Loadstar 119/119.d81/sr.first kill

Text File | 1994-01-01 | 8.2 KB | 243 lines

             FIRST KILL

    by Frederick J. Barnett Jr.

    They had thought I was sleeping.
That was the only reason I concluded
for their talking right in front of
me.  Double pneumonia.  Probably won't
leave the hospital alive.  Well, at
least the doctor had said "probably."
It saved him any embarrassment when I
did eventually leave.  It had not been
easy, to be sure: a ton of
antibiotics, a tube shoved down
through my nose to drain the lungs.
And all the time, those words haunted
me, day and night.
    It was not the first time I had
faced death.  There had been the usual
funerals for family or friends.  And
it was not the first time I had to
face my own mortality.  My years of
going to the Muscular Dystrophy summer
camp, from a time since passed, had
made the frailties of people like me
all too clear.  Every year I would
take my counselor's handbook, to find
the schedule for the week, and there,
inside the cover, it would always be.
"Dedicated to the Memory of..."
Sometimes it was a name I knew,
someone I had fished with, talked
with, whatever.  Other times, I did
not know the name, but I knew I would
know the face if I saw it.  But this,
this was really the first time death
was actually staring directly at me.
And all the questions, the ones I had
kept suppressed the whole of my thirty
years, came crashing in like a river
whose dam had finally given way.
    What was death?  Was it like
falling asleep, never to awaken again?
Was there any pain, mental or
physical, with it?  Could you know,
would you know, when it was your time?
And what for me at least, was the
hardest question of all: when it was
truly inevitable, and I knew it, how
would I react?  Would death take me
calmly, serenely; or kicking and
screaming the entire way?  Even now,
seven months later, the torrent was
still raging.
    I was with my father, sitting
amongst the trees at the edge of a
small clearing, waiting.  It had been
years since my last deer hunting trip.
I had stopped going because in all
those times before, we had seen few,
and killed none.  I had grown bored,
and disinterested.  But this time, I
had gone when he asked.  Maybe, it was
because I missed the woods.  Or maybe,
because I didn't know if it might be
my last opportunity.
    It was a chilly morning, the kind
you did not need a coat for; just a
jacket would do.  The fog, which was
not thick to begin with, was almost
completely burned off.  In the
distance, a woodpecker kept clattering
his bill against a tree.  The only
other sound was made by me, as I
slowly whittled the bark off of a
small tree branch with my pocket
knife, just like I had done on all
those trips before.  Because like
before, we had not seen a thing.
    But this time was to be different.
I saw him first, as he walked slowly
out of the trees to our right.  He was
magnificent!  A white tail buck in his
prime.  Large and strong, with an
eight point rack on his head, which he
carried as if he knew he was something
special.  Every doe in the area was
probably carrying his offspring by
now.  And had probably been doing so
for the last couple of years.
    I put the branch and knife down in
my lap slowly, straining not to make a
sound.  My father moved even slower,
coming up behind me to place the rifle
at my shoulder.  I took careful aim,
my elbow pressing down tightly on the
armrest of my wheelchair from the
weight of the gun, my father's finger
on top of mine on the trigger, waiting
for my signal to fire the bullet.  I
was concentrating so hard on that
shot, no other thoughts entered my
mind.  A few seconds more, to make
sure, and I said, "Now."
    The buck heard me.  He leaped
forward almost instantly.  But he
should have gone either to the side or
backwards.  The bullet hit, not a
killing blow, but one that was serious
enough.  He fell on his side, then
scrambled frantically to his feet, and
fled into the woods.
    My father pushed me into the
clearing, to the spot where the buck
had fallen.  There was blood on the
ground, trailing in the direction he
had taken.  We followed it, knowing
the buck would not be able to go far,
not with the amount of blood he was
losing.  As crazy as it may sound, the
thrill of the chase was upon me, as we
went through the trees, my heart
pounding in my ears in anticipation of
the kill.  It was inevitable.
    It took only a few moments, then
we saw him.  He was lying down, his
injured side propped up against a
fallen log, as if trying to protect
it, and wheezing loudly with each
heavy breath.  He only looked at me as
we approached, probably since I was
the closest and lowest, and it did not
require any more energy.  He made no
attempt to run.  He was beyond that.
    We stopped only twenty feet away.
My father took the rifle from my arms
and positioned it so I could
administer the fatal shot.  I aimed
for the center of the buck's head.  He
was still just looking at me, not
moving, not doing anything to save
himself.  I stared into those large
dark eyes.  Somehow, no matter what
anyone may say to the contrary, I
knew, that he knew, there was no hope
of escaping.  And he was just waiting;
waiting for that final shot to claim
him.  Waiting for death.
    We stared at each other, I don't
know, a minute, maybe two.  I'm sure
my father was wondering what was
wrong, why I had not given the signal
to fire yet.  I knew I had to do it,
but something was stopping me.
    Then I realized what it was.  The
answer to all my questions, was right
in front of me.  Some say that animals
can only react by instinct, They
cannot reason as we do, they do not
think.  But looking in the buck's
eyes, I knew they were wrong.  This
animal knew his life was over.  And he
was accepting it.  There was no
frantic attempt to escape, for it
would only be a waste of energy.
Maybe he did not understand the term,
but he was going to die with all the
dignity that he had lived his life
with.  I could take his life, but I
could not take that.
    And that was my answer.  Yes, some
kinds of death did involve pain.  But
there was no reason, none whatsoever,
that if this supposedly "dumb animal"
could face the inevitable with
calmness and dignity, that I could not
as well.  It was as if a tremendous
weight had abruptly been lifted off my
mind.  I suddenly felt free, and
alive.  Alive like I had never been
before.  But, there was something I
still had to do.  And there was only
one way to do it now.
    I suddenly lowered the gun.  My
father, probably thinking that I was
wimping out or something, took it and
aimed himself.
    "No," I said, and picked up the
still open pocket knife in my lap.
"Push me closer," I said.
    My father looked at me like I was
crazy, and maybe I was.  There was the
very real chance that the buck could
still suddenly rear up and charge with
those splendid antlers, impaling me
quite easily.  But I knew he would
not, and before my father could give
voice to his objections, I repeated,
"Push me closer."  Whether it was the
determination in my voice, or the look
on my face, I do not know.  But he put
the rifle down, and cautiously pushed
me toward the buck.
      I guess for safety's sake my
father went into a looping motion so I
could come up on the buck from behind.
He still made no movement as I came
alongside, and gently took one of his
antlers in my hand.  I reached down
his neck, found the proper place with
my thumb, and put the point of the
blade against it.  I know now, and
perhaps even then, that what I was
doing seemed cruel.  Better to shoot,
and have it end instantly with a
bullet in the brain.  But that was too
impersonal for me.  Anyone could
shoot, from a distance, and even
without the victim seeing you.  It
would not be instantaneous, but the
buck had helped me, on a personal
level that I do not believe any human
could have.  His death had to be
personal too.
    I whispered "Thank you," into his
ear, and plunged the knife in with all
the strength I had.  There was no
reaction; no acknowledgment of my
"gift" as it were.  The buck only sat
there for a second, then his eyes
fluttered closed, and head became
heavy in my hand.  He was gone.
    But not forgotten.  I have his
head mounted in my room now.  And
whenever I think about death, as I
still occasionally do, I look at it,
and I remember.  And sometimes, I
still say, "Thank you."

           The End