《Stories by Doris Lessing》第5章

dozens　of　guinea　fowl　were　already　perched　on　every　tree；　watching　the　dog；　who　was　bouncing　and　yelling　below　them；　satisfactorily　distracting　their　attention　from　me　while　i　arranged　myself　and　chose　my　bird　at　leisure。
a　guinea　fowl　beset　by　a　yapping　dog　tends　to　show　uneasiness　by　turning　slowly　around　and　around　on　its　perch；　but　it　turns　on　its　own　axis　and　so　presents　a　more　or　less　stable　target。　there　was　one　occasion　when　a　bird　sitting　on　a　low　bush　was　so　fascinated　by　the　dog　that　i　was　able　to　lean　over　and　pluck　it　off　the　branch　by　the　legs。　then　i　wrung　its　neck。　i　have　never　before　revealed　this　deplorable　incident　to　a　soul。　when　i　took　the　fowl　home；　i　explained　that　the　bullet　had　struck　its　beak　and　stunned　it；　and　said　carelessly　that　it　sounded　very　like　one　of　my　brother’s　more　tortuous　feats。
i　knew　very　well　that　when　my　brother　came　home；　that　would　be　the　end　of　me。　and；　in　fact；　on　the　evening　of　his　arrival　my　brother　took　me　into　the　bush；　saying；　“now；　let’s　see　you　do　it。”
the　dog　went　yapping　off　after　a　flock　of　guinea　fowl。　i　shot　negligently　at　a　bird　rising　into　a　tree；　shrugged；　and　said　self…critically；　“damned　bad　shot。”　my　brother；　of　course；　saw　at　once　that　all　sport　with　that　flock　was　at　an　end；　but　the　dog　continued　to　whine　pointedly　under　various　plump　birds　while　my　brother　and　i　walked　off　in　search　of　airborne　targets。
this　happened　several　times。　my　mother　plained　that　the　larder　was　empty。　then；　luckily；　my　brother　got　a　duiker　that　had　presented　a　long　shot　downhill　in　bad　light。　we　ate　the　duiker　for　a　whole　week　（the　main　disadvantage　of　living　in　a　sportsman’s　paradise　is　the　tedium　of　the　diet）　and　i　was　able　to　say　that　it　was　altogether　unsporting　to　kill　things　while　we　were　in　no　need　of　meat。　but　then　there　were　ten　days　more　of　my　brother’s　holidays　to　get　through；　and　my　exposure　was　clearly　imminent。　i　tried　to　defer　it　by　saying　that　i　was　incapable；　for　psychological　reasons；　of　shooting　anything　while　watched。　i　went　off　into　the　bush　by　myself；　and　my　brother　secretly　followed　and　caught　me　in　the　act　of　shooting　a　sitting　bird　at　four　or　five　yards。　i　told　him　his　behavior　was　sneaking　and　caddish；　but　he　was　too　shocked　to　listen。　he　felt　the　blow　to　the　family　honor　so　profoundly　that　he　said　nothing　that　evening　at　supper。　i　think　he　was　wondering　how　to　break　it　to　my　father　in　the　least　traumatic　way。
that　night；　my　brother　went　out　spot…shooting—hunting　with　a　light。　spot…shooting　the　way　he　did　it　was　not　unsporting；　because　he　saw　to　it　that　the　chances　were　substantially　on　the　other　side。　only　crude　types　use　the　headlights　of　cars；　my　brother　fixed　a　weak　bicycle　lamp　to　his　forehead　and　went　forth　into　the　night　like　a　quixotic　cyclops。　the　usual　practice　is　to　fix　the　eyes　of　an　animal　with　the　light；　then　walk　as　close　as　possible　to　the　hypnotized　creature　and　shoot　it。　my　brother’s　method　meant　that　the　creature　would　be　interested　but　not　fixed。　it　would　have　plenty　of　opportunity　to　run　away。
