The Quest of Tadferd Marsh by Brady Johnson

His BB gun showed all the signs of travel with scratches and grooves in the stock, each one meticulously doctored and oiled, each battle scar numbered. Tadferd was a hunter, skilled as any aborigine ever to grace the plains of Africa although he had no kill to his name. He practiced his craft each afternoon as soon as he could break away from the hustle and bustle of home life and school. His world was in the woods behind the house, and his mission was to kill a bird. Each afternoon he quickly dressed and loaded BB’s with anticipation and gladness. His mother would fix his snack and drink for the hunt but only after he sat through a time-wasting meal made just for him, time wasted indoors while the birds were outdoors.

Tadferd loved the woods and savored the peanut butter and jelly sandwich snack among the tangled briars and hedges. He loved his snack more than anything that was served among royalty and refused to believe his mothers ranting about meat and potatoes. His place was lying silently in the leaves, waiting among the ditches. The songbirds that lived behind his house were some of the world’s most elusive game and called these places home. Many afternoons dark would catch Tadferd deep in the forests. Refusing to heed his mother’s calls to come home he hunted, vowing never to return, but when his dad whistled, well……what is a kid to do?

At home again, he recanted in his mind the day’s journey, his mistakes, his new found haunts and plans for tomorrow. No hunter on earth had his desire, his skill, his equipment, yet no hunter on earth faced this formidable of foe. He would hunt and kill a bird, but he would not do it in spring or summer when the potential for nesting was at its peak. Codes and ethics of nature would be followed. However come fall, as the first cool breeze arrived, it turned a switch on in Tadferd. The will to hunt was insurmountable.

It was on one of these fine fall days, a Saturday, that Tadferd awoke early. Saturday meant morning, noon and evening hunts. Feeling alive, he looked outside to see the treasure chest of opportunity laid before him. The great flocks of migrating Robins were coming and at least ten or more were in the yard. Taking game in the yard was within the protocol. Any bird within striking distance of the Red Rider was game. With terrain on his side, and expert knowledge of the lay of the house, Tadferd felt the advantage was his. The corners and hedges offered perfect firing positions and the basement door presented a means of stealth and surprise. Springing into action, dressing and grabbing his gun, Tadferd was down the stairs and at the basement door in no time. All others in the house were asleep. That was good because Tadferd did not like the distractions. This would allow for a hunt with freedom to roam and birds undisturbed.

Slipping out the basement door, he could hear the beautiful calls of the birds, each one tempting and tantalizing, but the Robin call was most powerful. Large and slow, these birds offered excellent targets and tended to be somewhat stupid. Many times Tadferd had been within yards of the birds but some unfortunate situation such as a BB not chambering or a deflection had bitten him every time.

Slipping down the wall in front of the garage doors, Tadferd made it to the hedge bush on the corner of the house by the drive way. Peering over and quickly ducking back down he saw a Robin in the side yard on his side of the walkway. It was within perfect firing range. Tadferd kissed the Red Rider and said a prayer before the hostile end of the gun emerged from beside the hedge. Tadferd touched the trigger, and the pop of the air rifle broke the silence. Dirt flew in front of the wild bird as it chirped and flew a few feet not knowing what had happened.

“What!” Tadferd thought. “How could this happen?” With his heart now beating in his throat he had to chamber another round without spooking the beautiful target or giving away his position. Slowly, easily, he pulled the cocking handle and heard the air pull the BB down into the chamber. “Got it,” Peering this time on the wall side of the hedge he could see the Robin, a little more wary. Easing the gun through the thick shrub, he took careful aim. Pop! The Robin chirped and flew.

“What! Were his sights off? How could this happen?” Frustrated, yet still concealed Tadferd contemplated the miss. Kicking himself, he tried to gather and focus his thoughts. He knew he had to regain composure. Too much was on the line and challenges loomed. The birds were still in the yard, and he still had breath in his body. Experience had taught him the closest bird was not always the best bird to pursue. You had to gauge opportunity and the best chance for a kill. Neighboring houses had to be considered because a broken window would shut him down. Near the end of the driveway, the storm gutter and the mailbox offered sanctuary for the birds. Several nice ones were picking through his mothers pine straw. If he could make it to the end of the wooden rail fence and get low behind the monkey grass, he had an open lane between the houses. It was risky and it was stretching the limits of the air rifle but he had to try it. From the hedge to the fence was easy. Working down the fence Tadferd spooked a few birds.

