by Alan Hewson
Runner Up – Stories for Survival Writing Competition 2024
“A restrained, quietly moving piece – all the more powerful for its lack of sentimentality. Some wonderfully vivid observations: the hare’s clouded eyes; the body heavier than expected – it takes us right there, side by side with the boy as he lives through this subtly poignant, indelibly formative moment.” Jeremy Lazell, Head Judge
Early morning, with its enveloping stillness, the sun glinting low through the trees in the crisp air and just a touch of the first frost. The mud stuck to his boots as he strode across the ragged furrows.
A narrow grass strip marked the edge of the field, beyond it a line of wooden fence posts and rusting barbed wire. He clambered over the stile into the wood. The air darker here, denser, shafts of sunlight splintering through the leaves. The breeze drifted past each branch and leaf, as if the wood was breathing, the twigs snapping beneath his feet as he followed the barely visible track.
That same track. His bare legs, flushed red in the biting cold, scratched by the straggling brambles, hurrying to keep up, the gap between them lengthening as his father marched on without a backward glance.
Finally, the darkness of the wood gave way to a rough meadow; tall grass topped, drifts of pink-tipped willowherb and the vivid green fronds of cow parsley. In the cool morning air, his face touched by the first warming fingers of the rising sun. He scanned the field for signs of movement, but all was still. Then suddenly a frantic fluttering in the long grass and a grouse soared upwards, black silhouetted against the bright sky.
His hand gripped the worn-smooth stock of the shotgun. He moved across the hillside, measuring each step. A rustle of grass fifty yards ahead and a hare raised its head, startled, the long ears twitching, one bright amber eye. The large muscular body reared up. A sudden, desperate leap. With a single smooth action Martin raised the gun and aimed.
A faint sound like the crying of a baby then silence. He strode through the rough grass, found the still, bloodied body.
All those years back, that other hare, the first kill, its eyes glassy, its long brown
body twitching on the flattened grass. His father raising the stone. The smell of blood as his father daubed his pale young cheeks.
Words long forgotten returned. ‘The hare is running races in her mirth.’ There was no mirth here, only still, warm death. From his pocket he drew the large plastic bag, unfolded it, slid it over the head with its long black tipped ears. The large unwieldy body heavier than he expected as he struggled to cram into the bag, the pale fur of its belly stained red. The muscular legs flopped about as he tried and failed to push them in. He grasped the mouth of the bag pulled it up and as the body slumped down he finally forced the legs in.
He gathered the plastic in one hand and with the other, he quickly looped the cord around the neck and pulled it tight. He grasped the bag, struggled to lift it onto his shoulder, took a minute to adjust the weight then set off back across the meadow and into the wood. The weight pressed down slowing his steps along the rough track. At the fence he lowered it onto the cross bar of the stile then slid it down the other side. He climbed over after it and took a moment’s rest before hauling it back onto his shoulder. He headed back across the ploughed field, stumbling in the rutted furrows.
At last he reached the car, dropped the hare on the ground, unlocked the boot and flipped it open. The hare’s clouded eyes stared out through the translucent plastic as he lifted it up and laid it gently on the floor of the boot. He checked the tightness of the knotted cord then closed the hare into darkness.
Image: Annie Spratt, Unsplash
