Short Story: A Regular Ernest Hemingway

Short Story: A Regular Ernest Hemingway

“You heard granddad- it’s a childhood of memories.”

Michael idolised his older brother Philip and hung on his every word, just as Philip worshipped their grandfather, but he had still not been keen to go out with him today. Philip carried one of old Kenny’s air rifles, and Michael plodded along behind him.

“Well, I’m not gonna shoot anything,” affirmed the younger boy.

“You’re not allowed, you’re too young, anyway.”

“Oh.” Michael kicked some dirt and stuck out his bottom lip. “You’ll let me hold it, though won’t ya?”

“Maybe.”

The day before Tim had been watching the Big Game, so Phil, with Mike trailing behind, had gone off to see Kenny. Kenny’s wife, their nan was dead, but Kenny was still very vivacious. They enjoyed his stories and his mad ways. Kenny was always unkempt and unshaven but this was through choice, more than through an old man’s loss of dignity. He saw no need to make a show for a world that owed him a living.

His rough-looking appearance was made all the more striking by the patch covering the hole where once a second eye had sat. They knew the story. He had been out hunting pheasant on the manor. It was late and he hadn’t loaded properly. The gun backfired and shards of the butt flew into his eye, which was all but destroyed.

But it didn’t deter him. At every opportunity he fished, hunted, walked in the woods, shot game on the manor. He was a regular Ernest Hemingway, he said, but Phil and Mike didn’t understand what he meant.

Kenny gave Phil one of his air-rifles and told them they should head off into the woods themselves. Kenny had secretly taken them out several times and shown them about trapping and shooting. He made them promise not to tell their mother; she wouldn’t understand. But, then one day they wouldn’t be living with her any more. One day they’d have the freedom to do what ever they wanted. But Tim never watched them and with mum out with her sister they had easily managed to sneak out to Kenny’s and borrow a gun.

They reached the edge of woods, a clough some called it, and Mike asked if he could hold the rifle now. “Please, no-one will see us here,” he pleaded.

“Not yet, but if you like you can hold the ammo.”

" Oh wow. Can I?”

Philip gave him the box of the capsules, and Michael eyed them gleefully as they stepped further into the trees.

“What do you think we’ll kill?” inquired Michael.

“Prob’ly some pheasants. And some squirrels if we aim well.”

“Do you think?”

Michael had an ecstatic grin on his face and gladly became the conveyor of not only of the boxes of rounds but the pack containing their lunch, which Phil said might distract him and lead to an accidental discharge, but it was his older brother despite his impatient hardened expression who was the most supercilious. He was finally living the dream. He was following in his grandfather’s footsteps, hunting, trekking, taking on nature in the wild. What would be his first kill, a bird, a rodent, a fish? Old Kenny was a master shooter, but he too was on his way. He longed to spend the night in the forest, eating his kills, drinking from the stream, sleeping under the stars, just as his granddad had done in his youth, but that was for the future. Of course if Tim was sticking around, he’d have to go, he couldn’t live in the house much longer. It’d be cool living in the woods after he moved out.

“You’re sure we won’t get into trouble?” Michael whined.

“For what? It’s just an air rifle. I’m allowed that. Anyway there’s nobody about. We can do what we want.”

“Good.” They walked on for a moment, taking in the scene, a light drizzle beginning to fall. “Does that mean that I can do some shooting?”

“After me.”

“But really I meant do you think we’ll get in trouble off of mum or Tim?”

“They won’t find out.”

“I’m gonna tell unless you let me hold the gun.”

Phillip stopped abruptly and hit his brother with his open hand across the cheek. “No you won’t.”

“I’m sorry. I was only joking.” Tears began to stream down Mike’s face.

“Good.” He hugged him, sorry. “I don’t care what Tim does. I don’t care about him.”

“Neither do I. Not if you don’t.”

“I’ll let you have a go. Don’t worry. But you shouldn’t say things like that, it gets me upset. Especially when you talk about Tim.”

“I hate him too.”

Pushing through the trees, the rain abated though it left the ground moist and soft to the foot, and soon they reached a clearing. It was at a slightly lower level with a thick coverage of trees encircling it. Philip stopped, knelt down and patted the ground. He walked to a nearby patch of grass pulled a twig that he tasted and spat out expertly. Michael watched in rapt fascination.

“Right I think this will be perfect,” announced Phil.

“You think there’s some good hunting here?”

