Isak ignores him, instructing Danie, “Get the box in the office.”
Danie is still tiny enough to fit under the branches of the fruit trees. He runs as fast as he can, returning with the box of medals. On the lid is a drawing of a man with a twirled moustache and a gun slung over his shoulder.
“C … u … b … a … n,” he spells phonetically before presenting the box to Isak.
“Wait here,” Isak commands as he hands them each a medal. He keeps the one with the springbuck for himself.
He takes the short cut through the pear orchard. The trees are widely spaced and they are the oldest on the farm. He likes to walk this way as it is the closest place to a forest that he knows of. Above his head, pears hang in their thousands, still hard and green like bright jewels in the sun. He pauses and scratches around in the grass until he finds the nest. Some of the eggs have broken and the nest is abandoned but for a lone egg which he pockets.
The house on the hill is empty. The key lies in his father’s drawer amongst the socks packed in rows of colour. Isak opens the cupboard and there are suits in zippered bags smelling of naphthalene. Behind the suits is the safe. The hunting rifles dwarf his pellet gun. There’s a gun as tall as him with a large telescope and silver patterns on the barrel, almost the same as on Ouma’s teapot. He rests the stock on his shoulder and aims at the mirror.
“Peeow, peeow.” He pretends to shoot, finger on the trigger, stepping up to the mirror, his blurred reflection seen through the telescope. Carefully, he puts the rifle back, taking his own, as light as a twig. With the gun casually slung over his chest he takes his time down to the river, enjoying the feel of the leather strap and the knocking of the barrel against his thigh.
Petrus and Danie sit high up in the wild pear tree, chucking down fruit. Numerous times he lifts the barrel, then drops it without firing.
“Boetie can’t shoot,” Danie sings from out of the tree.
“Basie is scared of the nooi, Basie is a scaredy-pants,” Petrus joins him.
Isak aims into the reeds and pulls the trigger. There are shrieks as the birds respond in fright. A few hover above the river, then settle down in the plumes.
“Drop it.” Petrus jumps out of the tree, openly admiring the gun.
“Help!” Danie cries from above.
“Help yourself,” the bigger boys answer as one.
They walk in single file along the edge of the river.
“Can I carry it?” Petrus asks politely.
“Only carry.” Isak hands over the gun.
Ahead are wild ducks, disturbed by the flooding waters. The brown birds slop in the mud.
“Here.” Isak gestures with his hand behind his back.
Reluctantly, Petrus hands back the gun.
Isak drops on his haunches as the ducks wet their beaks. He aims, squinting with concentration. There is a large male in the group with bolder feathers and head. He shoots at it but the bird only flaps it wings. They watch as it splashes water over its body, waiting for it to fall but nothing happens. He shoots again and again at the same bird.
“The bird’s skin is too thick.” Petrus suggests.
“Shurrup!” Isak swings the gun wildly and shoots into the sky.
Petrus yawns.
“Come and stand here.” Isak orders him. “I want to see if I can shoot through your sleeve. Lift your arms like this.” He demonstrates.
The other boy leans against a tree opening his arms to the side.
“Open your arms more.”
Petrus flings them wide open. “Hell, now I’m just like liewe Jesus.”
There’s a black cross in the sight. He shifts the gun from side to side until the sleeve is perfectly centered. Then he pulls the trigger. The pellet makes no sound. Through the sight he sees Petrus falling in slow motion, his mouth wide open.
The ducks hiss. A red spot appears on his shirt at the shoulder, spreading like ink on blotting paper. Isak tries to run but his mind runs faster than his legs.
“O Heretjie, I’m going to vrek.” Petrus writhes in the mud and the ducks arch their necks.
Isak pulls at the shirt to see the mark. “Just don’t go and sqeal at Outa, do you hear? You keep quiet or I’ll donner you.”
Petrus doesn’t answer. He closes his eyes, moaning.
“Did you hear, poeskop? If you split on me, I’ll moer you.”
“Won’t.” With a crooked arm Petrus limps through the trees to the barracks.
“Remember!” Isak shouts at him, picking up the birthday gun with its mud-spattered barrel.
* * *
He stays at the river until the sun sets and the ducks lift off to roost in the eucalyptus grove.
At home, the table is set for supper and the tray with the Johnny Walker jug and soda machine stands in the lounge. The gun is wiped and put away next to the hunting rifles. The key positioned exactly right amongst the socks.
He is alone in the house.
Leisurely, he fills the bath, stripping off his clothes, standing on the bath’s edge to see himself in the mirror. He aims. “Peeow peeow.” He sees how Petrus falls.
Outside the dogs bark. He runs for his room, closing the shutters and climbing into bed, lying quite still.
“Sakkie?” his mother calls for him from the front door.
“Still playing at the barracks,” his father suggests.
“Isak!” His mother calls down the passage. She opens the bedroom door. “Are you awake?”
He slows down his breathing and she listens.
“The passage is wet,” she says, closing the door, walking quickly to the lounge where his father is pumping soda from the machine. “He’s sleeping,” is all she says.
The dogs begin to bark hysterically and there is a knock on the back door.
“Is there no rest for a man?” His father goes to the door.
Isak sits up.
“Evening, Baas, sorry to bother Baas.”
There’s another’s voice too, higher pitched and softer.
“Speak up, Grootman.”
He hears how the voices move into the kitchen.
“Outa bought flour at the shop, Baas, and the klong had to carry the bag home, but the klong couldn’t carry it, Baas, even when he tried to carry the flour bag, Baas, he couldn’t because his arms were too weak, Baas.”
“Why was he too weak, Outa?”
“Basie of Baas shot the klong, here in the arm with the gun, Baas, the gun that Baas gave Basie for his birthday, deceased Baas Sakkie’s gun, Baas.”
“Wife!” His father shouts down the passage to his mother in the lounge.
Isak sinks back in the bed, pulling the covers over his face and pulling on his pyjamas.
This time she switches on the light. “Pappa is calling you, in the kitchen …” she hesitates as though she wants to say something to him, but then all she says is, “hurry.”
He wears his flannel pyjamas with red motorcars printed all over it. In the kitchen his father stands at the stove, heating brandy in a pot and Petrus sits at the table, clutching his injured arm. Outa