Echoes. ( Word Count 1383 )

The old croft house sat in the shadow of the Ben. It would be mid-February before the sun would poke over the ridge and dry up the wet of winter, touch the ground with its weak warmth.
It had rained for months. Everything dripped or squelched, creaked and ached.
The tin roof, lacy with rust and rot had sprung fresh leaks. Jock had run out of pails to catch the drips so he spent a while or so ferreting out old soup pots, jam pans and brown musty roasting tins from the back of the kitchen press.
Bessie lay with her nose between outstretched paws on her blanket - the only patch of dry floor. The collie watched quizzically as Jock placed the containers around the black and white linoleum. The kitchen floor became a crazy draught board with Jock moving the pieces about until the plip-plop of the drips became a higher note to the constant roaring bass drum of the rain on the roof.
Dark at three thirty the days were brief and frantic with outside jobs done in a flurry. Slithery-sliding down to the hen house at first light to find reluctant chickens, a few eggs and a lazy cockerel too tired to crow into the gloom of daybreak. The sheep in the bottom field slept in a doo-rless ruin and then sheltered behind dry stane dykes camouflaged by moss and lichen. Bessie checked the flock as they munched on the feed that Jock provided as supplement to the scrubby grass that had been chewed to bowling green length. The collie sniffed the air and looked forlornly at the Ben which wouldn’t be walked until Spring came. They left the sheep to their breakfast and cut to the bottom gate. Bessie weaved ahead, plumed tail erect, following the trail of a rabbit. The ducks’ house had been fashioned from slab wood sliced from fat pine trunks, it retained its corky bark, but needed attention. The felt roof was starting to rip, some boards were springing apart. Jock made a mental note to get it done later. He lifted the pop- hole door up and the ducks came out hesitantly, their eyes as suspicious as always. The ducks had been his wife’s idea. Angela had seen them in a lifestyle magazine article. Their black plumage shone an iridescent green and purple that flashed in the watery light of the grey dawn. They waddled to the pond and dipped their heads, ruffled their feathers. Jock filled their grain dish up and checked their sleeping quarters. The straw was soiled with black slimy shit. He wouldn’t have kept them from choice. They were weak, too fragile for this environment; too fancy, too few eggs. There was not enough flesh on them to make a meal. Bessie had to patiently herd them into their house each night; they’d slither this way and that like eels. A drake would break from the flock and need rounding up while the others dived back in the pond quacking with their dirty laughter. They were snottily stubborn. He replaced the soiled straw with fresh then man and dog headed west to check the deer fence.

The rain turned to snow and came down in big fat, silent flakes, coating the Ben in starkness. Some specks moved about on the lower slopes. At first Jock thought they were deer. He fished his binoculars out and checked. Against the blinding whiteness the moving blobs of darkness focused into the defining shapes of men, their green camouflage a joke against the snow. City men probably, in squeaky new clothes paying big money to shoot the wildlife for sport, Jock thought.

An old wire-sprung bed base that had been propped as a barrier against a hole in the fence, lay semi-submerged on the ground. The collie sniffed at it, one front paw lifted. Nose still down she snaked this way and that, finally stopping and barking for attention. Jock was dripping with muddy slush having lifted the base and re- erected it back against the fence. It puzzled him the fact of it laying down. It hadn’t been windy. Small grey-green deer droppings lay scattered a few feet away.
Bessie barked again.
‘Wheesht will you. I’m coming.’
The collie stood next to three spent shotgun cartridges. Jock bent down and picked them up, rolled them over in his peat engrained hand; their orange plastic and brass bases shiny new. He put them in his jacket pocket along side the two eggs he’d collected and they set off for home. The sky was turning a darker shade of grey, heavy with snow.

The kitchen was warm. He opened the door of the Rayburn and refilled it with peat, lifted the kettle back on the hob and set a frying pan with sausages and rashers of bacon. He sliced last night’s leftover boiled potatoes and added them to the spitting pan. He went to retrieve the eggs he’d collected from his pocket. They were still slightly warm against the cold spent cartridges.

After breakfast he collected some roofing felt, nails & tools which he loaded onto his quad bike. Bessie jumped up and balanced on the back. Jock hesitated then went back in the house and took his rifle and some bullets from the gun cabinet.

By the time they had bumped and slid down to the duck house the snow was falling fast, covering the tyre tracks behind them.
The repairs carried out, they then headed west again for the fence and drove along its perimeter - navigating the rough terrain by memory. A few hundred yards along Bessie spied the creature first and whimpered quietly. Jock cut the engine, lifted his rifle and walked across to the half dead beast. It lay in a black pool of its own blood. One shot had blown the thin flesh from its shoulder, exposing muscle. Its right hind was torn open. The old stag made to stand as Jock approached, but with each rocking effort it sunk back into the mire with a cloudy snort. It was an old switch-back, grey at the muzzle and around the eyes. It’s straggly antlers pointed backwards and had no tines. Each trace of its ribs were clearly visible through its hide.
Bessie lay down and looked at the deer then at Jock who was loading the gun. The stag stared directly at the man. Its eyes were matted with yellow pus, but there was a bright sharpness in its fixed regard. It lifted its nose slightly, but continued looking into Jock’s eyes. He raised the barrel and aimed at its head. Their eyes locked together for a time. The old dog watched as man and beast spoke silently with one another. Snow was starting to settle on the red-brown back of the deer. Jock started to slowly squeeze the trigger, the knuckle of his first finger becoming whiter. The stag lowered its gaze. The shot rang out, its noise slicing the silence; ricocheting off the Ben. Its echo reverberating down the glen as the stag slumped with a dull thud into the snow. The last breath rushed pink-spattered from its nostrils.
Hoodie crows rose cawing from their perches high up in the bare rowan trees. Jock lowered the gun, placed it down and checked the animal's neck for a pulse. He crouched a few moments his hand on the warm neck.
Nothing.
Its mouth had opened revealing a few useless worn down teeth achieved from a decade of chewing heather. The animal was starving to death.

He fetched the spade he kept permanently strapped to the quad and started digging a hole. The wet ground sucked and gurgled as he lifted each peaty clod. It was warm work for a cold day and he rested a few times leaning on the spade, glancing at the Ben and muttering under his misty breath. The hole dug, he dragged the beast by the antlers and rolled it into the pit. Covering it with shovel loads of earth he spied a piece of broken pottery glinting in the dying light. Jock wrapped it carefully in his handkerchief and slid it into his trouser pocket. He’d give it to Angela when she got back. She’d like that.