“Yes. But we must be quiet; you can’t be whingeing about using the gun or wanting to shoot something. Like granddad says, you have to lie quietly, secretly. Become one with the environment.”

“Wow, you talk very well.”

“It’s what granddad says. Only then can you connect with the prey.”

They found an open patch behind a line of trees. Beyond was a gradual drop where the trees got thicker as they closed in on the stream further on. Michael sat down silently, and Philip sat near by. Michael snapped his fingers indicating the back pack, putting his finger to his lips so Phil wouldn’t spoil the moment.

He opened the bag and took out the sandwiches, cheese and ham. Phil was going to take out a bag of crisps. “No, don’t!” whispered Mike, “We have to be quiet.”

“Right.”

Mike lay down against a long-fallen trunk and allowed the ground to consume him while he nibbled at his lunch. Phil watched regarding how easily his brother had become the master huntsman- still, silent, in tune with his surroundings, stopping in just the right place and eating only what he had to.

Mike ate in small bites breathing the air and filling his lungs with the peace. He thought how great it would be to take a rabbit home to Kenny or a deer maybe, though he didn’t think he’d seen any deer tracks. Oh yes, he could live like this, in a shack swapping stories with Kenny living from day to day on the fruits of the forest. No Mum, no Tim, no Phil.

He looked over and saw that Phil was lying in a similar position but had fallen asleep. God, he thought, he’ll never do. He crept over, staying close to the ground and placed his hand over Phil’s mouth before shaking him awake. He whispered “You can’t nod off. You have to have your wits about you. What would have happened if I hadn’t been watching? You could have missed a chance to kill or been killed yourself.”

“I’m sorry.” Said Phil. “I’m just a bit tired from all the walking. I’m glad you were here.”

“A good hunter always stays focussed. This is why I can’t let you hold the gun. You can’t be trusted, can you? You know that?” Phil nodded. “Right, well, now we’re rested and eaten it’s time to find our first kill. You stick close and I’ll show you how to do it.”

They turned on to their bellies and crawled to the edge of the drop. Michael loaded the capsules into the gun and began scouring the area for potential movements. Something scurried somewhere, but they couldn’t see anything.

The wind slowed to a gentle breeze and the trees calmed. Another flash of something and a squirrel ten feet away. Michael aimed, trying out the sight, but the animal was gone before he’d found the will to shoot. All around now were the sounds of feet and wings and claws. Michael took aim again but his would-be victim disappeared. He sighed an angry naughty word and Phil gasped. Michael shrugged it off and told him to be quiet. Phil couldn’t believe he was using such grown up words. This really was a great adventure.

Then suddenly, there it was- a crow, a big one, a rook or raven sitting on a hedge twenty feet away. Both boys tensed up as Mike took aim. He pulled the trigger.

The bird flew away with several dozens of others and Michael screamed the naughty word this time.

“I’m sorry,” said Phil, but Mike just grunted. “Maybe I could try.”

“No! You should just shut up and leave it to me. Wait till I’ve got something. It’s cause of you whingeing that the crow knew we were here. Now shut up.”

They waited until the shot had rung out and the scene had calmed down again. Michael was seething; Phil was close to tears, blaming himself for his brother’s lack of success.

Soon something came into the sights, the rabbit Mike was desperate to share with Kenny. He loaded two more capsules, Phil watching intently, very impressed. Mike lifted up the gun and took aim. He was shaking noticeably and took deep breaths to right himself. He leaned his arm on some leaves and prepared to shoot. Phil tuned his eye to the rabbit too, willing the bullet to rip through him.

After intense moments of waiting Mike pulled the trigger but as he did his arm slipped on the wet leaves and the bullet shot aimlessly into the air. But a hard thud was heard together with a squawk; looking up the boys noticed a crow had been hit, perhaps the one from before; it was close by and it didn’t take long for the bird to fall dead from the sky. Before he knew it was coming Michael turned his head into its path and it landed fast and strong on his face.

Michael screamed and with effort pulled the bird free, its blood merging with his own on the ground. His own continued to flow, the source, his eye, into which the bird’s beak had landed, ripping it from its socket. Michael would never use it again.

Phil stood over him, his horror replaced by pure rage at what had happened to his idol. He picked up the gun, Michael now nearly unconscious and unable to stop him.

“Look what it did to you!” he screamed. He wanted he hit something, hard. He turned away, the gun in front of him and ran spastically into the trees, “I’m gonna kill every fucking thing in here.”