “Shoot a moose.” And Felix scared . . .

  “And anyway, don’t you agree? It’s the hunt that counts, I don’t know why . . .”

  “Or any other of the round earth’s living creatures.”

  “What?” Turning silence to stare.

  “Let me illustrate ha!” Finger to thumb, conducting his words. “Gentlemen, for you are I can see.” Dentures as he smiles. “To illustrate, let me . . . aaah! A parable yes. What’s more, salubrious, more? Effictitious than a parable from my own, how shall I say? My own poor life, poor hah! but rich, rich in that greatest of all boons that poor, we . . .” Folding mouth, moustache, drinking. “Salubrious, what a . . . wine punch is, very. Salubrious, I remember.” Swallowing again, eyes above the glass; cringing, shifting and this time Max I won’t betray . . . stirring, their strength and mockery.

  “Well ah . . .” Smiling to his friends. “I believe you’ve, hum, missed the point of our little discussion.”

  “Not at all, notatall.” Smacking lips and laughing suddenly, dentures in his mouth: “Paddling my canoe, I was.” Abruptly for silence. “One summer. In the northland, very far north, away . . .” Splashing to the rug as he waves his arm. “Away from all this on one of my.” Rubbing it in, pressing his foot to the dark patch there. “Ventures you might say. I was working, one of my jobs. Ha-ha-HA! Oh you don’t know, I may look, but . . .” Tapping his head, “I’ve done a lot.” Offensive, goddamn leering at them. “Anyway! There I was, paddling (I’ve done a lot of it, believe me gentlemen in my day) when suddenly, right there!” Again, spilling hand, they start. “As close as that, oh my you could’ve breathed me down, I was amazed, absolutely: why I never, in all my experience and so close, as close as . . .” Enthusiastic body performs; he points, they turn unwilling: “Rising you might say, up and out of the water, emerging like a.” Searching laugh, aggressive “Hooo-eewh! Heugh-hugh! A myriad, yes. Just like a prehistoric myriad of old.”

  “Did you get him?”

  “God damn!”

  “Stumbling on the shore and rushing to the bush like a man in flames.”

  “Christ I can see it now.”

  “Bet he didn’t have a gun.”

  “Blam! Blam!”

  “Antlers I tell you, like a man in flames!”

  Got you red bastard

  “. . . silly old fool didn’t even . . .”

  “How big would you say . . .”

  “Like a man in flames.”

  “That’s lovely, absolutely . . .”

  “IN FLAMES!”

  “Isn’t that always the way?”

  “. . . lovely.” Sly Frieda with these men, shoving.

  “And he paused, here’s the wondrous thing, he paused to turn and look at me, he did!” Words, his voice. “Looked right into my eyes, stared deep in here.” Sharp fingers at his eyes. “Do you know boys?” Sudden stare. “There were tears of blood in the eyes’ dark corners.”

  “Awh c’mon!” they shrug but he doesn’t, does he see?

  “Isn’t that, wouldn’t you say that’s an interesting experience?”

  “It ah, certainly is.” Flesh-white chin. “But you see old man, we’re having. You understand, a private conversation don’t you know, so why don’t you . . .” Stronger, harsh face. “About hunting and since, you’re not a hunter.”

  “Indominably not!”

  “You don’t like hunting.” Accusing breath.

  “I will not hunt.” Silence. Hardening smiles. “Oh I’m telling you gentlemen I’ve, yes I’ve had the opportunity. When I was in. It’s not that I . . .” Twisting fingers, his moustache, his eyes and laugh. “Oh no no-siree, no-no I’ve had the . . . HAH! In Africa Afreek, the great white rhino, fearsome! Of the dark continent, I know. What I’m talking . . .”

  “We haven’t even been introduced.”

  “. . . about, I surely do.”

  “I mean I mean,” bursting voice: “who the devil are you anyway?”

  “. . . is this?”

  “Absolutely frightful.”

  “Bursting in on our conversation.”

  “India, Ceylon, Kenya.” Sipping he doesn’t, Jesus he doesn’t see! “And Burma yes, I remember once in the monsoons it was.” Reaching neck, laughter with bobbing tendons. “We were on the track of a particular tiger who’d been, well you know. Rampaging off the land. Little children and things.” Shrugging, “you know. Very nasty business, the tiger.”

  “Eating little children!”

  “Oh yes. They do it all the time in Burma.”

  “That’s,” staring eyes. “A lot of bull!”

  “Well, just a.” Asthmatic I told you. “That’s hunting isn’t it? Hum, you . . . surely you have to admit that hunters, in this case. Why . . . the society. Needs them, depends upon . . .”

  “Just a . . .”

  “Their courage, their . . .”

  “Just a moment sir!”

  “What?”

