Boris flew down the stairs on the morning of his twelfth birthday wearing only his boxer shorts and a single, flapping sock. With a fearless leap he cleared the last five steps, crashed onto the floor and was promptly dumped onto his backside as his socked foot shot out from underneath him. "Intent on breaking another bone?" said his father, smouldering pipe firmly gripped between his teeth.

Spurning the pain in his left buttock, Boris pulled his sock fully on and jumped to his feet. As he turned to face his father, he caught sight of a hefty cockroach scurrying towards the front door. Boris launched himself at the cockroach, trapping it between the floor and the palm of his right hand. He gingerly scooped it up and retrieved it from his right palm with the thumb and forefinger of his left hand. Holding it aloft he shouted "breakfast!"

"In the pan with the others," his father replied, stoking the fire with his back turned.

Boris took aim and launched the cockroach into a wok full of sizzling bugs sitting atop a stove in the corner of the room.

The ground floor of the shack which Boris and his father called home was undivided except for a rusted steel pipe in the centre of the room which served as a supporting pillar for the upper floor. Boris's father had built the shack shortly after the end of the great water war of 2150. It stood on the site of what had once been the town hall and was built mostly of materials from the ruins. Although the shack appeared to be in a permanent state of collapse, it had stood ten years without so much as a tilt or totter and had provided an adequate shelter for him and his family.

Boris laid the breakfast table with forks and plates his father had collected from a derelict hotel near Scarborough while on a scavenging trek. The hotel had formed part of an exclusive resort before it was obliterated - along with three miles of coastline - by a ninety mega-tonne bomb towards the end of the war. "Shirt, boy!" his father growled. "How many times have I told thee not to come to the table with tha's skin on show? It's uncivilised. And it puts me off me food."

"But I can feel the fire proper without a - ." Boris thought better of completing his sentence.

"What was that son?" his father asked.

Boris shot to his room and returned wearing something resembling a well-used fishing net that barely covered an inch of skin. His father examined the vest through dipped eyebrows, shook his head and puffed on his pipe. Boris smiled, tight-lipped, not daring to look away.

"Got a big appetite today?" his father asked.

"Always, Dad."

"Good, cos after we've had breakfast I'm taking you hunting."

Boris's eyes lit up. "Really? We're goin' huntin'?" His father nodded.

"For food?" Another nod.

"With a gun?"

"What gun? I don't own a gun - never 'ave, never will. Hate the damn things - you know that."

"Yes Dad. Sorry,"

Boris had never been hunting before. Since the day of his father's accident, they had lived mostly on deep-fried bugs - a staple dish from his mother's native Thailand. Grasshoppers, cockroaches, caterpillars, moths, woodlice and centipedes were in plentiful supply in post-war rural Yorkshire and could merely be scooped up in a net or scraped off a stone with little effort.

The acquisition of bugs was generally referred to as catching in the Bradshaw household, but now that they were going hunting Boris knew it had to be for something big - too big be scraped off a stone and tossed into a pan of oil. Some kind of lethal weapon would be required, he thought.

"Then what'll we use?" he asked.

"A trap," his father said, pulling the pipe from his mouth. "Less effort, greater reward."

"Oh! Where are we gonna set a trap?"

"In t' forest."

Boris froze.

"Did you say - ?"

"Aye lad, that I did."

"But? but - "

"I know. I said I'd never go back. But a man's a right to change 'is mind - especially if he's a Yorkshireman."

"Yes Dad. But won't it be painful walking all the way to forest, with your leg an' all?"

"Aye," replied his father. "But a bit of pain never hurt anyone, did it?"

"Spose not. But why do you want to go back?"

"Look lad, one never knows what tomorrow will bring. I may drop down dead and the bugs may stop breedin'. What then will you do for food if you haven't learned how to hunt and trap? River hasn't offered up so much as a spoonful of spawn in nearly nine year, and ground produces dubious edibles at best of times."

"Aye Dad."

"But if truth be told, I've got a hankerin' for some proper meat. A man can only consume so many bugs in a lifetime."

Boris pondered for a moment. "I hadn't really thought of you droppin' down dead or the bugs not breedin'. Could that really 'appen?"

"Of course," his father replied. "We all die sooner or later."

