Keyword Exercise (Thicket)

The shotgun was heavy in the boy’s hand. It was an old .410—a single-shot Winchester with a top lever action and an exterior hammer. His grandpa had been shooting it since childhood, and in the chamber was an old-fashioned paper cartridge filled with birdshot. The boy had three more shells tucked into his shirt pocket, and he could feel their weight bouncing against his chest as he strode down the gravel road toward the woods. It was a half-mile walk to the gate on the edge of his grandparents’ farm. Looking back through the mid-summer haze, he could see the tall white farmhouse peering above the green of the surrounding cornfields. He unlatched the chain from the gate and marched toward the forest.

The air felt thick in the afternoon heat. The only sound was the crunch of his footsteps on the tilled earth. Few people ventured into the woods this time of year, but the boy was curious, and since his grandparents had decided to drive into town, he had time to explore. The stand of maples at the edge of the woods formed a canopy which shaded the boy as he stood looking into the tangle of bushes and timber. After glancing up at the sky, he touched the shotgun shells in his pocket and stepped into the forest.

It took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the shadowy light, and there was a musty dampness in the air. Although he’d been in these woods plenty of times with his grandpa, the boy realized that he had never been here alone, and this made him uneasy. Granted, he knew his way around, so it was not as though he feared getting lost. But at moments like this, the boy recognized how different his own life was compared to the worlds he encountered while on the farm or in the forest. He held the gun a little tighter and kept walking.

The boy wandered toward the center of the woods, and as he did, swarms of insects followed, buzzing at his ears and his eyes. With each step, the underbrush grew thicker, the ground muddier. He could hear squirrels and birds chattering overhead. Soon he found himself approaching the ruins of an old cattle shed that had been abandoned decades earlier. Beside it stood a bramble of raspberry bushes which grew tall and bristly along the base of the building. As he approached, he heard a faint rustling. He stopped and bent down to get a look under the thicket, and it was there he saw it—the flick of an ear and a flash of white fur. The boy crept forward, slowly lifting each foot and stepping gently on the ground, being careful not to jostle any loose twigs and at the same time keeping an eye on his prey. The boy knew the rabbit was watching him, but somewhere in his mind he thought that by sneaking up on the creature, perhaps he could get close enough to take a shot. The boy pulled back the hammer and raised the stock to his shoulder. Then in a flash, the rabbit leaped from the bushes and darted past him into a clearing. The boy took aim and squeezed the trigger. He felt the punch of the recoil, and his ears rang at the explosion.

Through a thin cloud of smoke he saw that his shot had found its mark, although not enough to stop the rabbit entirely. It hobbled forward on three legs, with its hind foot flopping and dragging behind. The boy broke open the shotgun to eject the spent shell. The paper cartridge had expanded, and he had to pull it out hot with his fingers. The smell of the burnt powder flooded his nose as he reached into his shirt pocket to retrieve another cartridge. Fumbling, he shoved the fresh load into the chamber and closed the action.

The rabbit was now at least thirty yards ahead of the boy. Despite a shattered hind leg, the creature could still outrun him—at least for awhile. Soon, however, the rabbit slowed, and when the boy finally got closer, he noticed a thickening trail of blood on the forest floor. After a dozen more steps, the boy stopped. There on the ground lay the rabbit, weak and panting. A black pool of blood lay under its rump, and the creature’s eyes betrayed its pain and fear. The boy realized that had never been this close to a wild rabbit before—nor had he been this close to death.

Although he’d brought along a small knife, the boy couldn’t bring himself to touch the mutilated animal. He considered using a rock to finish it off, but instead, he raised the shotgun to his shoulder and squeezed the trigger once more. Again, the boy’s ears rang and the air was filled with the acrid scent of gunpowder. Even with a blast at this range, it took several more seconds for the rabbit to finally stop breathing. He cocked open the gun’s breech and tossed the empty cartridge on the ground next to the riddled carcass. Gnats and mosquitoes buzzed around the boy’s head, disturbing the dark silence. Then after a few moments, he made his way back through the forest and out into the bright afternoon sun.

As he walked along the fencerows toward his grandparents’ farm, the boy imagined some fox or raccoon making quick work of the rabbit’s remains, and it took all the strength he could muster to fight back his tears.