  “Then, ev
en then I say, with the cunning beast in my sights, that. Rampaging carnivore . . .”

  “Cats are like that.”

  “In my mercy, so to speak and I couldn’t . . .”

  “You can’t trust cats.”

  “Oh.” Wailing she turns and “how can you say such a thing?”

  “It’s true, they’re a selfish lot. Cats.”

  “I couldn’t shoot him, even then.”

  “And a good thing too if you ask me.” Sniffing moisture in her nose. “Cats are lovely creatures,” then suddenly. “You know” and his arm, “Perhaps you can . . .”

  “You couldn’t . . . you COULDN’T???” Outraged, “that’s outrageous, that’s. The kind of SENTIMENTAL THINKING that undermines . . .”

  “. . . help me. I’m looking for you know, for a crippled cat, if you ever see a crippled cat . . .”

  “Undermines.” Wheezing. “The basis, the very BASIS of our social fabric, our . . .”

  Extravagant “Madam” from the waist: “There’s no shortage, no sir. Some of my best friends.”

  “WHOLE COMMUNITY!” To them with fury “I’d have to say that’s a, why GAWDDAMMIT that’s . . .”

  “Yes. Oh. Yes!”

  “Tell me, whoever you are . . .”

  “SUBVERSIVE.”

  “Whatever your name is.”

  “What about the children?”

  “The women and children?”

  “The DEFENCELESS LITTLE KIDDIES!”

  “You selfish old . . .”

  “Bastard, that’s what he is, a . . .”

  “Just give me one.” Icy voiced. “Just one practical reason for your . . . why are you so disrespectful?”

  “Well. You want, I see.”

  “That’s right. C’mon!”

  “Tell us if you’re so . . .”

  “Subversive, I mean.”

  “I see, you . . .” His trembling hand for calm, I . . .

  “Don’t even know who he is.”

  “Want a defence, an eloquent . . .” Hand to his eyes. “I meditate a lot.” This numb caress. “I do, I really do. A lot of hard thinking and it’s come to me, you understand . . .”

  “Now just a minute.” Straightening inside his shirt, shooting his cuffs! “You listen to me old man.” Sure smile for all: “We’re-ah, fairly hah, a successful group.”

  “Yeah, what do you . . .”

  “Goddamnright!”

  “Yes.”

  “For a living, look at that . . .”

  STOP!

  “. . . suit. Old man . . .”

  YOU BASTARDS

  “Like a bee, thin bee.”

  “And do you know why? I’ll tell you why:” In chorus because, “WE know HOW to GET THINGS DONE!” Hip-hip the bastards, clapping hands and I haven’t. Not a word, I passive, so fucking I’ll never, afraid, be anything, I’ve got to! So vulnerable, old, do something, what? Clothes about their bodies, screaming words with me standing: the smell of a voice in the wool of my suit. Max I can’t. I don’t know what happened.

  “I know a man in the ranks / And he’ll stay in the ranks!”

  “Immortal poesy.”

  “Do you know why?” In unison, hands. “I’ll,” fistsmack in sudden palms: “I’ll tell you why! Because . . .” Allsmack, handsmack, smart clap in time: “He doesn’t know how to, get-things-done!”

  HOO–RAH! HOORAH! Clapclap. Hoo-rah. “We’re hunters. Hunters, that’s right.” Smile for me, so coldly sure: “The community needs people like us.”

  “The country.”

  “. . . whole free world!”

  “Depends, the social fabric as we know it depends upon the hunter’s, you understand.” Got you. “His ingenuity.” Red bastard pig!

  “It’s easy, you understand, to be critical. Oh yes. It’s an easy thing to be negative, while the others, the practical men, the hunters.” They threatening sway, “as it were provide, providing through the ages for the community.”

  “The community as a whole.”

  “For people like you!” Hand-prodding they circle closer, they’re overwhelming his grey face . . . running in breath; ran yes, dizzy, in girders above, alone. Sky-hurtling wind. Air-beating faces, mouths, words lost, I turn carefully in this ugly room for another drink. And it’s not, for sure not as good. I didn’t care, I crouched to the light with car after car behind the hill: smoke to my lungs and breathing confused, slow motion . . . Terrible echo, heaving cough: running, I’ve run wet-wool, failed so often what can I do, am I the same? I should have Christ, have Jesus, they’re hunting him but not a word, not a fucking! Bastard Felix I ease away: that’s emptiness. Cold hand with voices somewhere. Dead tongue in my mouth, this glass and no hope. Like when; what night? In Edinburgh, silly bugger breaking away from me, tears (that window’s face, reflection on my empty room) and running voice: is it wearing, my life is it simply a wearing away?

