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This was not the first time she had walked in this forest with Banichi, but it was the first time she had done so with her gun.
This was not the first time she had used her gun, but it was the first time she had used it in the forest.
That made infelicitous two, but she decided not to draw Banichi's attention to this problem. They were hunting kidjidiin, and her father had told her three times and five times and more that there must be no idle talk, because kidjidiin had good hearing and were wary. All things that existed to be hunted did.
They crept between trees, down trails, over hills, and forded a stream by stepping carefully from rock to rock to rock. And Banichi said that this was a good place, that the kidjidiin would come down to drink from the stream if hunters waited patiently, downwind. So they settled behind some low shrubs, and waited patiently.
Or at least, Banichi was patient. Jago checked her gun, that it was really loaded. She made sure the safety was off. She admired the gleam along its barrel. It would be a waste if she did not get to fire it.
There was whistling and hooting off across the stream, in the trees. Abbiikiin were gliding from branch to branch in the trees there. Jago could see three of them clearly, lined up on their branch like targets at the shooting range. It was an easy shot: she herself could shoot twice that far, or even more. She brought up her gun and aimed carefully, then drew in a steadying breath.
Banichi's hand closed over hers and brought the gun down, pointing to the ground, so the shot went in the soil just before them. The abbiikiin shrieked and flew away.
"What were you doing?" said Banichi, and his voice was so distant, though he stood beside her, his hand still on hers over the gun.
"Making a shot, honorable father," she said.
"Did I say that we hunted abbiikiin, child?"
"N - no."
"What do we hunt?"
"Kidjidiin."
"And why?"
"We can eat them."
"That is not the question. Today we hunt kidjidiin. Not abbiikiin, not pachiikiin, but kidjidiin. Why is that?"
"Be ... because this is the season for kidjidiin. It is kabiu."
"Is it the time to hunt abbiikiin?"
"No."
"What may we say of a person who hunts game when it is not the season?"
"That such a one is ... hadjaijid."
"Is that what you wish to be?"
"N-no!" He did not sound as though she were his child. She felt empty inside.
He took his hand away and squatted down next to her. "I do not wish that either. But perhaps the fault is mine. I am meant to instruct you in the ways of kabiu. If you do not know enough to not be tempted to take life when it is not proper, then we should not be out here, hunting. Let us go back."
"Tai, no! Mother wanted kidjidiin. She was going to prepare it for dinner!"
He looked at her, very serious. "Is that a good reason for me to keep you out here, impatient and foolish as you have shown yourself to be?"
"No, Tai, but it is the only reason I have!"
There was a short silence, enough to make her squirm, but she managed not to do that. She stared at the ground. Her bullet had torn the smooth blue-green of the moss. It was ugly there.
"Jago."
"Tai."
"We will stay here, then."
She looked up, and his face was warm, like her father again. "We will?"
"We will, and what will you shoot, Jago-ji?"
"Kidjidiin, tai. Only kidjidiin."
"Why?"
"Because you said so, tai."
"No, that is not right."
His face was getting sad again. She thought quickly. "Because it is kabiu."
Now he was glad of her. "Good. And now that you are certain that your gun will fire, maybe you can stop playing with it while we wait."
He settled down right by her, so she could feel his warmth. They waited and waited, but Jago did not mind. She would be a hunter: she would shoot well, and with kabiu, she and her father together. They shared man'chi.