Free After River by Donna Milner

weeds and vines.
    My mother stopped picking and called out, ‘Come down from there.’ She beckoned me to follow her to the bottom of the pile where she stood and waited for them to descend.
    My brothers groaned, then reluctantly backed down. When they reached the bottom Morgan stood back and looked at the heap of tangled debris. ‘What is it Mom?’ he asked.
    â€˜It’s a long story,’ she said as she ushered us away.
    We walked a short distance when Mom stopped and set her pail on the ground. She sat down on a moss-crusted log and stared back at the mountain of rubble as if she could see something we could not. ‘It’s really your father’s story,’ she said. She removed the bells from her neck. In the blinking light of the forest she began to speak matter-of-factly, without emotion. I still remember her words.
    â€˜It happened in 1927,’ she began. ‘After the milking was done one fall morning, your father, and his older brother, Emile, headed out with their dog to hunt grouse. Your dad was twelve; Emile was fifteen. It wasn’t unusual for the boys to hunt alone. Your grandfather, Angus Ward, taught them early how to handle guns. The same way he taught them to drive the truck and farm equipment when they were still just boys. Things were different back then. Necessity and competency were the only licence they needed.’
    The background drone of insects accompanied my mother’s voice. ‘Grouse hunting was half sport and half serious business. The boys usually returned home with an abundance of birds hanging at their sides, the tiny wings falling open, limp and useless. Their mother, your grandmother Manny, was always pleased to receive their bounty. She plucked and cleaned the small, thick-chested birds with relish, happy for a change from the chicken or beef that filled the platters on their kitchen table each night.
    â€˜But as the sun rose above the tree tops that morning, their dog, a blue healer, had little success flushing out their prey. He zigzagged haltingly, sniffing, and whining, through the dew-wet undergrowth. The brothers followed him further up the slopes. The sun grew warmer. They still had no birds tied to their belts.
    â€˜When the boys came to an old clear-cut–that clearing we just walked through–the dog ran ahead. Your father turned for only a moment to look down at the farm.
    â€˜Behind him the dog gave a bark of discovery and bolted across the clearing. Your father spun around and saw the startled eyes of a young doe. She stood motionless against the backdrop of tree trunks and branches. Then with a flash of white tail she leapt into the underbrush, flushing a covey of grouse as she disappeared. The birds rose in a whirr of flapping wings. Emile lifted his rifle and fired. A wounded bird hung in the air, and then fought against the descent into the thicket. The blue healer bounded into the bush, with Emile close behind. Your dad took up the chase. He knew his brother, an expert with a shotgun, would not miss if he got a second shot. He followed them into the forest. In the shadows of the trees he spotted their dog as it leaped through the air above a fungus-covered snag. Emile ran ten feet behind, changing his shells on the fly; he thumbed a fresh shell into position and snapped the gun shut as he ran toward the deadfall. In the next blink Emile was gone. Gus thought the flickering light was playing tricks with his eyes. He raced toward the log. He saw the gaping hole at his feet just in time. He threw himself to one side, his fingers clawing at brambles and roots as his feet slid on wet grass.’
    Mom took a deep breath. ‘Oh, what sounds for a young boy to carry with him into the rest of his life,’ she sighed. She was no longer speaking to us. ‘Those sounds, the commotion, all melded into a single moment: the muffled thuds of flesh against unyielding rock, the receding scream, the dog’s furious