  “Like all of them, he had . . .” Scornful, sharp pointing Christ, where can I, they’re turning I: “You can see, no sense of responsibility.” Disdainful flowers, am I blushing? And Max to me; hand on my arm: they snort and laugh. “Silly old fool,” they fade and I did not, will not. What happened?

  “Goliaths sirrah, variable Goliaths. Pay them no heed my boy.” To me, he’s come to my eyes, his voice and Felix, “Oh Felix” with hand and sudden “Felix.”

  “Yes.”

  “What can I do, what can an . . .”

  “C’mon Max, don’t . . .” An old man do?

  “Did I embarrass you, I don’t want . . .”

  “Shit no!”

  “You know I never want . . .”

  “You didn’t, no hah,” awkward: “you didn’t. No!”

  “Yes I did, they were offended. Were they offended?”

  “Christ Max I don’t . . .”

  “I offended them.”

  “I don’t care, they’re not . . .”

  “I can tell.”

  “Jeez,” smirk and stronger they stare with this sudden:

  “I’ll get them hee, old Max,” filling glass from the bowl: “has a few tricks up this sleeve of his.” What are they thinking? Discomfort, this friend you are, he is but cannot any longer; I’ve got to go, get out goodbye, so often. Failed, not changing like I must what must . . . So drinking, wine and citrus, run I’m going to . . . What think, what do they think? Aloof their eyes, he leans, whispers: “I’ll get them, I have. A little something.” Bony finger beside his nose, “a little appropriate something, you just wait.”

  “I just had to.” Voice for him. “To tell you just how really kind I think you are.”

  “Dear lady oh.” So courtly, Max this would-be lechery. “And you are. A dear lady.” She blooms, reaches as he calls, waving his arm: he calls her down. “An inspiration, yes with your poor little dog, a model . . .”

  “Cruelty’s so . . .” Fluttering lashes, tongue, “so cruel, I think,” her darting tongue

  to the arch and through; they enter (he went this way, my stranger. I’m sure) so follow, I must and straining to see the three of them slowly ahead on their descending road. Who was he, pale and briefly staring face; he paused, then why did he leave, was he frightened and why did he rush off like that? Musing and walking (this is a pretty funny place!), easier walking, there’s light ahead; some light or other and I can see better, that’s the thing! eyes for the dark. Able to see passages that lead away and some of them are bright with noise: Felix more cautious, for others are terribly dark and shit! Shapes, who are they in doorways as we pass? strangers watch and shift; threatening bodies and the sound of my feet.

  Faster walking, they’re almost trotting, swinging their arms for speed without a word, not a word and faces, straight ahead. Don’t look back, straight ahead in shuffle, the shuffle­shuffle sound of our feet, pursuing soun
d of our feet, pursuing echoes as we descend . . .

  What if, wow quickly and don’t look back, what if they’re all chasing, they’ve all joined in for chrissakes bunching behind me and reaching, reaching to grab THEY’RE SNAPPING AT MY GODDAMN HEELS! Startled Felix into a desperate scrabbling run with their feet and breath about his ears, they’ve got rifles . . .

  Christ I’d like to, can I sneak in and see what the hell’s going on, can I? Dragging behind for it’s safe, there’s nobody following, that was, shit that was silly. And there, that’s a likely. Have I got the nerve? On impulse, more like impulse because it’s empty and only pale light, blue light and they haven’t noticed, there’s time, so Felix quickly in from the main tunnel, this light and peeking around: another short passage. It’s brighter without a sound, I’d better hurry. Quickly, light of foot (so quiet) with fingers to rough, the concrete walls, peeking WOW, this grabbing chill. Holy Christ! A Giant TV? Keep your head back! Edging carefully to see some man or other running in panic who is he? Fingers trembling on the wall as uncontrolled he runs deserted streets, a slum and straight through an intersection; winter light and the terror, it’s all reflected in smaller screens a hundred times: electric blue and soundless, Felix sees standard sets; some on tables and others in shelves or something, hanging on the walls. From blue to changing grey or black identical images and he’s tiring yes, with coat-tails flapping he stumbles but desperation drives him on and on, he lunges flailing now and all these cold good Christ, these watching eyes!

  Against the concrete, Felix aghast . . .

  They sit, how many? An audience as he runs and there’s hundreds, there must be . . . staring with flipflop panic . . . he’s running from them and it’s all too much too much too much I press my cheek to the stone . . . the charging blood the futile heart . . .

  It can’t be, can it be true?

  Close-up now of his gasping body, terrible heaving and beaten he leans on gigantic, a what? a roadbuilding, a machine with iron wheels: his changing shadows, their heads deformed by earphones everyone, they listen, what do they hear? Slowmotion, almost gentle, he crumples, the camera on his hand it strains to hold him from his knees, on his knees to the earth, to the earth his face and, hands deep into the earth . . .