A Moonlight Encounter
As anyone who has walked at night will know there are no colors within the strange negative world of the nighttime woodland poacher. A slow tentative pace is all that is needed, no crashing and lumbering through brambles or rhododendron bush. My eyes scan for any low roosting pheasants. My feet were carefully feeling for any trip hazard or any fallen twig that would sound out my approach and my eyes keen for the job at hand. I'm using the large, bright moon to highlight any movement of any bird on its perch. I pause for a moment; there it sits perched no more than eight yards away, just peering down at the strange being that has woken it from its slumber. Slowly with total smoothness the gun is raised. There is no need for torchlight as the bird is bathed in a ring of moonlight, besides a torch is never carried. For a second or two we face each other in a respectful stand off before the silence is broken by a muffled bang, which carries for only a few yards. The bird falls to the ground with a frantic flapping of its wings; my large hand covers the bird till the flapping stops. It’s then placed in my pocket, fashioned to hold such things. The spent cartridge is placed in a pocket with one hand as the other takes a live cartridge from the other pocket. I’m forever careful not to leave a spent cartridge behind as this might alert a gamekeeper to my activities. The patch of fallen feathers would be a big enough give away for any keeper worth his salt to spot as it was, without giving away the method used to secure my free meal.
Peering in to the inky darkness I can again make out the shape of a bird. Just as the gun is leveled to draw a bead the bird takes flight, not the calm flight of a nighttime flyer but the crazy escape at all costs flight of a wood pigeon. The crashing of the bird as it bounced from tree to tree was so loud I thought it would wake the dead themselves. Because of the sudden burst of noise my heart is pounding hard and before I can control myself I begin to crouch tight to the woodland floor. Its a sound I have heard so many times before but still felt the need to hide. My heart returns to its normal pattern of beating as I rise from my hiding place. A few paces forward and I can see another pheasant peering down at me. Another muffled bang and another bird flapping on the ground. Some shooting people will frown upon shooting roosting birds, claming it to be an unsporting Act. This is not about sport, this is about putting food on the table, for every bird shot will end up on the table, maybe not on my table but on the table non the less.
After a short while there are five pheasants stowed away within my pockets. As I was about to return to the path I smelt it, the acrid smell of tobacco smoke. The tingling within my nose sends me in to a very high state of alertness, I’m froze like one of those ancient statues that stand guard at the roman coliseum. Then I see it, the faint glow of a cigarette that was burning brightly against the darkness as it moved closer. I’m crouched by a small shrub, watching its glow from where I'm hidden. My throat is drying rapidly, my heart is pounding and a cold clammy sweat is covering my brow. The glow is getting close, dangerously close as I'm trying in vain to disappear and become part of my surroundings. If this was another poacher walking the woods they are being careless, very careless indeed.
All of a sudden the silence is broken, by what sounds like the hounds of hell all giving voice at the same time. What started as an inaudible noise suddenly became clear to me, painfully clear. Its the sound of two dogs and its sent my body ridged with fear, not a fear of the dogs but a fear of being caught. Motionless I sit, perhaps if I sat still and quiet the dogs would leave me be? Maybe whoever was there in the wood with me would think their dogs had scented a rabbit or fox and leave without seeing the unwanted visitor?
The keeper spat out his cigarette as he loaded his shotgun that hung over his right shoulder. Slowly and carefully he made his way to where his spanials were raising hell. A harsh challenge was offered to whoever was there to come out and show themselves. His voice was stern and didn’t waver, as I'm sure this wasn’t the first poacher that he had challenged. A second challenge was made.
I was cursing my bad luck. What if I just sat there and waited, would the keeper leave? What if I rushed him and leveled him with a left hook? What if I turned tail and ran for all my worth?
Now was not a time for what if, now was a time for action. I have to act now or the keeper will be on me, leaving me with no way of escape. Getting to my feet I turn my back on my adversary and began to run for all I’m worth, the weight of my coat being a disadvantage I could do without. Running blindly through the woods I can feel the bite of the brambles and the over hanging foliage as they rake at my face. A shot rings out as the keeper fires his gun in the air. A second shot is fired as I hear him call up his dogs.
This second shot has me raising my arms up to cover my head as I run, still with my gun in hand. The second shot had a large amount of foliage raining down on me like confetti at a wedding. That was close I thought, too close. With no real escape plan I'm just running to get some distance between the keeper and myself. I can hear the dogs barking as they give chase, not really knowing what they were chasing.
It’s no good; I can’t run fast enough with the weight of my coat, plus the bulk of my catch and gun becoming a real disadvantage. I turn to view my would be captor, tearing the flesh of my face on some bush as I did so. I can hear the keeper crashing about in a valiant effort to close the gap. The burning I can feel in my legs is beginning to bother me somewhat. The cramp of my stomach is making it harder for me to keep running. I'm simply stood there breathless watching the keeper getting closer.
The keeper’s side bag snags on a low hanging branch and has him reeling backwards, causing him to lose his balance. His hat falls to the floor as he lands hard, knocking the wind out of his sails. Rolling on to his knees his breathing remains hard. Calling off his dogs he remains still, shouting out a request for me to give myself up.
This request has me turning my head to face my fallen adversary; his breathing was labored as he remains where he fell. Looking at him I can see his breath rising like a morning mist over a winter lake, his shape a dark mass of shadow. I'm feeling a sense of respect for this man before me, a sense of respect in the fact that he gave a hard chase in the line of his job.
But now isn’t a time for respect, now is a time for escape.
Anon