by Kym Brunner
Everyone clapped for us, which made me feel both silly and excited. It was only a dumb pin, probably not even worth much, but I knew from experience that the prestige behind the award was the real prize. At every get-together, they talked about the former apprentices, as if winning this pin was the Heisman Trophy of falconry.
It suddenly occurred to me that the other apprentices might think I was merely a punk teenager riding on his dad’s hawk tails, worrying he would exaggerate my score so I would win. Anyone who knew my father, though, would figure out he’d never do that. In fact, my guess was he’d be even harder on me than the other sponsors would be on their apprentices. But after all the progress Flip had made lately, I felt confident that he and I had a decent chance of winning.
When the introductions were over, Jack announced, “All right, people. Meet back at the house at ten thirty if you want to eat the best breakfast in all of Wisconsin. Now it’s time to stop the talking and start the hawking!”
“Time to get my ho!” someone yelled, followed by a swell of laughter. Falconers always yelled “Ho! Ho!” when they flushed out some quarry and wanted to alert their bird to chase after it. I didn’t know exactly why they used that phrase, but the birds understood it was their cue to shine. Another secret of the four-thousand-year-old culture of falconry.
“With Bella, I’ll be ho-ho-ho-ing all day long, but you’ll probably need a giant yellow arrow to help Flip find any quarry,” Lincoln joked, elbowing me.
I laughed, shoving his arm. “Shut up! Flip’s going to kick Bella’s butt. Just wait and see.”
We were almost at the truck when Weasel patted me on the back. “Good luck, Skinny. Don’t come back empty-handed, you hear me?” He winked, his toothpick bobbing up and down in the corner of his mouth.
“If I do, I’ll grow a beard like yours,” I declared, rubbing my jawline.
He clucked his tongue. “You wouldn’t look nearly as good as me, though.”
Groups of twos and threes branched off, promising to meet back for breakfast. It had become tradition for Jack’s wife and a few other ladies who didn’t hunt to cook an enormous meal for us. I couldn’t wait until ten thirty, not only because of the amazing food spread they provided. Secretly I was hoping I’d have a cool story to tell everyone about my own first hunt, something I’d been only able to listen to in the past.
We got back into the pickup and drove off to the section of Jack’s property Dad called the Hot Spot. It was about fifty acres of hills and fields—perfect for hawking. And with no houses around for miles, tons of critters were waiting to be found, by none other than my very own Flipster. We got our pouches and packs ready before unpacking the birds. When I took Flip out of his carrier and removed his hood, he bobbed his head up and down, searching for prey. He was no dummy—he knew today was different right from the start.
“Hold on, killer,” I told him, grinning as if it was picture day. “Another ten minutes and you’ll be snatching up juicy mammals by the sackful.”
Dad grabbed his and Lincoln’s long flushing sticks out of the truck, telling me to find my own. So much for being right up there on the same level with them. Dad said he would hunt with me until he filled out his score sheet and until I felt comfortable before heading back to take Troy out for a few hours.
I wanted to tell him that I’d be fine, that he could leave me to hunt by myself as soon as possible, but deep down, I wanted him there. Although I’d watched him and Lincoln hunt tons of times, somehow doing it by myself for the first time seemed different, harder. I wanted Dad with me so he could steer me in the right direction when I screwed up.
Lincoln buttoned his camouflage coat, picked up his flushing stick, and set Bella on his fist. The way she perched so elegantly—it was almost as if she was posing for a postage stamp. “Good luck winning that Best Apprentice pin, Mercer.”
“Hush, Lincoln,” Dad said. Then he added, “Don’t worry about winning any game pins, Mercer. Concentrate on flushing some decent quarry—that’s what’s important.”
“Whatever you say, Father Nature,” Lincoln called out as he walked toward the field of golden grass off to his right. I could see Bella, keenly alert, her eyes darting to the left and right. She looked like a queen, decked out in her adult plumage. “Go for it, Mercer. I still have my Best Apprentice pin, along with all my other game pins, on my dresser. I admire them every day.”
