It didn’t drop immediately. He saw it flutter upwards, beat its wide brown wings chaotically, then careen towards the islet from which the shots had issued. It struggled to keep itself aloft, to gain height. But then it suddenly gave up, and dropped as though it were breaking into many pieces. It was indeed just like an old-style Caproni seaplane – he had time to say to himself as it plummeted down and into the water – the type used in the First World War, all canvas, wood and wire.
He thought it must be dead and that the dog would rush out to retrieve it. But no. As soon as it had resurfaced, it was ready to rise up on its stilt-like legs and began to turn its tiny head to and fro. ‘Where have I ended up?’ it seemed to be asking itself. ‘And what’s happened to me?’
It still hadn’t understood a thing. Or very little, for although one wing, the right one, draped down along its side, soon after, it moved its shoulder-blade as though about to take off and fly. Only then must it have realized it was wounded. And in fact from that moment on, it gave up on any further attempt of the kind.
Restless, unceasingly swivelling its smooth, fatuous head, which had the look of a pleasure seeker’s – elongated behind the nape by that odd, almost imperceptible spiky antenna – it was clearly trying to orient itself, to recognize at least the objects around it. Only a few yards away, half dry and half in the water, it had noticed the punt. What was it? A boat or the body of a large sleeping creature? One way or the other, better keep clear of it. Better not risk reaching the small beach of fine compact sand which that peculiar and threatening thing lay across. Much better. Besides, the stabbing pain at its side wasn’t so noticeable any more. Its wing didn’t hurt as long as it wasn’t moved. Best keep it still.
He watched it, full of anxiety, utterly identifying himself with the creature. He too was in the dark about what had made so many things happen. Why had Gavino fired? And why didn’t he stand up now, and fire another shot, the coup de grâce? Wasn’t that the rule? And the dog? What was Gavino scared of: that the heron, not having yet lost enough blood, might defend itself with its beak? And the heron? What could it do? Waiting there was all well and good, but for how long and to what end? He felt his mind confused, befuddled, crowded with questions to which there were no apparent answers.
Quite a few minutes passed in this state. Until, suddenly, he realized the heron had moved.
It was steering itself in his direction – this he could verify, after raising his hand to his eyes to shield them from the water’s glare – right towards the hide. This he understood. The heron had spotted the decoys. Brightly coloured and catching the oblique sunlight, it was only natural they should have seemed a flock of real birds, busy feeding. It was worth trusting them. There wouldn’t be any danger in that neighbourhood, that was for sure.
It moved forwards, dragging its wing in the water, with short, rapid successive spurts broken by brief pauses, carefully choosing the shallowest stretches of water. It passed beside the decoys, came on again, ever further on. And finally it was face to face with him, just a metre away from the hide, about to reach the shore. It stopped once more. All brown, except for the feathers on its neck and breast which were a faint beige and its legs which were the yellowish-brown of bone stripped of flesh, of relics, it dipped its head to one side, looking at him, with curiosity, certainly, but unalarmed. And motionless, hardly breathing – aware that the bird was losing blood from a gash halfway along the wing by the joint – he had the chance to stare back for a considerable time.
It was now right up against the hide, just like a frozen old codger hoping to catch some sun, and although he could no longer see the bird he could sense its presence. Every now and then it shifted to find a better place or to clean its feathers with its beak. Big, bony, out of proportion, and impeded to boot, it moved clumsily and kept bumping into the hide.
For minute after minute, though, it did the right thing and kept perfectly still. Tucked well in from the cold, whistling gusts of the sea wind, and with the warm planks of the hide at its back, what was it up to? Perhaps it had even cheered up a bit. Although even now it hadn’t understood very well, it had to keep a sharp eye out for everything. Gather its strength: this for the moment, it was telling itself, must be the main aim. And once it had gathered its strength, whoosh, it would suddenly spread its wings and fly away.
More time passed, who knows how much.
All of a sudden, three shots were fired in close succession, followed by thuds which shook him with pain.
He turned his head towards Gavino.
‘Isn’t that enough now?’ he said half-aloud.
He waited for the birds to surface – all three of them coots, lifeless – and looked at his watch.
Unfortunately, it was no later than two o’clock, and there would be light good enough to shoot in for at least another hour and a half. But even if, personally, he’d had more than enough at this point, would it be all right to lift his arm and signal to Gavino to call it a day? True, for a while the heron hadn’t budged at all. But in case it should still be alive, what could he do with it anyway? Finish it off point-blank – no, that was out of the question. Capture it, then? Lean out of the hide, gather it in his arms and then carry it back to town? In the car? And to keep it where? In a cage down in the courtyard? He could foresee Nives’ response when she saw him return with a creature like that, and wounded besides, with no end of fees to pay the vet, just for starters. He could foresee her shouting, her protests and her whining …
The dog had ended its traipsing back and forth. He’d retrieved the last coot and carried it to his master. Then, turning by chance to the right, towards the sandbank, as if seeking a prompt of some sort from that direction, she saw the heron once more.
It was now some ten metres away from the hide, and judging by the direction it had taken it looked as if it was heading for the sandbank. The din of the last shots just before had certainly given it a fright. Then it had seen the dog go back and forth three times, each time coming ashore with a coot in its mouth. And although wounded, although weakened with loss of blood, and so, more than ever, eager to enjoy the last heat of the sun, shielded from the wind, from one moment to the next the bird had decided it would be sensible to move somewhere safer, and quickly. The broad sandbank there, covered with thick plants more or less the same colour as its feathers, and at the same time high enough to allow a way through without being spotted, perhaps represented the best solution to all its problems. To hide in there, for the meantime, awaiting the night, which was not far off. And then, after that, to wait and see. Because it wasn’t clear that the sandbank was completely surrounded by water. Who could say whether or not it was linked in some way with dry land? And dry land within reaching distance would have meant another possibility of escape, perhaps even of safety, or if perhaps not of absolute safety, the almost certain guarantee of keeping alive at least until tomorrow.
Meanwhile, it was moving ever further away, arduously dragging its broken wing behind it, and he felt able to read this whole chain of reasoning from the posture of its stubborn little slender neck. But how wrong it was! – he suddenly exclaimed to himself. It was completely deluding itself – fine, as far as reaching the sandbank, but the dog, soon to be off the leash and free to follow her nose, with all that blood it kept on losing, wouldn’t have the slightest difficulty in flushing it out – it was fooling itself to such an extent, it was obvious, the stupid thing, that if the thought of shooting it hadn’t seemed to him the very same in some way as shooting himself, he would have immediately opened fire. So that, if nothing else, it would be all over.