rifle. And wouldn’t that, he thought, be a hell of a way for his planters to wake up. A cry— Kak-kak! Kak-kak! —hammered dully against the heavy canvas walls of the tent. A hawk.
Inside the tent, the light through the canvas a yellow haze, Tom moved slowly across the beaten grass. There was a deck of cards on one of the long wooden tables, candles wedged in wine bottles, a few abandoned coffee mugs. More food left out thoughtlessly—an apple core on the ground, a bag of salted nuts sliced open. The animal was injured. A light stroke of blood was feathered across one wall of the tent. A swish and a flap by a stack of boxes at the back. One box fell over and the bird flew up to the tent’s apex and hovered for two flaps of wing, and then glided back down and rested on top of the boxes. It was a goshawk and, judging by its size, a female. Blue gray along her back and the top of her wings, underbelly striped black and white. Her stark, white brow a warning over deep, sunset-orange eyes. Her long tail feathers were bent at wrong angles, as if she had been in a fight.
Tom pulled out a chair and sat, looking up at the bird thoughtfully. The hawk regarded him with superiority, her chest heaving. Her sharp black talons clicked against the cardboard.
“What am I going to do with you, bird?”
He went to the tent flap and opened it wider, called for the bird to come, but it didn’t. He was going to have to catch her, and he needed some kind of protection.
The door to the cook van was locked and Nix had the only key. Tom didn’t know which tent was hers so he picked his way through the blue tarpaulins calling her name softly, tripping and cursing over tree roots and taut ropes. He was only a few meters into the trees when mosquitoes found him. First one, then like rain, countless, indivisible. In his eyes, his nose. Finally he stood in one place and called angrily, “Nix, which tent are you?”
Someone called out, “Fuck off.” Sleeping bags shifted. A snore sputtered and then died midstroke.
A zipper zipped farther into the bush. Nix’s voice croaked echoey through the trees. “Who is that?”
“I need you to open the van. It’s Tom.”
He waited for her by the van door, watching the open flap of the mess tent, hoping the hawk would find its own way out. Nix was wearing the clothes she had been wearing hours before, when he had turned her away at his trailer. Her eyes were sleep-swollen; her short hair was flattened to her head on one side, and he was, unexpectedly, embarrassed to see her.
“What the fuck, Tom? It’s seven thirty in the morning. Day off?”
“I need towels and gloves. The gloves you use for the oven. Have you got stuff like that?”
She glared at him and put her key in the door. When she came back out she handed him quilted gloves and a handful of rags. “What’s it for?” she asked. She stretched her arms up behind her head and yawned. Her black sweatshirt lifted to reveal a crescent of pale skin at the top of her jeans.
“There’s a hawk in the mess tent. You want to help me get her out?”
“Won’t it just find its own way out?”
“She’s injured.”
“So?”
It was quiet in the tent now, and he thought maybe she had gone until he heard a sucking sound and a whip of air. The bird flew from behind the boxes to a stack of chairs at the far corner, where she seemed to fight with herself. A downy white feather rose up and was carried by a current of air.
“What are you going to do?” Nix asked. She stood by the open flap. She pulled the hood of her sweatshirt over her head and hugged her arms stubbornly around her small frame.
“I need you to help me corner her.”
“What kind of bird is it again?”
“A hawk. Big one too. Looks like about five pounds.”
“Do they bite?”
“Yup.”
“People?”
“She’s a hunter. She preys on little guys like squirrels and rabbits. Other birds. I’ve heard wolverines too. If she takes a nip at you it’ll hurt, but
Inside the tent, the light through the canvas a yellow haze, Tom moved slowly across the beaten grass. There was a deck of cards on one of the long wooden tables, candles wedged in wine bottles, a few abandoned coffee mugs. More food left out thoughtlessly—an apple core on the ground, a bag of salted nuts sliced open. The animal was injured. A light stroke of blood was feathered across one wall of the tent. A swish and a flap by a stack of boxes at the back. One box fell over and the bird flew up to the tent’s apex and hovered for two flaps of wing, and then glided back down and rested on top of the boxes. It was a goshawk and, judging by its size, a female. Blue gray along her back and the top of her wings, underbelly striped black and white. Her stark, white brow a warning over deep, sunset-orange eyes. Her long tail feathers were bent at wrong angles, as if she had been in a fight.
Tom pulled out a chair and sat, looking up at the bird thoughtfully. The hawk regarded him with superiority, her chest heaving. Her sharp black talons clicked against the cardboard.
“What am I going to do with you, bird?”
He went to the tent flap and opened it wider, called for the bird to come, but it didn’t. He was going to have to catch her, and he needed some kind of protection.
The door to the cook van was locked and Nix had the only key. Tom didn’t know which tent was hers so he picked his way through the blue tarpaulins calling her name softly, tripping and cursing over tree roots and taut ropes. He was only a few meters into the trees when mosquitoes found him. First one, then like rain, countless, indivisible. In his eyes, his nose. Finally he stood in one place and called angrily, “Nix, which tent are you?”
Someone called out, “Fuck off.” Sleeping bags shifted. A snore sputtered and then died midstroke.
A zipper zipped farther into the bush. Nix’s voice croaked echoey through the trees. “Who is that?”
“I need you to open the van. It’s Tom.”
He waited for her by the van door, watching the open flap of the mess tent, hoping the hawk would find its own way out. Nix was wearing the clothes she had been wearing hours before, when he had turned her away at his trailer. Her eyes were sleep-swollen; her short hair was flattened to her head on one side, and he was, unexpectedly, embarrassed to see her.
“What the fuck, Tom? It’s seven thirty in the morning. Day off?”
“I need towels and gloves. The gloves you use for the oven. Have you got stuff like that?”
She glared at him and put her key in the door. When she came back out she handed him quilted gloves and a handful of rags. “What’s it for?” she asked. She stretched her arms up behind her head and yawned. Her black sweatshirt lifted to reveal a crescent of pale skin at the top of her jeans.
“There’s a hawk in the mess tent. You want to help me get her out?”
“Won’t it just find its own way out?”
“She’s injured.”
“So?”
It was quiet in the tent now, and he thought maybe she had gone until he heard a sucking sound and a whip of air. The bird flew from behind the boxes to a stack of chairs at the far corner, where she seemed to fight with herself. A downy white feather rose up and was carried by a current of air.
“What are you going to do?” Nix asked. She stood by the open flap. She pulled the hood of her sweatshirt over her head and hugged her arms stubbornly around her small frame.
“I need you to help me corner her.”
“What kind of bird is it again?”
“A hawk. Big one too. Looks like about five pounds.”
“Do they bite?”
“Yup.”
“People?”
“She’s a hunter. She preys on little guys like squirrels and rabbits. Other birds. I’ve heard wolverines too. If she takes a nip at you it’ll hurt, but
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