"I meant about the breedin'."

His father scowled, picked up the piece of iron fence that he used as a poker and prodded the fire unnecessarily.

"Dad?" said Boris, pressing for an answer. His father continued poking the glowing logs in silence. Boris daren't press the matter further. His father leaned the poker against the wall and stared at the new flames leaping from the turned logs. Without lifting his eyes, and with plaintive timbre he said "well, species go extinct all the time, son - especially since t' war. I hear that in some parts of the world even humans are dyin' out. World is ravaged by all manner of disease and sickness these days."

Perking up, he continued: "so, you see lad, you need to be well prepared should I and the bugs suddenly depart for the next life."

"Where mother is?"

"Maybe lad, maybe," he replied, hinting at a smile.

"D'ya think there are bugs there too, in the next life, where mother is?"

"I don't know. I suppose so - people still 'ave to eat, don't they? Even in t' next life, I imagine."

"Do you think mother cooks deep-fried bugs for other people where she is now - you know, usin' her secret recipe?"

"Knowing your mother, she's probably written a whole new book of secret recipes and opened a bug food eatery just for the poor."

"You mean people like us?"

"Like us? You think us poor, lad?" Boris daren't answer. "We may not have much to eat, and no money to spend, but we've got a roof over us 'eads, and clothes on us backs. But most importantly, we've got each other. You're never truly poor as long as you've got someone."

"But if you go to be with mother, won't I be poor then?"

"I'll expect you to have yourself a woman by then."

"Or a dog! Maybe I'll find one of those stray, mangy dogs that 'angs around for company and to be fed. There's more of them to be 'ad than women."

His father turned to him with a raised eyebrow. "See if bugs are cooked," he said.

During breakfast Boris wondered what his father had got him for his birthday since a present had not yet emerged. He glanced around the room inspecting the shadows, hoping to catch a glimpse of some kind of plaything - a cricket bat maybe, or a go-cart, or a new moth net. But the room was as bare and devoid of occasion as it had been the night before. The only object to bring Boris any cheer was his father's old guitar which had once filled the house with the evocative sounds of Albeniz, Rodrigo and Turina but had long stood silent under the stairs since the day Boris's mother had departed.

"Will you ever play your guitar again, Dad?" Boris enquired. His father replied with his usual silence. Supposing that his father had been distracted with weightier thoughts, Boris tried again.

"Dad--?"

His father stabbed at a grasshopper. "I heard you the first time, son," he replied. There was annoyance in his tone, as though Boris had poked an old wound. "I've told thee before, I'll not play it again - not now she's gone. None but her appreciated my playin'."

His father lowered his fork and stared at his plate. Closing his eyes, he recalled a moment - one of many - when his wife would read by the fire as he played, and occasionally look up to offer a word of affirmation. Even now, as mere whispers muted by the fabric of time, her words brought him comfort. He drew in a deep breath and sighed secretly to himself.

"I appreciated it, Dad." said Boris, his cheery voice scything through the reverie.

"Of course you didn't," his father snapped. "You were but a bairn, barely out of your mother's womb. How could you possibly have appreciated the musical nuance that lay deep within some of the greatest manuscripts ever to be penned durin' the classical and romantic periods?"

Boris considered his father's words for a moment and said "I don't know about all that, Dad. It just sounded nice, that's all - made me feel good."

His father's face softened. He filled up his fork and grunted "get on with your breakfast".

Boris's thoughts swiftly returned to the matter of the missing birthday present. For a moment he considered the possibility that his father may have forgotten his birthday altogether. Boris's heart plunged into his stomach, almost forcing his last mouthful of bugs up his oesophagus and back onto his plate. He quickly dispelled the offending thought with the happier one of him and his father later that evening, sitting around a camp fire feasting on spit-roast meat and blackberries.

Boris had become adept at dispelling unwelcome thoughts since his mother had gone, partly - though indirectly - through the distractions of chopping wood, catching bugs and taking the laundry to the river that his father had imposed upon him - to save him from "unnecessary grieving" as he'd put it.

Yet despite his father's good intentions, these chores had done little to occupy Boris's mind. On the contrary, they had created a void inside his head into which would rush disquieting thoughts that lingered long into the night; thoughts of abandonment and guilt and uncertainty which his mother, had she been alive, would have banished with a story or lullaby.

