Father was a hunting man. Spring or fall, his plaid jacket and hat would show up on the coat rack, his gun taken out for cleaning. He would hold the gun between his legs, peel off the leather case slowly, running his fingers over the barrel. Gently he would massage oil into all the steel curves. Once the manicure was complete the guns loaded. Bullets rattled out of the Canadian Tire Box, down into the barrel — chink, chink, chink. Then he would snap the gun together and point it at one of the daughters saying, ‘Have you been good?’ And he would laugh. Then his jaw would harden as he dreamed of this year’s catch.

It was taboo to touch his gun. Not only for safety reasons but also because he did not share his property. Once the gun was ready, we began the journey back to his childhood farm in the thick prehistoric Quebec bush. The farmhouse had been built in 1910. My grandfather thought electricity and running water were wasteful luxuries. My grandmother pumped her own water and washed everything by hand. Every Saturday night the huge copper tub was rolled out from the closer. Pots of boiling water were poured into it. The girls always went first. The boys fought for position. The last person had to bathe in water that was lukewarm and murky. Of course, we thought this hardship tremendously romantic but we knew we were returning to our heated homes with running hot water.

The parlour was the largest room in the farmhouse and was heated only at Christmas time. There was no other reason to go into the room. It was for company so the couch and chairs remained permanently covered with sheets to protect them from dust. Also in the parlour room were Grandfather’s trophies. His favourite kill: a pair of ducks, a giant fish, a snarling wolf, a gnarled bear’s paw and a buck’s head whose antlers scraped the ceiling. None of us grandchildren like the parlour room for when the door was shut only a trickle of light showed through, enough to catch the glass eyes of the wolf so that he seemed to be staring at us. The deer’s face in the dusk looked even sadder. It seemed like time had been frozen, frozen at the exact moment death came to grab the animals.

After my grandfather died, my grandmother stopped cleaning the room regularly so that it became even darker and dustier with spiders weaving happily through the buck’s antlers and falling out from between the bear’s paws. The other animals seemed even more like tattered shadows of dust.

Yet the trophies remained objects of glory to my father and his six brothers. They were the spoils of hunting, and hunting was the right of every true man. Hunting was part of the good life which included buddies, beers as well as shooting animals. No real Canadian men go into the bush and just watch. You had to leave your mark, be it an empty beer bottle, a dead animal, or both. Bird watchers and hikers were considered wimps. And you had to ‘rough it’ in the bush. No fancy equipment and social thermal waterproof thermal underwear like the Americans brought with them. My family was disdainful of inept, fat Americans who came up north to hunt. My father and all his brothers worked in the city and went hunting twice a year but they were still men of the bush.

My sister and I were animal lovers. During hunting season, dinner was a tense time; the first bite taken with great trepidation. My father was angry when we did not accepts gift of ‘wild game’. He was a man providing for his family and there, on our dinner plate, was evidence of his virility. It was expected his daughters would be squeamish. Worry over the welfare of cute animals was typical female behaviour but no reason for my brother’s sissy behaviour. My father was wounded when my older brother refused to eat meat at all. He felt cheated with his son, unable to share with him the joy of the hunt, the excitement of the kill. The few times he was forced to go hunting, my brother would make as much noise as possible to scare the game away. He was soon banished from the hunting parties. My father threatened my brother. He beat my brother. It didn’t matter — my brother would not hunt and would not eat meat.

Contests were big in our family. The girl’s contests were dependent on genetics: grow the biggest breasts, have the nicest hair, get the richest boyfriend, bake the biggest cake. The boys contests were more defined: swim the fastest river, run the quickest race, perform the most pushups, kill the biggest animal. Everyone was expected to participate. No one, even my brother, dared say no. The biggest contest was the fall hunt. Our clan against the McLeod clan. The feud had begun 25 years ago, the year Grandfather bagged the young buck with antlers as wide asa man’s outstretched arms, the dear that hung on the parlour wall. The McLeods vowed to catch an even bigger buck the next year and a traditional feud was born. Every fall the men from each clan gathered. Each group had four days to track and then kill a deer. The winners came home with the largest deer. The losers paid for the beer and lost their reputations. After my grandfather’s death the contest turned into a memorial for him where everyone told tall tales about his hunting ability and celebrated man’s power over animals. After the stories, with lusty smiles, the men would huddle, slap backs, yell strategies. The pitch of their voices grew into a buzz until one of my uncles fired his gun into the air. After listening reverently until the echo faded the contest began.

While the men were gone, the women would make preserves. Everything seemed more quiet and relaxed. Pigs, cows, children and chickens were fed huge special meals. The garden was harvested. The kitchen because this factory of delicious smells and tastes. The children wandered around in pyjamas until noon, our bellies full form the constant testing of jams and tarts. My chore was to collect the eggs. I always waiting until the hen left. What a their I felt like reaching into those nests to steal warm eggs. When the hen returned she would search the nest, cluck and circle in dismay before settling down to begin another.

I had just turned thirteen and earned the privilege of helping in the kitchen during the sealing of the preserves. Younger children were sent outside away from the melted paraffin wax. Instead of staying, I went for a walk in the woods. This was a forbidden activity during the hunting season. Many an innocent tourist had been shot at indiscriminately for rustling through the bush. I did not care — it was my season for rebellion.

The forest was covered, a soft floor of pine needles that I could walk on without making a sound. The trees reached out to each other blocking out sunlight. The air was sweet and pure. I lifted up a branch and saw the deer. There was a moment of surprised silence. The doe stood a delicate fright quivering at the tip of her nose. I stepped towards her thinking she knew I wasn’t going to hurt her. She didn’t. How could I tell her she was running in the wrong direction when the Garden of Eden had been lost to us humans for so long? I still regret that step forward.

Early the next morning, slamming doors and drunken voices splintered my dreams. My face blurry with sleep, I wandered outside. The sky was a soft pink filtering away the dark purple of night. My breath hung captured in the air. Grandma and my mother were outside the barn, hugging sweaters to their breasts. The barn door, like stage curtains, had been thrown open framing a young doe hanging upside down from the rafters. Her legs were bound together and the weight of her head dragged her throat back. My father triumphantly slapping her rump making her body sway back and forth. The other men were laughing. The air had a musky odour. My uncle John handed my father a knife and a flask. He took a drink from the flask, wiped his mouth and drove the knife into the throat of the deer. The blood trickled out, then turned into a river flowing into my father’s cupped hands. Lowering his face, he drank and then raised his bloodied chin in a jubilant cry. His brothers cried back and passed the flask. The tributary of blood wound its way across the floor, through the trails of hay dust over to my flowered nightgown and raced up the thirsty flannel. Urine ran down my legs. My mother came out of her trance to ask me, ‘What are you doing out of bed?’ Then, taking my hand while forgetting to scold me in her usual fashion she led me back to my bed, gently removing the soiled nightgown. I returned to sleep and dreamt I was the deer, chased through the forest by my father’s laughter in the shape of a gun.

Originally published in White Wall Review 21 (1997)