I wanted to tell Lincoln where he could cram his game pins, but the truth was, I knew he wasn’t trying to brag. I could tell he really wanted me to win, and of course I did too. I was more than ready to kick some butt. Hopefully a few large rabbit butts along with some pheasant butts. Dad and I walked out fifty yards or so, swiping our sticks from side to side as we tromped through the knee-high weeds, not speaking. Dad held his hand up for me to stop when we came across a fallen, half-rotted log—a perfect hiding spot for cottontails.
He nodded at me, and using my foot, I rocked the log back and forth, hoping to send any hiding critters out into the open. Sure enough, a chipmunk bolted out the opposite end and started running like mad.
“Ho! Ho!” I yelled, pointing my stick at the chipmunk. In a flash, Flip was off my fist and after that chipmunk faster than you could say “Alvin, Simon, and Theodore.”
Flip flapped his wings hard in pursuit, and not even ten feet later, he swooped down to the ground. I heard the chipmunk’s shrill squeak and knew Flip had caught him. Dad shook my shoulder, saying excitedly, “His first kill! Way to go, Mercer!”
I didn’t tell him that technically it was his third. What he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. I hurried toward Flip and his catch, happy that Dad was so happy. “Thanks, Dad!”
“We weren’t out here even two minutes and you and Flip already caught some quarry. How about that!” Dad whooped with laughter and slapped my back.
Here’s the thing: my dad became a different guy when we were out hunting. As though he’d left the serious Joe Falconer at home and brought his fun-loving twin brother instead. “Now, remember, since that prey’s so dinky, you probably only have to wait maybe ten seconds before Flip’s talons kill it. Otherwise you’ll have to step in and dispatch it yourself.”
I thought it was a rather large chipmunk myself, a quarter-pounder maybe. But I had all morning ahead of me, so I wasn’t worried. Flip would catch something way bigger than this. Dad was right about one thing: I didn’t have to put the chipmunk out of its misery, because it was clearly already dead. After distracting Flip, I slid the chipmunk in my pack and continued. We hadn’t even walked ten feet when Flip flew off again, chasing something else.
“Holy cow!” Dad roared. “He’s really aggressive!”
I ran to Flip and saw him guarding his downed prey. When I bent down to get it away from him, I noticed he had another chipmunk in his grasp. How odd. I’d never heard of any falconers boasting about their birds snagging chipmunks.
I waited until the rodent stopped struggling before distracting Flip again and whisking his bounty into my pouch. Chipmunks were great, but where were all the rabbits? We walked and talked a while longer without success, brushing our sticks from side to side.
“It’s a gorgeous day for your first official hunt.” Dad’s eyes were twinkling with excitement. Or was that pride? A flush of color reddened his cheeks. “Just look at the beauty of this place.”
I let go of my anxiety about winning and really scanned the terrain. I took in the splendor of the rolling hills, the sunlight glinting off the pond with thousands of cattails bobbing in the breeze around it, and the trees bursting with intense colors on the back of the property line. “Would it be wimpy to say that I feel like I’ve already been given a prize just being here?”
Dad laughed. “Not in my book, and I’m the one keeping score. In fact, appreciation of your surroundings is one of the criteria I have to judge you on, so I can safely say you scored the highest level on that category.”
“Yes!” I pumped my fist in victory, maki
ng Flip adjust his grasp on my wrist. “Sorry, boy.” Being here made my decision about breaking up with Lucy even clearer in my mind. Give all this up for a girl? Even a beautiful, amazing, sweet one? No flippin’ way. Letting Flip go at the end of hunting season was going to suck, but being here today made me realize that all the crap I had gone through to get here had been worth it. Weasel said there were some things in life that are so central to who you are, you should never give them up—not for anything, or anyone, in the world. I knew that for me, falconry was one of those things.
“It looks like you and Flip have got the hang of it,” Dad said, a smile on his face. “And I have enough information to fill out your score sheet. You okay doing this yourself for a bit?”
“Yeah, I’m cool with it.”
“Blow three long whistle blasts if you need help, okay? Otherwise, I’ll meet you back at the truck at ten fifteen sharp. Good luck.” Dad headed toward the truck, stepping carefully so that his footsteps would be soundless. I decided to work on that.