Boris's defence against these mental onslaughts was to create for himself an alternative reality into which he could escape. Whether knee deep in icy water scrubbing his father's undies or unloading the umpteenth barrowful of logs into the shed, Boris would transport himself to another planet far into the future where the pain of losing his mother was a distant memory and where he built spacecraft that took explorers to the far flung corners of the galaxy.

But in that moment, there at the breakfast table, Boris comforted himself with the knowledge that his father had never actually forgotten his birthday. He recalled how on one particular birthday, his seventh or eighth perhaps - he couldn't really remember which - his father, having been gone for the best part of the night, dropped a sack-full of seashells onto the ground where Boris was playing and with nothing more than a 'happy birthday son', dragged his injured leg into the house, leaving a trail of blood in the dirt.

His father wasn't one to discuss matters of an unpleasant nature and so the details of his injury had to this day remained a mystery to Boris, as had the circumstances in which his mother had departed the previous week. On that morning, Boris had got up to discover his father sitting alone by the fire. When he enquired as to his mother's whereabouts, his father simply replied "she's passed on, lad. Tha'll not be seein' her again."

Boris sprinkled a pinch of salt over his bugs and looked across the table to his mother's empty chair and envisaged her sitting there, sipping a cup of nettle tea. He had never actually seen his mother's dead body, nor was there any grave for him to visit. This gave him hope that she may perhaps still be alive somewhere and would one day return to tell him bedtime stories and bathe him in front of the fire.

Carefully placing his fork on his empty plate, his father said "cooked to perfection, son - you'll make someone a good wife one day."

"Thanks Dad," Boris replied, slightly affronted by the suggestion that he was in any way feminine. He sucked the last bug from his fork and swallowed it without chewing. He was eager to get outside because that's where his birthday present must surely be since there was no sign of it in the room.

He grabbed his father's plate and fork, stacked them on top of his own, then jumped up from his seat, dishes in hand, and made a dash for the door.

"Where are you going in such a hurry?" his father asked.

"To clean the dishes," Boris replied without turning his head.

"Do a proper job this time."

"Yes Dad." Boris stepped into his unlaced boots, opened the door and thrust himself out into the cold morning air, sans trousers and coat. He hadn't fully anticipated just how bitter the morning air was, made all the colder by the blistering speed at which it rushed through the valley.

Goosebumps erupted over Boris's entire body and the gale blew tears sideways along his ruddy cheeks. His first instinct was to drop the dishes, run back inside and scooch by the fire, but to re-enter the cabin now would be unmanly and Boris didn't want to give his father any more reason to think that he would one day make someone a good wife. He pulled the door firmly shut and made a dash for the well.

Inside the hut, a good thirty degrees warmer than the outside, Boris's father reclined in the tattered leather armchair facing the fire and relit his pipe. He suspected that given the ferocity at which the gale was buffeting the cabin, Boris's dishwashing would be somewhat brief and unfinished - even more than usual. Sure enough, in less than a minute of leaving the cabin, Boris came bursting through the door holding two unwashed plates and two unwashed forks.

"The w... w... well bucket is f... f... frozen over," he said through chattering teeth. "I'll c... c... clean the p... p... plates later."

Boris tossed the dishes onto the table and desperately wanted to warm himself by the fire, but he could sense his father's lips simmering with scorn. The flames suddenly lost their appeal and Boris flew upstairs to the sanctuary of his bedroom. As he pulled on his third layer of clothing, disappointment began to set in. Even in his hasty jaunt to the well Boris had still had time to look around the yard for his birthday present but had spotted none. He was beginning to think that his father really had, for the first time in Boris's short life, forgotten his birthday.

Boris trudged down the stairs to find his father waiting at the door with a rucksack on his back and all manner of tools and utensils dangling from it.

"Coat on, boy!" he ordered. "Don't want your freezin' to death to deprive me of m' dinner."

His father's quip did little to enthuse Boris. He lifted his coat from the rusty nail screwed into the wall and reluctantly pushed his arms through the sleeves. He could feel his father's chastising glare following his every move but daren't look up for fear of being turned to stone.

