Bertrand had been surprised by the recoil of his father's rifle. He had
not prepared for the sight of the weasel pasted against the barn door,
a dozen pellets alone penetrating its upper neck and mid-thorax region.
A mass of blood and fur seemed to have been twisted onto the vicinity
of the latch then held in place as if from afar by many bullet-like
prongs. Surely, the calibre of the shotgun was too strong for his
choice of game.
Bertrand had a tendency for overkill. Possessing a temperament and a
super-charged imagination that demanded structure even when little
existed naturally, his mania for organization had presented itself on
innumerable occasions about the homestead. There had been the case of
his clearing a brood of starlings from the drive house. A messy
business, if you let it but from one Bertrand would not flinch. A half
dozen squawking, flightless birds coiled above the door in the attic
were disposed of. After all, it was his job to end the clatter and they
were an obscene, noxious bird what with laying their eggs in songbirds'
nests and crowding out more desirable species. Moreover, their very
presence constituted an eyesore and that, coupled with their grating
noise, concluded their fate. They were pests, simple and unadulterated,
and on a farm any such nuisance had to be wrenched aside. Still, he had
not drowned them like unwanted kittens or burned them out like that
nest of yellow jackets in the currant bush. A simple twist of their
neck either between the fingers of his leathered gloves (he disliked
the feel of flesh on feather so this necessitated hunting for a thick
pair of mittens), or placing the head of the screaming nestling under
one's boot did the business. Almost effortlessly, but again nothing
about tending land was done entirely without deliberation or exertion.
Structure and foresight held things together. It was the nature of the
beast.
And so it was with Bertrand's decision to hunt bees. The best method to
oust any hive from its perch, so talk ran, was to wrap an old cloth
about a stick and daub it with flammable pitch. Once lit, it made an
impressive torch and could be brandished against pests of any
description. As a kid, Bertrand recalled killing bumblebees in the old
woodshed with a fly swatter. Now that was some kind of action which
allowed the adversary manoeuvrability above and beyond that of skulking
bees with a flame or killing baby birds. The enraged swarm would charge
out from paper lairs encircled about the inner walls of a shed through
whatever chinks or holes led to their tormentors. A little smoke
applied judiciously, moreover, would send dozens piling out the holes
in threesomes so that only a good, well balanced swat could hope to
silence several existing at once. At times, the bees would threaten to
get the upper hand and Bertrand and a friend would get panicky, think
of the Alamo or just about any heroic last stand made possible by sheer
courage.
Once, as a torrent of wasps had flown angrily out a large chink in the
wood, Bertrand had been hit squarely in the forehead causing him to
abandon his post leaving poor Alex a near victim. Fortunately, fear had
given proverbial wings to their feet and they had outdistanced the
swarm out the shed toward the relative safety of the house. In
recalling the story, endless rejoinders were made back and forth as to
what would have happened had a river been the only salvation. Could
they have outfoxed the bees, held their breath long enough and swam the
distance or would the cagey bees, if pressed, have waited patiently
above the surface to wreck revenge? Bertrand did not have answers to
these questions but it made for good speculation, bravado and late
evening entertainment. Killing enraged bees with a swatter or the end
of a broom or plank was keen sport and one culled with knife edge
excitement. He craved excitement almost as much as his regimen demanded
rigidity. And to be fair, he had heard all wasps were quite savage and
retained venom in their sting that could prove lethal to the elderly or
infirm. It was a quick rationalization, then, to believe such creatures
were of the same stock and trade as weasels, starlings or the other
unwanted denizens of his father's farm. Why, more people died of wasp
stings than of snakebite in North America annually. Something had to be
done about that outrage.
Late summer is a time yellow jackets have primed their airborne paper
lodges with enough sustenance needed to carry through from fall to
winter. Some mature nests average the breadth of a good sized milk pail
but Bertrand had heard tell of an occasional oddity exceeding the
circumference of a waste paper container. Just the thought brought the
fire into his eyes. Oh, to find such a one on a search and destroy
mission then lodge a tent pole up its arse! A good bout of artillery
practice might then follow--rocks at 40 paces until the enemy had been
given a sound thrashing. They shall not pass was the watchword of the
night.
Alex had been reluctant to accompany Bertrand northward through the
lower forty toward 3 mile wood. For one thing Bertrand had not been
specific about the actual purpose of the errand so he had surmised it
to be mere peg-legging or a chance to kick up a little steam. What
finally swayed him was the mentioning of a visit to the sand pit toward
the end of the miles. Now this was something he had rarely visited and
it did present some possibilities for exploring. In spite of warnings
to stay clear of the pit, every boy along the river had a fascination
with the dunes and gorges pock marking that bit of earth. Wind
sculptured landforms notwithstanding, imagination unfettered itself in
myriad forms that stretched from shades of Arabian Nights to more
recent movies wherein the protagonist had to climb a seemingly endless
mound of sand to fulfill a sadistic command. Plenty of ammunition
there! Perhaps something to the effect of double nought seven might be
conjured from that heap of sand.
Images of gouged out earth, mole hills and a troglodyte's existence in
the trenches of Verdun flickered across Bertrand's mind. An old
grandfather and trunks of adventure books in his attic had fascinated
him with story after story around a winter's fire about men burrowing
like moles during World War One. This and the primeval urge to dig and
bury lurked fiercely in the breast of the newly erect carnivore, the
man child.
It was not long in coming. True to form during the woodward trek, a
wasp's nest had been located and, once clubbed with a stick, yielded a
livid horde. What was more, this time no adventure book heroics took
hold. Instead, stung and dazed, his face a mass of welts, one of their
number crashed through brambles and thickets toward the sand and gravel
pit. In a few more strides, Alex would be over its outer perimeter
spiralling down endless chutes of dirt. Suffocation and the random jerk
of limbs caught in some nightmarish bog would overpower any resistance.
In a mind made panicky with fear, Bertrand recalls a spate of facts
from the natural world. Any item grounded in natural fact was
accredited with near reverence and infallibility. Alex's upcoming fate
would even be held explicable if seen through this context.
Wasps in their predator state have been known to render spiders
senseless, then bury them encrusted with eggs.
An ant lion will dig an entrapment, then hiding behind a blind, await
the unwary.
Caterpillars are butchered by flying insects with jaws extended for
that sole purpose of slaughter. Less luckier ones live on as hosts for
mounds of greedy larvae.
Bertrand stirred himself from his covering. Having climbed into a low
lying cavity of limestone shelves, he was able to elude his pursuers.
His thoughts wander again to Alex. Had Alex heeded local caution
concerning the sand pit in his panic stricken flight? Unlikely, as Alex
was unclear of the exact presence of the quarry and could not be
expected to realize its many treacheries if terror stricken.
Like the starling young, Alex had been sluggish, refusing to be stirred
until prodded by a stronger outside stimulus. And, as with the
nestlings, Alex had succumbed to laws red in fang and claw, cause and
effect relationships.
Emptying the last stone from his knapsack, Bertrand imagines the huzzah
of battle to have cleared this forest glade. He perceives the clenched
stone to be the stream smoothed missile David used in overpowering
Goliath-the last silver thimble fired at Goliad[1].
With a cry, he implores Alex to come forth and stand his
ground--sensation and imagery roam lawlessly in his brain as mop up
operations are set to begin.
[1] Site of a second Texan massacre in the war of independence with
Mexico.