When Dad was way out of my range, I took a deep breath and scanned the field in front of me. Alone at last. To do what I wanted, how I wanted. I set off toward the stream, swiping my stick back and forth, doing my best to keep from stepping on any sticks that might give me away. Flip rode high on my fist like a firefighter in an aerial ladder. We walked and I talked. I told Flip he was a great hunter and mentioned how confident I was that he could handle a big juicy rabbit. “But take my advice and don’t go after any rabbits with oddball parents. Trust me. It’ll never work out.” I chuckled, but Flip didn’t laugh with me. Party pooper.
Five minutes later, when yet another chipmunk ran out from under a clump of thick weeds and Flip was on it like a pro wrestler, I had to wonder if this was some secret chipmunk breeding ground. I scooped up the dead ’munk, and Flip and I continued toward the pond. Perhaps some bigger prey would be getting a drink.
There was no way I was blowing that whistle and asking for Dad’s advice, but I wanted to know where the honkin’ cottontails, the fat, juicy opossums, or even the plump voles were. Anything but stupid chipmunks would be fine. Lincoln probably had ten cottontails by now. Dad and the guys we’d hawked with never had this much bad luck. I can’t remember ever coming home empty-handed. Some days were better than others, sure, but out here in the middle of freakin’ bunny heaven? Unheard of.
At ten twelve I headed back for the truck, rabbit free and disappointed. Dad and Lincoln were already there, waiting for me.
“Hey, hey. There’s the Best Apprentice now,” Lincoln called out from his lawn chair, Dad’s thermos cup in his hand.
“Not quite,” I moaned, making my way closer to the truck.
On the ground, lined up side by side along the rear hatch, were three dead cottontails, two pheasants, and four quails. I bet this lot could feed our resident birds for weeks. If we caught a few more pheasants, though, perhaps Dad would make his famous pheasant stew for a football game meal. Another look confirmed there wasn’t a lousy chipmunk in the lot.
“How’d you do?” Dad asked, locking Troy inside his carrier. “Get anything good?”
“I don’t see any cottontails hanging from his bag,” Lincoln muttered, sipping his coffee.
“It’s his first hunt, Lincoln. Cut him some slack.”
“He’s right, though.” I set my pack on the ground by my feet. “No cottontails.”
“Show us your quarry, Mercer.” Dad ambled toward me smiling, the normally heavy lines on his forehead smooth with contentment. “Did you have a good morning?”
“Disappointing, but not too bad, I guess.” I knelt down and unloaded Flip’s catch. By the time I got to my fifth chipmunk, Lincoln was howling with laughter.
“What?” I asked, a little irritated. “What’s so funny?”
Lincoln raised his eyebrows. “Other than the fact that Flip’s got a chipmunk fetish?”
“Guess he’s into Chip and Dip, just like you,” Dad said.
“With a side of Chips Ahoy!” Lincoln quipped.
When I pulled the ninth and final chipmunk from my bag, Lincoln and Dad were both laughing so hard that Dad had to sit down and hold his chest so he could breathe, and my brother’s eyes were watering. “Chippity-do-dah,” Lincoln sang, and the laughing fit started all over again.
“I got a good one too.” I grumbled to myself. “How about ‘shut your chippin’ mouths’?”
Dad must have gotten the hint that I was mad because when he saw me, he stopped laughing.
For about two seconds.
After another round of snickers, Dad finally pulled himself together. “I’m so sorry,” he said, stifling another chortle. “I haven’t laughed this hard in years. It’s hard to stop.”
“What’s the matter, boy?” Lincoln asked Flip, who perched quietly, cleaning himself from atop the T-bar Dad had jury-rigged for the day. “Can’t handle anything larger than a pip-squeak?”
“Leave him alone, Lincoln.” I yanked Flip’s hood out of the supply box, pushing stuff around noisily and trying to send the message that I didn’t want to listen to any more crap. I knew I was acting like a big baby, but I couldn’t help it. Flip and I had practiced so hard, and now we were the butt of all of the jokes.
“Don’t listen to them, Flip,” I told him quietly, sliding his hood over his head. “You’re a fierce hunter. You happen to know what you like, and that’s cool with me.” I locked him up in his carrier and headed back to stack all my stupid little chipmunks in the cooler.