Boris pulled on his hood and lowered his head. As his father opened the door, a vicious gust snatched at Boris's hood, tearing it straight off again and almost taking his head with it. He did that on purpose, thought Boris. He did it to try to make me more manly.

With more anger towards the wind than his father, Boris reached again for his hood and yanked it back over his head, this time, gripping it firmly with both hands.

"Put wood int' 'ole, boy," said his father, descending the stoop. Boris took refuge in the doorway a moment longer and watched his father trudge contemptuously against the gale. His limp was barely noticeable now as with shortened steps he blazed a trail towards the forest.

Even with his infirmity, Boris's father could set a fair old pace and Boris struggled to keep up. But he was sure to stay no more than two paces behind since his father's huge frame provided considerable protection against the storm. Despite a head wind that fought hard to send the two trappers back to where they came from, Boris and his father reached the edge of the forest in less than an hour.

A hundred paces into the dense woodland and the low-lying blanket of conifers had reduced the tempest to little more than a sigh. Boris removed his hood and breathed in the pine-laden stillness. "What'll we catch, Dad?" he asked expectantly.

"I'm not rightly sure," his father replied. "Of a time, this forest was rich in deer, wild boar and squirrel. Can't be certain what's about today, but I'll promise thee this - we'll not be leavin' empty-handed." Boris's father spoke with a confidence that assured Boris they would eat well that night, whatever they caught.

"Wild boar Dad. Let's hunt a wild boar."

"Not hunt, son - trap'. It's not truly huntin' unless you're pursuin' an animal with a weapon, and I'll not be doin' that with me gammy leg."

"But this mornin' you said we're goin' huntin'."

"Huntin', trappin', it's all the same bar the chase."

Boris was used to his father's contradictions and had long since learned not to correct him more than once on any given occasion. It was much easier to accept that his father was always right, even when he wasn't.

"Trappin', then. Let's trap a wild boar," said Boris, peevishly.

"It's the tastiest, that's for sure," his father replied, "and the biggest. If we nab one of those today, we'll feast for a week, particularly if he's still around."

"What do you mean, Dad?" asked Boris. "What do you mean, if he's still around?"

"Never mind about that now," his father said, truculently.

His father stepped forward and studied the ground beneath his feet.

"This'll do," he said, stomping his good foot repeatedly into the spongy turf. He released his left arm from the rucksack and dipped his shoulder to allow the rucksack to drop into his right hand. He laid the rucksack down, opened it up and pulled out a small spade. With a flick of the wrist, the telescopic handle shot out to its full length and locked into place. Shoving the spade into Boris's chest he said "here you go, lad."

Boris examined the spade for a moment then looked up at his father anticipating an instruction.

"Well, what are you waitin' for?" he grunted. "Spade won't dig by itself."

"Yes Dad. What am I digging - a trap? Am I digging a trap - for the boar?"

"No son, you're not diggin' a trap, you're diggin' an 'ole int' ground, and there's a lot more to a trap than an 'ole int' ground."

He turned the rucksack over and snatched the hatchet from its holster. "I'll be back shortly," he said. "Make it big and make it deep." He scanned the forest to get his bearings and set off through a clearing between two pines.

Boris glanced around nervously, half expecting the boar to appear and attack him now that his father was out of sight. Having satisfied himself that he was in no immediate danger he thrust the spade into the soil and set about the business of digging 'an 'ole in 't ground', occasionally scanning the landscape for signs of wild boar. "Make-it-big; make-it-deep," he chanted to himself, matching the rhythm of his digging. Reciting his father's instruction aloud somehow energised Boris, and as he became increasingly aware of the excellent progress he was making, the volume and tempo of his chanting also increased.

After a frantic three minutes of digging and chanting he stopped to catch a breath. In the distance he could hear the sound of his father chopping branches from the trees. This too had a steady rhythm but somehow more assured than that of Boris's digging. Each chop was answered with an echo, as though the forest was approving of the woodsman's toil, freely offering up its branches in the knowledge that they were being put to good use.

The sound of his father's chopping comforted Boris. He felt a closeness to him and a synergy, as though they were, in that moment, not father and son but partners in the business of trapping. Boris took hold of the spade and resumed digging, this time matching his rhythm with that of his father.

