The Snipe

Trigger warnings: weapons, animal harm and death

The school parking lot, after school let out at 3 and before boy scouts began at 4, was a lawless place. But Jerry was ten now, and with double digits came double pressure to toughen up, put on a brave face, and keep his head held high while he ate baby carrots from a ziplock bag by the bike rack in the parking lot, keeping an eye on the other boy scouts romping his way. 

Today was his first day in scouts. Sure, he knew these boys from school. He saw them sitting in the back of the class, shooting spit wads at the backs of girls’ heads. He knew what lunch table they ate at, who had an older brother in high school, and he remembered what they did to Tommy on the bus in fourth grade. But scouts were different. Crossed his heart and hoped to die, they were brothers now, like it or not. 

As the boys got closer to where he sat cross-legged on the pavement, he wasn’t sure if that made him safe, or worse. 

He untucked his uniform shirt and put his after-school snack away. 

At first, they paid him no attention. By ten years old, he’d become quite skilled at blending in. He figured that would help him in the wild, too. Not wanting to appear too eager to eavesdrop on them, he broke apart a baby carrot into small pieces and tossed them to the crows that had been eyeing his snacks. The crows descended from the bike railings and eagerly devoured the carrot pieces. Jerry bit back a smile. Crows were cool. They were much smarter than people thought, too – their teacher, Mr. Burns, had been teaching them about local birds in biology and explained how some people even befriended crows in their own backyards. Jerry thought about staying back after class to ask Mr. Burns the specifics but thought better of it. There were too many eyes watching for one move out of place. One wrong move could be a lethal mistake in fifth grade. 

Two crows cawed and flapped their wings while fighting over a particularly large piece of carrot. Jerry flinched and quickly looked away, hoping the birds hadn’t alarmed the scouts of his existence.

“Hey, Jerry, right?” Ben Amsler, eleven, called. 

Of course, Ben Amsler knew Jerry’s name. He’d been in Jerry’s class since kindergarten, and their parents went to the Olive Garden together last Saturday night. Jerry thought better than to point this out. 

“You scared for the camping trip this weekend, Jer?”

“No,” Jerry answered. He was, in fact, very scared for the trip – he tearily admitted this to his parents last night, who hugged him and squeezed him between them on the couch to watch Jeopardy together. It helped. 

“Get ready for the snipe hunt,” Ryan Barry said, elbowing Ben Amsler when he snickered.  

“The - snipe hunt?”

“You don’t know about the snipe hunt?” Harrison Scott joined in.

“I do,” Jerry said quickly. “Just forgot.”

The boys gathered around closer to Jerry. He stood his ground.

“You don’t want a snipe finding you,” Ryan Barry started. “No one knows how bad things will get once that snipe gets his claws on you.”

“What is it?” Jerry cleared his throat. 

Ryan Barry smiled. “It’s a monster that lives in the woods, only comes out at night. No one knows what it looks like for sure, because if you get close enough to see it, you’re good as dead.” 

“Some say it’s like a snake with a lion’s mane,” Ben Amsler said. 

“Some say it’s a giant hare with antlers,” Harrison Scott said. 

“Like a jackalope?” Jerry asked. 

“What? No, not like a jackalope,” Harrison Scott stomped crossed his arms and pouted. “Do you even care? People die from snipe attacks.” 

“I care!” Jerry said. “But, the teachers wouldn’t take us on a trip if we were in danger, right?”

“I heard Mr. Burns talking about the snipe to Mr. Johnson, just over there,” Ryan Barry murmured. Sure enough, the two science teachers nodded together beneath the awning, looking serious, glancing over at the boys. 

“I think they’re scared,” Ryan Barry leaned in, and the boys huddled closer. “But they’ve already got the campsite booked, so there’s no turning back.” 

Jerry kept a brave face on, but boy, was he scared now. 

Ryan Barry looked Jerry right in the eye. “Do you have a gun?”

“I don’t have a gun,” Jerry flushed. 

“Crossbow?” Ben Amsler asked. 

“No,” Jerry shook his head, a red burn spreading down his neck. “Will a water gun work?” 

“Hm,” the boys whispered amongst themselves for a moment. Ryan Barry emerged, the clear leader of the pack. “It’s too obvious. There’s no way you’ll get that past the teachers. You’ll need something lighter, something quick on your feet.” 

“Like a slingshot?” Harrison Scott offered. 

“Oh, yeah, I have a slingshot,” Jerry said cooly, knowing he most certainly did not have a slingshot. 

“That’ll do,” they all nodded seriously. 

“And a flashlight?” Jerry suggested.

“No,” Ryan Barry hissed, and they all joined him in shaking their heads vigorously. “The snipe hates light. We hunt in the dark.” 

***

Night fell on the campsite, making everything that once looked innocent scary. Not even the fireflies were out, Jerry noted, nor the cicadas to hum their late summer song. Jerry had been dreading this moment all day. He had his makeshift slingshot tucked under his shirt and had been collecting sharp-looking stones all day. He’d made the slingshot himself with only a little help from his dad. He told his dad it was for a science project. His dad had frowned. “You know this can be dangerous, right? You can’t use it around other people.”

“I won’t use it around people,” Jerry had said. It wasn’t a complete lie – he wouldn’t aim it at people, anyways. 

He’d felt sick to his stomach after lying to his dad – so sick he couldn’t even finish his garlic bread with dinner. But now, sitting around the campfire, he was glad he had the slingshot with him. These boys looked like vile creatures themselves, hardly human in the flickering red light. 

