Read Huia Short Stories 10 Online

Authors: Tihema Baker

Huia Short Stories 10 (7 page)

BOOK: Huia Short Stories 10
9.37Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

Pig Sticker

Ann French

The van has stopped when I wake up, and Dad is crying. I'm so shocked, I make a hiccup sound, and he looks at me. I've never seen Dad cry; not even when he got a big fish hook stuck in his leg. That time he just swore, went to the doctor and had it cut out.

So it's a relief when I realise it's the shadow of raindrops on the windscreen running down his face. If Dad cried, it would be the end of the world.

He reaches over and ruffles my hair. ‘Come on, Tiger. We're here. Time to go and see your aunty. With any luck she'll cook us some bacon and eggs for breakfast.' He doesn't mention Uncle George, but that's because Dad doesn't like him much, and I've heard him telling Mum he's ‘a lazy bastard who wouldn't do anyone a favour unless he got paid for it'. In Dad's book that's not a good thing, because Dad would help anyone, any time.

Mum had smiled and said, ‘Well, he must be good for something, or my sister wouldn't have married him.' Dad didn't like Mum siding against him, and went outside and chopped enough wood to last us all winter and the next one as well. I know because I had to stack it.

I'm glad to stretch my legs. It's been a long way from Auckland to Ōpōtiki. We only stopped twice, but it was night, so I slept most of the time. Dad let me bring my pillow; he threw a rug over me and I stretched out on the back seat. I'm not big, even though I'll be ten next birthday, but Dad says then I'll grow like a bean and be big and tall like him.

Once or twice a year, Dad gets together with some of his mates and they go into the Ureweras, or anywhere there's bush, pig hunting. He camps out for two or three days, and comes home tired and dirty but real happy, and with a load of either venison or pork. I've begged him to take me ever since I can remember, and he has always said he would when I was big enough. Dad never breaks a promise, so I believed him.

Sometimes when he goes, Mum nags him to take Uncle George. Dad never wants to because he reckons George is a piss-poor shot and moans the whole time about being cold and not having enough to eat. Dad says if you can carry it on your back, you can take whatever you want, but otherwise forget it. He takes his shotgun, ammunition, a sleeping bag and some tins of food, and that's about it. And when he goes pig hunting, he takes his knife.

I love that knife, but it sort of scares me too. It's long, about half the length of my arm, and the blade is so sharp, you could cut anything with it. Dad sharpens it once a week whether he's going hunting or not, and you can see your face in the shine of the metal. When he's finished Dad puts it into a leather sheath with a loop that fits on his belt. He calls it his Pig Sticker.

We go up the steps to the back door, and I smell bacon. My mouth waters and my stomach rumbles. Although I had a hamburger on the way, it's not the same as one of Aunty's breakfasts. Dad knocks and goes in, and there's Uncle George and my cousins Bill and Hemi all sitting at the kitchen table. There are eggs, bacon, sausages and big piles of toast, and my stomach rumbles louder than before.

Aunty is pretty big, probably from eating all those breakfasts. She heads over to give Dad and me a hug. Dad's
ok
with it, but I think she's going to crush me and try to skip out from underneath. But I've no show, and before I get a chance to escape, she grabs me and gives me a big kiss. ‘You've grown, Mati,' she says. ‘Soon be big and strong like your Dad, eh.' And I almost forgive her the kissing thing.

Uncle George stands and crosses over to my father. He punches him hard on the arm and says, ‘Hey bro, you're putting on a bit of weight around the old puku.' Dad smiles, but the crinkly bits at the corner of his eyes don't move like they do when he thinks something's funny.

We sit down and my cousins tell me about the new puppies while I gulp down food and then a big cup of tea with milk and sugar. Uncle George watches me, and says to Dad, ‘Don't you feed the boy? He sure can stack it away for such a scrawny runt of a kid.'

Dad's eyes glint at that but he doesn't say anything, which sort of hurts me, and I decide I really don't like Uncle George.

Bill, Hemi and I go to look at the puppies, and they're really cute. There are six of them. I pick up the smallest one. He's soft like a pillow and snuggles under my armpit and whimpers. I've never had a dog – I wonder if Dad would let me have this one. ‘We're going to get rid of him,' says Bill. I ask why, but I already know the answer. Uncle George doesn't like ‘scrawny runts'.

