Chapter Text
The first time he held a gun was when he was six years old.
It was a couple of weeks before he started primary school with the "incident" occurring at the crack of dawn. A pack of dingoes broke through their wood fences, his parents' fortified compound, and started raiding their livestock. The frightened and frantic bleating squeals were what woke him and his parents up in an alarm. His house was then filled with sounds of barking from their cattle dog, Blue. He was still half-asleep when his mum came into his room with the hound’s lease held tight in her hand. She brushed his hair and said:
“Don’t worry, Micky. Don’t be scared. Mommy’s here.”
But his dad pulled him away from her comforting touch, shoved a handgun to his chest, and sternly told him:
“You’re old enough to start helping now.”
Was he back then? He always wondered, recalling how his dad dismissed his mum’s protests and concerns.
“Martha! Stop fussing over our boy and check the back for our crops! Make sure there aren’t any more of them!"
His father was brief on the instructions: safeties are off, just point the end over the animals, and pull the trigger. Watch out for recoil after you shoot.
Then he trudged out the front door with a hunting rifle strapped on his shoulder, wearing his signature shooting glasses. The ascent of the summer sunrise radiated brightly against the yellow lenses.
I don’t understand, Daddy, he said quietly.
His father quickly pulled a cartridge out of his pocket, slid it into the bolt, and locked it closed with the curved handle. Lifting the muzzle to aim, in less than a second, shot one closest to the terrified flock directly in its torso. A deafening bang rang in his ears and a distressed yelp followed suit. Mick shut his eyes from the noise, and when he opened them again, his old man killed three more nearby, fully intent on shooting them all down.
He made it look so easy, using a weapon that was almost as long as his body. But there were still too many of them with the farm already losing four sheep.
He jumped when his dad started scolding him. Words of frustration hissed under his breath as he only managed to graze one of the dingoes.
“Michael, so help me God, shoot these damn mutts out of my farm already!”
Five.
He quickly held the firearm in front of him by reflex. He didn’t know if he was even holding it properly. The textured surface of the side panels felt as if they were piercing into his skin. He had his sight on one hound trying to drag a newborn lamb away to the bushes. He recognized it immediately - remembered holding it in his arms when it was born a month ago.
But Mick still hesitated. Because the dogs looked like Blue. Because he never shot a gun before. Because he never deliberately harmed an animal.
He was only six.
The dingo dropped the ram as his dad shot it right through the hound’s head. The injured youngling started crying for its parents as it lay flat on the ground, bleeding out slowly. But its mom and dad were too busy running away from the havoc.
Mick watched helplessly as the lamb eventually died. Its carcass was then hauled away by another as the wild dogs were quickly realizing that their numbers were dwindling. They began to scurry back to where they came from, using the trees as shields. His father swore when he realized that he ran out of bullets. Yelled back in the house to his mum to get him more.
He snapped out of his trance. The hounds were escaping and he had a job to do. He expelled a shaky breath. Once he calmed his nerves, he set his eye on one that was notably behind its pack, limping from the bullet wound in its leg. It was slow.
It was right there. All he had to do was pull the trigger.
But by the time he made his choice, they were already gone.
“Goddamn it! They got away! Took off with our six of our cattle!” came his father’s disappointment. He already knew that it was all his fault.
He was six and already felt like a failure.
His mother came back to find him frozen in place. She took the firearm gently from him. “Don’t worry, baby.” She tried to reassure him, “This is just what we have to deal with here in the Outbacks. It’s a lot to handle even for your father and me.”
But he was here now. Why wasn’t he making a difference?
He didn’t know what to do.
His hands shook again and reached for his mother, but she was arguing with his father right next to him. Because of him.
“-couldn’t even shoot a single mutt! The boy had one bloody damn job!”
“Jonathan, you watch your language!” She smacked her husband’s arm, enraged. “He’s only a child! What were you thinking?!”
“Woman, here in Oz, we learn how to kill before we learn our alphabet! You know this! It’s in our blood! If our son grows up to be a pacifistic drongo, everyone will eat him alive!” The sheer disgust in the intonation is what finally made him crack.
His parents stopped their fight once he started crying. He was uselessly rubbing away his overflowing tears and bawling so much that his voice cracked.
His mom lifted him in her arms and began singing a soothing lullaby as his dad stood awkwardly. He remembered, that after she wiped away his tears, his dad left the property to scout the area as a precaution. Blue was rounding up the rest of the sheep to the other side of the enclosure so they wouldn’t wander off. The terrified lambs stayed close to their mothers and fathers. The surviving herd all shuffled together and bleated in harmony. It was almost as if they have completely forgotten that their lives were in danger earlier.
He tried to identify the parents of the recently deceased newborn. Did the pair even notice that they lost their young?
When his dad came back afterward, he placed his hand delicately on top of him like he was fragile. As if he would shatter if any more weight was placed on top of him.
“Help us clean up this mess, Mick.” He asked gently, almost in apology. “Let your old man teach you properly from now on.”
And so he learned various methods to salvage the dead sheep and dogs. From gutting the carcass, separating the meat that wasn’t mangled for their meat stock, rendering the animal fat to make the soap and candles, and using the bones as fuel and fertilizer for the next harvest. The leftover entrails and bits were stockpiled to the side for burial compost. It was a lot to take. He barely did anything and his parents took an entire day to finish all the work.
But he watched through the whole thing. So he doesn’t ever forget.
To take the shot next time.
It took an hour before he finally found a big one.
Mick tracks a wandering gray wolf trudging along the gritty terrains as he silently pulls an arrow out of his quiver. His hand bumps into a quail he recently caught as he slowly draws through the bowstrings. He lists off the steps in his head as he takes a calm breath.
Cables were tight, aimed over the head, and then he let go. Watch the arrow zip through the air.
In less than a second, he watches as the wolf instantly collapses to the ground, the shaft sticking out of its front like a trophy.
Dinner is served.