First Twist

“Okay, now, no matter what,” the pit captain shouted, “you must stay perfectly still until I say to take ‘em. Laying in the pit, you won’t be able to see what’s comin’ behind, and whoever shoots at a flight of twelve when I’m waitin’ for a flight of a hundred and fifty is outs here. That clear?”

“Yup.”

“You got it.”

Several men just nodded, including my dad. He turned to me. “You hear that, boy Don’t move until the pit captain says so.”

“Right, Dad.”

“The kid understand?” the pit captain came toward us.

“I just explained it to him. He’ll be alright.”

Dad met him halfway and they talked quietly. I rolled onto my belly and put the binoculars up to my eyes. Not much shape to them, but there they were, hundreds of thousands of Canadian Honkers. Geese like I've seen, before or since. They rose out of the river like a black thread, a thin wispy cloud silhouetted against the yellow-red sky. Rising out of the valley, they slowly defined themselves as they flew over us on their way to feed.

Dad finished talking with the pit captain and laid down next to me.

“Look good?” he asked.

“Yeah. Look at all them birds.”

“There’s a lot, aren’t there.”

“Yeah. They’ll fly up here for us to shoot, huh?”

“They should.”

“Isn’t that dumb of them?”

They don’t know we’re here, boy.” He lowered his voice. “That’s why we gotta be still and quiet.”

“Okay,” I whispered.

We rolled onto our backs and I wedged my gun under my body to hide the reflection that spooks the birds. My twelve-gauge was awkward, and sights and stock gouging my leg. Dad had gotten me this double-barrel side-by-side because a friend told him they were safer for kids. I tried to lay flat on it, reaching to cover the trigger guard so a stick wouldn't hit the trigger and fire the gun.

I lay there as still as I could, but fidgeted on my gun; the sand in my shirt made me itch. The sun was low and the clouds a bright puffy white against the blue sky. I saw shapes in those clouds, and animals—a lion and an elephant. It looked like the lion was attacking the elephant! Another one looked like a huge panda bear. Then another made a noise.

“A-hink, a-hink… hink. Ahonk”

That’s no cloud! I jumped up to see what it was, and to my astonishment, thirty birds separated and veered off away from our pit. I stood staring, my eyes wide, my mouth agape.

“Goddammit!” yelled the pit captain, “Something spooked ‘em!”

Dad grabbed my hand and yanked me to the ground.

“Uff! “Ow! What Dad?”

“Sh.” He motioned me to stay still, and he looked past me to the captain, then back to me. “You can’t move like that, boy. You scared those birds away. Don’t make me sorry I…”

“I didn’t mean to…” I slumped to the ground.

“You don’t want to sit in the truck, do you?”

I shook my head and stared at the sand. He was silent. When I looked up, his expression had changed.

“It’s okay, boy. Don’t worry. You know what they sound like now, right?” he whispered.

“Yeah,” I nodded.

“Okay. Don’t let them scare you. Stay still until the pit captain says to move.”

I nodded again.

I rolled to my stomach and lay still. Between the brim of my hat and the top edge of the pit, a crack of skylight flooded my eyes—I wanted to see the birds this time. It looked like no one would care as long as I didn't move.

After a couple of minutes, though, my neck got stiff. The dull pain ached into my head and down my back and chest. I remembered the guys in the truck saying that if you have to move, for God’s sake do it slowly. So I did. Slowly, I lowered my head and rested it on the sand beneath me.

“A-hink, a-hink!" There it was! The birds again! I jerked my head up, but only a bit—I remembered this time. Lots of "a-hinks” and “a-honks” now. Sounded like a big flock. I waited.

“Take ‘em!” the pit captain’s voice yelled out.

I scrambled to a squatting position, fighting my gun to my shoulder, and—Boom! "Umph!"—a roar of laughter. I lay flat on my back, my gun across my legs out of reach of my hands, which were sprawled in the sand over my head. Shooting from a squat, that big gun had more kick in it than I could handle. I turned to Dad; his face was red. He laughed a large, embarrassed laugh.

Quickly on my feet, I went to pick up the gun, found a root with my foot, and took another spill. More laughter. Dad's laugh pierced my ears. Slowly, I pulled myself to my hands and knees; my head hung low. I spit the sand from my mouth.

“Birds!” the pit captain shouted.

Everyone jumped back to their places and became quiet; I scrambled onto my belly. The next flock came toward us from the river. They were a long way off yet—a faint black string just above the horizon—but the captain wanted every chance he could get. I don’t even know how he knew they were coming our way!

“Hey boy.”

I looked at Dad.

“Shoot from your knees and shoulder that gun,” he shoved his gun into his shoulder, “and that won’t happen again.”

“Okay.”

“And only aim for one bird.”

I nodded.