Jerry focused on the gloam of nightbirds calling from the trees. Even though he couldn’t see the birds, they still brought him some comfort. These winged friends seemed to be waiting nearby wherever he went, soaring magically above him. Crows, cardinals, sparrows – he was slowly learning them all by name and would whisper his name back, just so they knew him, too. Sometimes, he’d imagined that they’d swoop down to carry him away should anything bad ever happen to him. He’d always felt he had some special connection with birds, though he’d never admit this to anyone. They winked knowingly back at him with their wise black eyes. Birds didn’t test him, lie to him, or bully him. He trusted any bird more than a boy. 

“It’s time,” Ryan Barry lowered his voice. 

The boys clicked off their flashlights. They crept to the tree line. And before Jerry could chicken out or change his mind, the snipe hunt began. 

“You go first,” Ryan shoved Jerry forward. “We’re right behind you.”

Jerry looked back. It was already hard to see Ryan and the boys in the dark; his eyes had yet to adjust without the glaring flashlights or the wavering fire. He nodded, gripped his slingshot, and turned to creep deeper into the woods. 

Jerry didn’t stop to check behind him. He couldn’t hear any footsteps, but maybe that was because they weren’t being as loud and stepping on twigs like his big floppy feet. He held his breath and tried to step softly and swiftly, avoid tripping over roots, becoming a creature of the night himself. Not a scared little boy, but a brave hunting man. He’d show them all – Jerry wasn’t scared. And he wasn’t alone – the birds were here, watching him. He could do this. He could do anything. 

Something snapped behind him. Jerry spun around, breathing heavily through his nose. 

“Ryan?” he hissed. “Ben?”

No answer. 

Jerry’s heart raced so loud, he could hear it in his ears, feel his pulse thrumming through his fingers. He swallowed and carried on.

A rustle in the branches stopped Jerry in his tracks. 

“Who goes there?” He called louder, anger raising his voice. 

It wasn’t a who, for he heard no footsteps. A crackling snicker, then a rustle of leaves in the tree above him. 

A feeling like ice-cold water trickled down his neck. All the signs were there. 

The snipe. 

Jerry ran. He heard an unearthly screech and the ripple of leaves trailing behind him, moving impossibly fast, gaining on him, faster than he could run, faster now. This was it, the snipe was coming for him, the snipe would get him faster than he could run, faster than he could call for help. He knew it as the birds cried out in a nightmare chorus, warning of danger, scared for their lives, the snipe, it was real, it was happening, right behind him - 

Jerry spun in his tracks, and with a bravery that shocked himself, he pulled forth a pebble from his pocket, fastened it in his slingshot, and pierced the night with it. Like David and Goliath, he shot, and he heard it make contact. He heard the thud of the stone make a sickening impact with flesh. He heard the thud of something soft hit the ground. He did it. Oh, my, oh, my, he actually did it. 

Jerry scurried to the shadow on the ground and lifted up the still-warm beast. It felt limp in his hands, sagging lifeless. 

He grasped it and ran as fast as he could, back out through the trees and burst into the clearing of the campsite, calling “I’ve got it! I got the snipe! I got the snipe!”

He slowed his run as he saw the boys peeking out of their tents. Had they not been searching with him? Had he been out in the woods alone? No matter – surely they were scared, and he was much braver than all of them, and they’d be so impressed once they realized what he’d done.  

“What’s this?” Mr. Burns bent out through the zipped opening of his tent, a faint ember glow illuminating alarm on his face. “Jerry, what are you doing out here? You shouldn’t be –”

He stopped and looked down at Jerry’s fist. 

“Oh, Jerry,” Mr. Burns sighed.  

Mr. Burns clicked on his flashlight and shone it on Jerry. Jerry, victorious, scraped and bruised got his first real look at his prey. 

When he did, his heart slammed against his chest. 

“Jerry,” his teacher whispered. “You did this?”

“Yes,” Jerry said, his voice cracking. 

Jerry couldn’t see Mr. Burns’ face in the dark, but his words came softer than before. “Jerry, you killed a snipe.” 

Jerry blinked at the dead bird in his hands. It wasn’t a horned rabbit or lion-maned snake. It was no fanged, red-eyed monster. It was a bird, speckled cream and brown like his favorite cookies and cream dessert. Beautiful tiny feathers ruffled in his grasp. Her sweet long beak slipped open, like she had something to say. 

“This isn’t a snipe,” Jerry said slowly, groggily, as though waking from a dream. 

“It is,” Mr. Burns said. “Remember the birds we learned about in class last week? This is a female snipe, and a young one, by the looks of it. See, her feather pattern there – she’s only still moulting.” 

The ground slanted beneath Jerry’s feet. 

“Put it beneath that bush,” Mr. Burns nodded. “Let’s get you cleaned up.” 

“Are you going to tell my parents?” Jerry panicked, feeling suddenly very awake. 

“Yes,” his teacher smiled sadly at him. “Do you understand what you’ve done, Jerry?”

Jerry opened his hand flat, amazed at the delicate feathers sticking to his sweaty palm, so light he hardly felt anything at all. He loosened his grip to fully reveal the dead bird lit up by the cold white beam of the flashlight. 

“I killed the snipe,” he whispered. 

“Yeah,” his teacher nodded. “You did.” 

The boys snickered back into their tents. Mr. Burns waited for Jerry by the dying embers of the campfire and followed him with the flashlight beam as Jerry walked towards the bush. He looked down at the small bird in his hand, and his heart jumped when he saw it tremble. Perhaps it was alive after all. Maybe he’d only injured it. Or maybe it was magical, like a Phoenix. He held his breath and waited. Please.

But no, he realized a few quiet moments later. It wasn’t the bird that moved, but his shaking hand. Besides, the bird was no longer warm, no longer mythical. His vision blurred as he gazed back into the dark woods. He felt more awake than before, and the woods no longer felt like a nightmare, and the snipe no longer a scary story, but here, soft and still in his hand, and the night was no longer a game for little boys, but was awfully bright and horribly real.