“How did I not see that? Get in the game man, get your mind right!” Disappointment! Damage already done he refocused on the mailbox area. At the end of the wood rail fence, Tadferd crawled across the sidewalk and peered through the grass. With iron sights fixed on the target and pressure mounting, he was ready to shoot.

All of a sudden and without warning, the flock flew up and out in unison, north past the neighbor’s house to the edge of the woods into a new feeding area. There was no fault here. It was only Mother Nature and her superb chess match. He would have to fight now on their ground, on their terms. Quickly he sprang up and ran behind the neighbor’s house and beyond sliding through the hole in the honeysuckle patch that dropped into the ditch. This would conceal his movements until he reached the edge of the woods.

Fluid movement and familiarity with this action seemed to put him at the edge of the woods in mere moments. Sizing up the situation and looking for an opening, he sat in the ditch just at the end where the pipe began. It was the outskirts of civilization. Beyond this point was no place for the inexperienced. There was no good way to get out of the ditch undetected and not much cover once he did. All of a sudden, the most beautiful Robin, a huge Robin, chirped and hopped onto a limb in the kill zone. “Please,” . . . is all that was uttered. Lining up the iron sights the Robin loomed large. Pop! Feathers puffed into the air and the wounded Robin in a broken flight pattern fell to the ground.

With the feared Chickasaw war hoop, “Yeeeeeee Haawwwwwww”! Tadferd sprang from the ditch for a bayonet charge. Cocking as he ran he smelled the blood. The wounded Robin–still very much alive–hopped upon a nearby limb. Tadferd leaned against a tree, readied the rifle and Pop! Feathers flew, but the wounded Robin lived. Readying another shot Tadferd cocked the rifle, things going his way, his first bird within yards, wounded heavily. Pop! Feathers flew again. How can this bird take the lead? Punishment dealt with mighty blows. The struggling Robin summoned the strength to fly from limb to limb as Tadferd fired freely like a cat playing with a mouse he had just caught.

Finally nearing the far edge of the woods, Tadferd approaching the bird for the closer, he raised the rifle and pulled the trigger. Whooosh! No bullet. Cocking the gun, he did not hear the familiar BB sucking into the chamber. Shaking the gun frantically he heard nothing. There were no more BB’s in the gun. The Robin continued his troubled movements to the far edge of the woods. With one eye on the Robin and the other looking for ammo Tadferd realized that he had been too hasty to leave the house due to the bounty in the yard at first light and had not picked up his pack of BB’s, his supply pack, or his snack.

Not knowing whether to cry or fight Tadferd ran towards the bird hoping to run it down but could not catch it. He was close enough to see the Robin’s dark black eyes and observe his wounded body but could not get his hands around the beleaguered bird. In panic, he tried to get a stick to throw but could not break it free of its trunk. The Robin made its way into the field of Mr. Green who lived on the other side of the woodlot. No man entered Ol’ Man Green’s field and lived, allegedly. Fighting its way through the golden rods, the Robin gained ground. Tadferd challenged Mr. Green by entering his field. It was worth his life. To be shot by Mr. Green was worth it if it meant recovering the bird.

Nevertheless, within moments, the Robin had made its way across the field and disappeared over the road into some other woods. It was over. Tadferd, knowing he was way too far across enemy lines, ran back to the edge of the woods. Diving into the honey suckle he laid motionless because Mr. Green was surely near. He lay for hours unable to think about anything. The only thing he knew was the sky was very blue and the clouds were white. The pine trees were very tall. It was hard to accept.

Finally, Tadferd got up and walked home down the trail, passed the tree house, to the end of the ditch where the pipe began, then on to the house. At home, unable to reflect on the hunt, he simply reloaded the Red Rider and readied his supplies for the afternoon and evening hunts. The weather grew darker and the clouds rolled in. A cold autumn wind blew and it seemed like the leaves had changed color from that morning to noon. Where was the Robin? Was it alive or dead in some unknown grave? Tadferd found the strength to go on and hunt that day but found himself gazing across the golden rod field of Mr. Green, looking for a sign. The wind grew colder and the woods grew darker until the moon began to rise. His mother called. Later…….his dad whistled. What is a kid to do?

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Brady Johnson is an avid outdoorsman, photographer and writer. He has a deep connection to the outdoors and wild things. This relationship was fostered in the woods and streams behind his childhood family home located in Adamsville, Alabama. The Quest of Tadferd Marsh was based on these humble beginnings and is his first published short story.