My cousins take me eeling. We catch a big old grandfather, twice as fat as my arm and almost as tall as Dad. Bill cuts off the head and we poke it with a stick to see its teeth. They look sharp, like needles. I imagine what it would be like to have one bite me; to have one sink its teeth into my leg. It would be like the hook in Dad's leg but one hundred times worse.

We go swimming in the water hole. I try not to think about eels with sharp teeth. ‘It's a secret place,' says Hemi. ‘First time you swim here, you get to make a wish.'

Closing my eyes, I make the wish ‘Let Dad take me pig hunting,' then take a running jump, fly through the air and belly flop in the water. For a moment I can't breathe it hurts so bad, and all the air has whooshed out of me. I hear Bill and Hemi laughing; see them doubled over and holding one another. ‘Give him one point for effort,' says Hemi. ‘And one point for stupid,' says Bill, and they both start laughing again as though it's the funniest thing anyone's ever said.

At lunchtime we go back to the house. Aunty has laid out sandwiches as big as doorsteps. They're filled with ham and – to make sure we eat healthy – some lettuce. I hate lettuce. I slip it out when I think no one's looking and put it in my pocket.

Dad's sitting at the table as well, and he's quiet, as though he's thinking seriously about something. Uncle George isn't around, which is good, as I'm sure he would have seen what I did with the lettuce and got me into trouble.

‘Dad,' I say, and he looks up. ‘Can I have one of the puppies? It's the smallest one and Uncle George is going to get rid of it.' I don't say any more, but my father knows. It's because it's the runt of the litter.

I see something in his eyes for a moment, and then he nods his head. ‘But you better look after it boy. Feed it and clean up after it. You hear me?'

I'm so happy. Then he says, ‘We're going hunting tomorrow, so be ready because we're going early,' and I know that no day will ever get better than this.

The next morning it's raining and cold. Uncle George is moaning and groaning and doesn't want to go, but Aunty says he has to. ‘We need some pork or venison,' she says. ‘Get your lazy, fat arse out of bed. Breakfast's on the table.' He does, but he's not happy.

Dad is ready. He's got on his big boots and hunting jacket, and Pig Sticker is strapped to his belt. He spent a lot of time last night scraping it over and over against the special stone that makes it so sharp it will go through a pig's skin like butter. He cleaned his shotgun as well; it stands waiting against the wall by the front door.

We're only going to be away overnight, so we have sleeping bags and tins of baked beans and spaghetti. Uncle George wants to take a load of other stuff, but Dad tells him it would weigh too much and unless he's prepared to carry it, forget it. I'm so excited I can hardly eat. Even so, I notice there's something going on between Dad and my uncle – but that's probably because they don't like one another much. My cousins are coming too. We have a race to see who can eat the most sausages. I win, but Uncle George says ‘You got worms boy? Is that why you're so scrawny?' I think of the puppy and being the runt, him getting rid of it, and I see that funny look on Dad's face again.

Uncle George has two dogs he uses for hunting. We load them into the van. He calls them Jake and Chopper. Aunty told me once that they're his babies. He'd hate it if anything happened to them. She stands at the door and waves goodbye. ‘Look after them,' she calls to Dad, but he doesn't speak or nod. I wonder if he's even heard her, but then we turn a corner, she's gone and it's too late to say anything.

We drive for a couple of hours. The rain comes down and it begins to blow. I don't care, because Dad says weather like this is good for hunting – the pigs can't smell or hear you. We're snug and warm in the van, but no one talks much, and the only time we laugh is when Hemi farts, loud and long. It's all those sausages and eggs catching up with him. Dad asks ‘Was that thunder?' and the three of us laugh and laugh. Uncle George doesn't. He sits up front not saying much. I see his head drooping every now and again and know he's sleeping.

We turn off the main road and bump our way along a narrow track that has deep potholes. We eventually come to a clearing where Dad parks the van. ‘Everyone out,' he says. ‘If you can't carry it, don't take it.' I see him looking hard at Uncle George. We load up. My knapsack is light because I only have my sleeping bag, not even a toothbrush.

The walk at the beginning is flat, like a paddock. We see one or two sheep but Dad says they're wild ones, escaped from somewhere, and would be as ‘tough as bollocks' to eat. My uncle is puffing like a train. After a while he puts his knapsack down and unpacks it. He's not only got a change of clothes but also a small Primus, a saucepan, two forks, a spoon and a kettle. He abandons it all, along with some toilet paper. Dad doesn't say a word – just keeps walking.

