DUCK



Frost stiffened grass crunched beneath my feet as I carried gear for my Dad to load into the station wagon. In three days we had bagged four foxes and plenty of rabbits. Their skins had been salted, rolled up and put away for tanning later.

My best shot had been when we were spotlighting. No-one else could see those beady little eyes tucked down in the grass; except for me. I gently squeezed the trigger and saw it gently tip over dead. A clean head shot. Not bad for a nine year old. I knew my Dad would be proud of me.

With us on the trip was Mr E. He was our neighbour and his sons were our best friends. My older brother was the same age as Peter, I matched with Geoff, and Mike with Steven. Dad and Mr E had the same name; that’s why we called him Mr E.

Before long the car was ready. We poured water from the mountain stream onto the camp fire and drove off down the dirt road through the rolling hills, always alert for anything that moved. Fog hung in the gullies before the breeze. Frost stayed in the shadows and a chill breeze flowed in through the driver’s window. We were on our way home.

Not long after we hit the bitumen my father spotted two ducks on a dam in a field. He pulled over to the side of the road in a shallow cutting, took his .22 rifle from where it was left at the ready, climbed the bank and took aim. I could see the concentration on his face as he aimed through the scope at the tiny target a good hundred yards away. Pssshoo! Direct hit!

Its mate was still leaving the scene as I viewed ecstatically the picture of a dark little form floating on the mirror surface of the dam. Good shot! That’s my Dad!

We all walked a cross to the edge of the dam where the last ripples of a dying duck’s death throes still danced up and down the glossy green reeds. We looked at the dead duck floating in the middle. It was still too early for a breeze.

I felt really proud of my Dad. The dead creature was only significant in the way a hole through the centre of a cardboard target is. I didn’t feel sorry for it, although it certainly looked forlorn floating on its side with its head missing. I began to feel uneasy though, for myself. That duck was out of reach.

“In you go”, was all he said. I couldn’t believe it!

“C’mon, hurry up!”

I looked around at the other faces breathing steam and saw they looked as surprised as me. It just didn’t seem right.

“I’m not a dog!” I wanted to say, but my mind was numbed by shame and dread as I stripped down and waded into the icy water.

For the rest of my life that moment would epitomise the recognition of power from the perspective of someone with only the power to swim and absolutely nothing more.

By the time I was up to my waist I was crying. The water was so cold that it felt like a rasp removing my skin. Mud squelched between my toes and reeds tangled around my thighs. I was hoping he would change his mind; what value a duck? I was nothing, not even a dog.

For fifteen minutes after we were back in the car I shivered and shook. I felt as though I was stuck in a sack full of ice-cubes after walking one hundred metres across frosty grass in wet y-fronts. My mind was as sharp as an icicle! My father nor I were ever again heroes.