Trophies

He roared in pain. A lion, that's what they called him and tonight he had proven himself worthy of the name.

"Please, I want to stay here, by the fire," he said. "It's cold in the woods. And dark."

The man dressed in dark linen and cufflinks stared at the boy through a monocle. "Son, you were born to be a hunter! You've adorned your mother's side long enough, I'll have no more of it."

Steam rose as Sister doused the fire. “It’s time for the lion-cub to make a kill. Unless you’re more of a lamb.” She smiled and carried the large, black kettle back to the house.

The young boy repressed his objections and took hold of the shotgun. It was the heaviest thing he had held in his entire life. Cold and brutal. It mocked him with thoughts of what the night would bring.

The boy struggled to match his Father's long, fluid stride through the congested woods. The moon weaved in and out of sight, splitting the leafy canopy with platinum rays. Twigs snapped under foot and the white-gloved hand of his Father gripped the boy by the collar.

"Watch your step!" He said in a hushed tone. "You're going to scare away all the blasted critters."

The young boy remembered the days when he would cling to his Mother's dress while Father roamed into the black woods on his hunting expeditions. Mother would smile and wave to her husband as he departed. Now, Mother too weak to lift her head and barely opened her lips for the rabbit stew Sister made.

Father stopped abruptly. The memory fled into the night, leaving the boy. Alone. In the woods. Holding an oily shotgun that wreaked of iron and gunpowder.

What was it? Why did Father stop?

The boy searched the moon-lit clearing before him and saw nothing. He squinted, staring into the abyss. Slowly, golden eyes formed in the darkness and stared back. A white-tail deer moved into the clearing and paused. Its ears twitched, searching the night for unseen enemies. Confident it was alone, it lowered its neck and grabbed a tuft of rough grass between its teeth.

Suddenly, thunder rang out next to the boy. He looked up and saw his Father pointing a shotgun into the clearing. The boy let his gaze slide along the length of the barrel, past the trees, out of their hiding place in the brush, and into the clearing. He saw Bambi lying on a bed of green without enough strength to swallow the grass that hung from his mouth. A pervading darkness soaked the ground beneath the beast as its head fell limp.

The boy wretched to the side and vomited the yellow squash he’d ate for breakfast into the bushes. A hand came down hard on his shoulder.

"Your turn!" His Father pointed into the clearing.

The boy wiped a spot of vomit from his mouth and struggled to comprehend what his Father was pointing at.

A bush? He wants me to shoot a bush?

With his stomach convulsing, the boy leveled the shotgun and steadied himself. He aimed at the small, dark mass of vegetation and took a deep breath.

"Shoot," his Father whispered.

The chill of the approaching winter blew across his face, and a cold bead of sweat rolled down his spine. He stared until his vision blurred. He blinked and it was still there.

A bush?

"Shoot, goddamnit, before it gets away!"

Just then the bush moved and the head of a jackrabbit sprang up at full alert.

The boy flinched. Thunder erupted. The rabbit bolted straight up. Buckshot slammed it into a nearby tree. A brown, furry mass fell to the ground twitching.

A comforting hand squeezed the boy's shoulder.

"I told you son, you're a lion!"

There were no sounds to be heard as the boy followed his Father back through the woods. Father had placed the jackrabbit in a brown satchel and tied it to the boy's waist, it twitched at his side all the way home. The faint glow of the dying fire appeared as they emerged from the woods. Tendrils of smoke spiraled into the air like lost souls.

"It looks like your aim was true," Sister said as she ran out to meet them. She relieved them of the guns, while smiling hungrily.

"Not only mine, but the boy’s as well." Father reached for the boy's side and jerked the satchel loose. He raised the bloody bundle high into the air and laughed. A hunter's moon beamed behind him.

The boy ran. Gnarled roots stretched from the underworld and grasped at his feet. The wind descended upon him like the Furies and he tumbled to the hard, cold earth. Dust swirled and dirt clung to his teeth and muddied his nostrils.

His Father’s laughter echoed on the wind.

The boy glanced over his shoulder. He no longer recognized the man he once called Father. All he saw was a formally dressed man standing near trophies brought back from a hunting expedition. The boy clenched his fist and roared in pain.