The tree line is where we're headed. It's mainly native bush and mānuka. Mum has some mānuka growing at home, but it's in a pot, a weedy looking thing. This mānuka is huge and thick around the trunk, and there's a lot of it. It grows close together, and the branches block out the light. It's still raining, but now there's mist floating down over us. My cousins make ghost noises. ‘Whoooooo!' I wish they wouldn't. There's something scary about this place. Dad senses it too, because he tells them to shut up.

The dogs bound ahead. We can hear them crashing about, but then they go silent. Dad puts his hand up and we all stop in our tracks. Uncle George catches up. He's red in the face, breathing in gasps and sweating.

The dogs begin to bark. You can tell they've found something because it's non-stop – if they had voices, they'd be saying ‘Come quick.'

‘Gotcha, ya bastard,' says my uncle, and he barges through the bush. Like Dad, he has a shotgun. As he walks, he cocks it, ready to fire. My father tries to grab his arm but he's gone, vanished into the bush and mist.

Suddenly a dog howls, and it's the worst sound I've ever heard. Then comes a scream. I think nothing could make that noise and live.

We stand there, the four of us. Dad is listening, turning slowly one way then the other, but there's only silence.

We all hear it: a gunshot. Then a dog howling again, but the noise is muffled. We go to move forward, but Dad holds his hand up. ‘Stay here. Don't move.' He puts down his knapsack, chambers a round, then, like a ghost, is swallowed by the mist.

Time goes by. Everything feels strange, and when I look at Hemi and Bill, I see they sense it too. Fog covers us, and even though we're standing close, it's hard to see one another. I wish I was back at Aunty's, playing with the puppies and eating one of her breakfasts. ‘You fellas stay here. I'll go and see if everything's
ok
,' I say. I'm pleased that my voice sounds confident, even if I'm scared shitless. My cousins nod, not saying anything.

Trying not to make a sound, I walk towards the trees. After a few steps I look back, but can't see them. It's like they never existed. I get a hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach. My skin is cold, and goosebumps cover my arms. This is the first time I've ever disobeyed Dad. I have a bad taste in my mouth, like sour apples.

I see a dog. There's blood everywhere: on the ground, the leaves, the trunks of trees. I know it's dead, even though the back legs are still twitching. Nearby is the other dog – it's Chopper. It's him because he's got a white spot on his chest, but now he's got a rip in his side and he's panting. As I watch, he whimpers, tries to get up, then falls back, and I know he's dead too.

I'm looking at the dogs and feeling sick, and the pig is there, although I don't see it straight away. It's lying on the ground, half covered by scrub: a boar. Huge, black, with long, blood-covered tusks. The smell hits me, coppery and sweet. Someone has shot it. I can see the hole in its stomach, and there's also a long cut under its chin. The eyes are open, red and small, and they blink as I come closer. I lean forward and see myself mirrored in them, then they go black and close.

There's no sign of my uncle or father. I walk on, trying not to look at the blood and other stuff on the ground. I hear Dad's voice. It's low and full of anger like I've never heard it before. I see him – he's got Uncle George backed against a tree, with Pig Sticker tight against his throat. The whites of my uncle's eyes are showing, and a stain covers the front of his trousers. There is blood here too – it's running down George's neck from a long wound that goes from one ear to the other. I think that maybe Dad has cut his throat, but then my uncle's eyes – which at that moment resemble those of the pig, red and small – blink, and I know he's alive. There is the sound of someone letting out their breath, a deep sigh. I realise it's me.

‘You ever come near my wife again or speak to her and I'll cut you like that pig. You ever talk to my son again and throw off at him, I'll cut you like that pig. Do you understand me?' My uncle's head nods up and down. His mouth opens but no words come out. Pig Sticker flashes in the light, and for a second I see a face mirrored in it: my father's face. So twisted and full of hate, I don't recognise it.

I back away quietly and slip into the bush and fog. Bill and Hemi are where I left them. ‘Everything's
ok
,' I say. We wait, sitting on the ground in the drizzle, mist and silence.

BOOK: Huia Short Stories 10
9.37Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

Other books

La sal de la vida by Anna Gavalda
Double Trouble by Deborah Cooke
The Aisha Prophecy by John R. Maxim
Summer Nights by Caroline B. Cooney
Crime & Punishment by V.R. Dunlap