The birds came in slowly over our heads, honking slightly, beating their wings in slow motion. They glided like a jumbo jet coming in for a landing, the roar of air behind their wings. I watched them out of the corner of my eye, silhouettes of black and white flying in formation against the clear blue sky.

“They’re too high,” Dad whispered.

I didn’t respond.

“Take ‘em!” yelled the pit captain.

“What? Jesus Christ.” Dad muttered to himself.

Boom, boom… Boom. Several shots rang out down the valley.

“Listen to them bounce off.”

Sure enough, you could hear it. It was like a half-second slice out of a rainstorm—that first instant when large raindrops splatter onto the pavement. The pellets bounced off the bellies of the birds.

“Idiot!” Dad murmured.

I watched as one bird dropped out of the flock. Slowly, it glided and twisted to the ground down the hill in front of our pit.

“I dropped one,” someone yelled.

“You barely winged it, man.”

“I didn’t see you hit anything… Shoot, that thing’s a ways away.”

“And it ain’t dead.”

“Send one of the boys,” shouted the pit captain.

“Go ahead, boy,” said Dad.

“What do I do with my gun?”

“Just set it down, I’ll watch it.”

I looked at him.

“Go on, boy.”

I set down the gun and started down the hill.

I ran down the hill as fast as I could, tripping on the brush, falling and rolling toward the bird. The men in the pit laughed. When I got about three-quarters of the way to the goose, it dawned on me—What do I do when I get there? I paused to look up the hill. I turned back the bird. The bird stood still. I turned back to it and crept closer. The bird stared at me. It didn’t move. I was getting closer. What now? I thought to myself, what now?

“Ring his neck!” came an answer down the hill.

I gasped. What? Wring its neck? Here I stood, twenty feet from a bird—a wounded Honker—as tall as me, daring me to come closer. I turned a looked up the hill Dad and a couple of others were watching me. I turned back to the bird.

I stepped cautiously. The bird’s black eye glared as he lowered his head slowly. One step, then another. It stepped back slightly, neck coiled and ready to strike. Another step. The bird hissed. He faced me squarely, I stepped back again, and the bird rose on his feet and flapped his wings, a powerful black, gray, and white outline against the blue sky. He stood a good four feet high and twice as wide. The bird hissed again.

I jumped back and looked up at him. The men laughed. I turned my head down, kicked the dirt, kicked it again, and decided to give it another try.

I walked toward the bird; it folded its wings and ran a few steps. I took two more steps… so did it. I ran quickly at it, but the bird ran. The hooting from the men echoed down the hill.

"Catch him and wring his neck!"

I gotta get this thing, I thought to myself.

I lunged at the bird and it took off running… I followed and closed on it… dart to the right… shoot… come on bird… dart left… the laughter… you little… Umph! I tackled the bird—got him in the body, wrapped my arms around his middle and squeezed, rolling in the dirt… hiss… hiss… Its neck craned and twisted and tied to find me… I tried to find it. My arms flailing, wrapped up in bird and wing and legs, we rolled. He kicked and scratched, attacking with an open bill… one wing got free… flapping… it hit me in the face and I almost let go. The bird reached around its body, gashing holes in the back of my hand with its bill… that was my chance. I released my hand from its body and lunged for the neck… I got it… the bird thrashed wildly… hiss second hand on the neck… wings spread wider than I was tall… I scrambled to my feet and jerked and finally twirled its body around in a circle like a rock on the end of a rope.

Laughter mixed with cheers floated down the hill. They were just outlines of bodies up there, the sun almost setting. I held up the bird with two hands as everyone cheered. Then I hoisted it over my shoulder—all 22 pounds, as it turns out—and began the long march up the hill. Struggling, I licked my bleeding hand as I climbed.

The laughter and chatting continued for a while until the pit captain yelled “Birds!” and the men and me all laid down to be still. “Take ‘em!” he yelled. Gunshots rang out across the valley and several birds crumpled to the ground. I watched them fall and I heard the thud when they hit. AS I got up, I swung the bird off my shoulder, looked at it, shrugged, and heaved it over my other shoulder. I continued climbing.

At the top, covered with sweat and dirt and blood, I threw the bird on the ground. The men laughed and said how good I’d done. Dad slapped me on the back. Dad slapped me on the back. "Good job," he said. I fell to the ground exhausted, the bird in front of me. With the faint musky smell of dead goose flesh in my nostrils, I looked at Dad. He pulled out a large pocket knife, bent down to the bird, and cut off one foot. He slipped the metal band from around its leg and tossed it to me.

“Here,” he said, “put this on your finger.”

“What is it?”

"A band they put on birds to track them. You'll have to report the number to the game warden. The band is yours."

I took the band and slipped it on my finger. It fit well. I looked up at Dad. He stood tall, staring down the valley. He drew in a deep breath and exhaled loudly.

*

Anthony Signorelli