Member-only story
The Age At Which We Choose
A hunter has raised Duncan and lives among hunters.
Duncan sat on the cold boulder, a rifle across his lap. The November air bit at his cheeks, and each breath exhaled wispy clouds. Ahead, Duncan’s father’s silhouette faded into the pines, boots crunching on frost-bitten twigs and leaves in this forest that is the best for hunting deer in the Scottish Highlands.
“I’ll work the ridge,” his father had said. “I’ll push deer your way. Be ready.”
Duncan watched him blend with the undergrowth and then disappear.
The forest was still in the blue hour before dawn. A bright and flickering star lingered on the horizon, changing from white to red to blue — like a signal as if the sky was blinking some message only he might understand.
He let his fingers glide along the worn walnut stock of the .257 Roberts and imagined that star just within reach. But it wasn’t. Nothing ever was.
He chambered a round, as he’d been taught. Thumb resting lightly on the safety. He heard his father’s voice echoing inside him:
Don’t jerk the trigger. Easy does it. Wait for the shoulder. Then squeeze.
This was the currency of love in his father’s world — measured in blood, good shots, mounted antlers, and field-dressed…