he　returned　from　that　expedition　severely　depressed。　apparently；　he　had　seen　two　green　eyes　fifty　yards　off。　they　had　not　moved。　he　had　shouted；　but　nothing　had　happened。　he’d　switched　off　his　head　lamp　and　fired　between　the　eyes。　they　had　not　moved。　he　had　fired　again。　it　was　obviously　impossible　that　he　could　have　missed；　but　he　had　fired　three　times　more。　then　he　had　walked　up　to　his　target　convinced　that　he　would　find　five　corpses　piled　up　there。　he　had　found；　instead；　two　glow…worms　on　a　log。　the　incident　was　such　a　blow　to　his　pride　that　he　forgot　to　discuss　my　case　with　my　parents。　this　was；　on　the　whole；　lucky　for　the　household；　which；　after　my　brother　went　back　to　school；　i　continued　to　supply　with　meat　until　one　happy　day　when　i　was　able　to　leave　for　the　city　and　the　delights　of　civilization。
my　talents　as　hunter　were　useful　on　one　other　occasion。　it　happened　that　while　in　the　city　i　became　engaged；　or　attached—the　precise　word　for　this　relationship　evades　me—to　a　young　man　who　was　in　every　way　a　sportsman。　his　conceptions　of　honor　were　intricate；　and　caused　me　hours　of　introspection；　as　a　result　of　which　i　concluded　we　were　ill…matched。　he；　however；　did　not　think　so；　and　tried　to　persuade　me　that　my　reluctance　to　join　my　fate　eternally　to　his　was　the　result　of　tender　age；　i　was　sixteen　at　the　time。
among　other　virtues；　he　had　ideas　about　hunting；　shooting；　and　fishing　that　can　be　described　only　as　classic。　he　had　a　large　number　of　gold　and　silver　medals　for　marksmanship；　and　was；　naturally；　eager　to　visit　our　farm；　where　he　could　prove　himself。　since　leaving　scotland　ten　years　before；　never　once　had　he　set　foot　on　any　shooting　ground　but　a　target　range。
for　a　while；　i　made　excuses；　but　at　last　they　ran　out；　and　we　went　home　for　a　weekend　visit。　i　took　him　guinea…fowl　shooting；　since　i　was　famed　for　this；　but；　of　course；　i　pressed　the　rifle　into　his　hand　with　the　self…denial　proper　to　a　good　hostess。　at　once；　he　showed　the　correctness　of　his　upbringing　by　saying　that　no　one　had　ever　heard　of　shooting　birds　with　a　rifle。　but　he　tried。　he　missed　a　good　many　guinea　fowl　running　along　the　ground；　which　was　hardly　surprising；　seeing　the　speed　they　get　up。　then　he　missed　a　lot　more　flying　up　into　the　trees。　he　hit　none。　by　that　time；　he　was　in　a　bad　temper。　he　pushed　the　rifle　back　into　my　hand　and　said；　“well；　then；　you　show　me　how　to　do　it。”
the　guinea　fowl　were　by　now　all　safely　up　in　the　trees。　we　threw　stones　at　them；　and　even　shook　the　trees；　but　they　wouldn’t　budge。　i　could　not　shoot。　we　began　walking　home　along　a　track　through　the　bush　while　i　prayed　that　no　second　flock　of　birds　would　announce　itself。　i　planned；　if　i　heard　the　“chink；　chink；”　to　talk　very　loudly　and　drown　it。　suddenly　he　shouted；　“look！　now’s　your　chance！”
hundreds　of　feet　away；　a　partridge　dodged　among　the　ruts　of　the　road。　i　doubt　whether　even　my　brother　could　have　hit　it。　a　small　puff　of　wind　raised　the　dust。　i　saw　my　chance；　and；　muttering；　“damn　this　dust；”　i　fired　at　random　into　it。
the　dust　subsided。　the　partridge　lay　dead；　shot　through　the　head—a　running　shot；　from　behind；　at　a　hundred　and　seventy　yar