As I approached the back of the truck, Dad grabbed my elbow, but I shook his hand off, not in the mood for any more jokes.
He sighed, his eyes lowered, his voice soft. “Look, Mercer. You’re right. I’m sorry I laughed. That was not the right move for a sponsor.”
I shrugged. “Whatever. It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine. You’ve got a right to be mad. It’s just that I’ve never heard of such a thing before in my twenty-some years as a falconer. Flip’s definitely an excellent hunter, no doubt about it. Four chipmunks would have been impressive, but nine? Completely unfathomable. That’s probably some sort of record.”
“Really?” I asked, seeing a bit of hope.
“Yep,” Lincoln called out. “The Guinness Book of Worst Records.”
Dad threw him a look of exasperation, and I went back to shuffling things around in the back of the truck.
“Lighten up, dude.” Lincoln said. “No one’s going to think you’re a bad hunter for bringing in nine chipmunks.”
I let out a snort. “Yeah, easy for you to say, Mr. I’ve Got Three Cottontails, Two Pheasants, and Four Quails to My Name.”
“I wish,” Lincoln said. “But that quarry was from Troy and Bella combined.”
Still. All I felt was embarrassment, but it wasn’t as if I could change what had happened. I did my best to shrug it off and act normal, helping load all fifteen tons of quarry into the cooler before heading toward Jack’s house for breakfast. On the way there, Dad glanced over his shoulder at me. “Mercer, I know you’re upset by your catch today, but it’s no reflection on you as a falconer. No one will think badly of you. Trust me.”
I didn’t trust him, but I wasn’t about to tell him that, not when he was trying to be so nice to me. “Thanks, Dad. We’ll see.” I wondered if he was thinking something else too but couldn’t say it aloud.
That he hadn’t expected much from me and my bird with the stupid name anyway.
THIRTY-ONE
WHEN WE ARRIVED BACK AT JACK’S PLACE, vases of chrysanthemums sat on picnic tables with checkerboard tablecloths, and half the group was already seated and eating. I got in line and loaded up my plate with freshly scrambled eggs, French toast, hash browns, and pheasant patties until my plate felt as heavy as Flip did. I poured myself a glass of ice-cold milk from the silver pitcher, and then carefully brought my platter of food over to the table. I sat next to Weasel.
“There’s my favorite butt-ugly apprentice!” Weasel said, a b
it of egg stuck in his beard.
I smiled. “People always say I look like you.” A few guys nearby laughed.
Attacking my meal with fervor, I savored every bite. I barely noticed when Lincoln sat down across from us, that is until he proceeded to tell every hunter on Jack Foster’s property about Flip’s chipmunk feast. Lincoln could really tell a story; I’ll give him that. Roars of laughter followed every one of his perfectly timed jabs. I kept my head down, the anger warming my face. My appetite waned with each passing second. I gripped my fork tighter, moving things around on my plate, smiling occasionally but hating every second.
Weasel elbowed me, leaning close to my ear. “Nothing you can do about piss-poor quarry. It’s happened to every one of us. Days like that you just got to laugh it off, Skinny. Come on now, eat your food and join in. You’ll feel better if you let it go, Mercer.” I looked at him dubiously and he added, “Trust me on this. It’s all in good fun. No one means any disrespect.”
Somehow, Weasel’s declaration made the whole situation seem tolerable. Little by little, I did as he advised—I ate my food and let the worries go. Spurred on by my misfortune, other falconers told some of their own unique hunting experiences.
A military-looking guy named Scott narrated how his hawk had landed a jackrabbit on his first hunt out west, but when he got close enough to grab it, thinking it was nearly dead, the jackrabbit leaped up and kicked his arm so hard that he let go. “And we never did get that sucker back!” Scott laughed. “Boy, was I ever stupid.”
“Which goes to show you that some things never change,” Dad added. Where had this jokester, formerly known as Dad, come from?
A chubby, white-bearded dude everyone called Santa went next. “Talk about dumb. My sponsor became concerned when I told him my bird freaked a lot after he ate.” It turned out that for the first three months of his apprenticeship, Santa mistakenly thought the action of his bird cleaning his beak was called “freaking” instead of “feaking.”