Over the next two hours, his father returned several times to the dig, each time carrying a bundle of branches of varying thickness and length; each one stripped of its shoots and leaves and some bearing deadly spikes. On each visit, Boris's father would inspect the hole and walk away without comment. Boris took this to be a good sign, for had he not been doing his job well, his father would surely have said so.

His father returned once more, dropped his load to the ground and said, 'that'll do.' Without hesitation, Boris threw down the spade and let out a theatrical sigh. He slowly straightened his back, now stiff from having been bent for so long, and stretched out his arms.

"Oh!" he groaned. "That's better!"

"What ya doin', lad?" his father asked, reaching for his tobacco pouch.

"You said 'that'll do," Boris replied.

"Aye, for me, lad, not thee. Tha's got a lot more diggin' to do before 'ole's fit for a boar."

"Oh!" said Boris, struggling to come to terms with the bad news. He examined his hole in which he stood shoulder deep and wondered just how big a boar his father hoped to catch.

Having concluded that it must be much bigger than any animal he'd ever seen, he wiped the sweat from his brow and resumed digging, this time with noticeably less enthusiasm.

For an hour his father watched in silence. Occasionally Boris would look to him for a signal to stop, and each time his father would wave his pipe, instructing him to continue. Finally, with the hole big enough to bury six boys of Boris's size, his father knelt at the edge and offered Boris his hand. Boris breathed a sigh of relief, tossed the spade out of the hole and took hold. With an effortless tug, his father yanked him up and tossed him away from the hole onto the spongy forest floor.

Boris lay there, wet through with sweat, motionless, panting. At any moment his heart would surely burst through his chest. "Here you go," his father said, holding out a water flask. "You've earned it." Boris's breathing instantly relaxed. He sat up, snatched away the flask and emptied its entire contents into his mouth. "That were your total ration for the day," his father said. "You should have saved some for later, lad." But Boris's thirst had consumed him. He poked his tongue into the neck of the flask in search of one last drop.

"Now lad," his father said, holding a long spiked shaft aloft. "You see this?" He rammed the spear a foot deep into the turf.

"It's a spear!" Boris declared.

"That it is, lad. And that there is another."

Boris turned to his left and observed the spear rising eight feet out of the ground.

"Take a closer look," his father said.

Boris approached it, awestruck, almost. It was the most fearsome looking stick he'd ever set eyes on. He reached out his hand and touched the bark, feeling its texture with his fingertips. How old will I be when Dad lets me use a spear like this? he thought.

"Well," said his father, "spear won't slay by itself, lad. Take hold and do as I do."

Hardly believing his ears, Boris snatched at the spear and yanked it out of the ground.

Boris was a fast learner. In no time at all he'd acquired the technique of thrusting a spear so as to cause maximum injury. The tip was long and narrow and would, even with moderate force, easily penetrate the flesh of a wild boar.

Boris's father pulled his spear out of the ground one more time, but this time, turned it on Boris. He approached Boris with a warlike grimace and prodded the point into his belly. Boris's instinct was to back away, but he was afraid of showing his father any fear. He stood his ground and braced himself. "Now, you've got to see the pig as your enemy," his father whispered. "It's either him or you. Kill your enemy before he kills you."

Boris was stricken with terror. He'd never seen this ugliness in his father before. He couldn't believe that this was the same man he'd eaten breakfast with that morning, such was the transformation in his face and his voice. It was as though he were possessed of a devil.

"Now repeat after me," said his father. "Die pig, die!"

Through trembling lips Boris muttered the words. He could feel the spear pressing into his belly and even though he was sure his father wouldn't hurt him on purpose, he wondered if the devil inside him might. "Pigs can smell fear, lad. We'll have none of your tremblin' on the kill. Best be rid of it now. Say it again. Go on! SAY IT!"

His father prodded the spear into Boris's belly again. Adrenalin now pumped keen through Boris's veins and with venom hitherto unfamiliar to him he screamed out, "DIE PIG, DIE!"

There was a moment's silence. Father and son stood stone-like. Boris looked away nervously then back again. His father smiled.

Withdrawing the spear he said "that's it lad. Now take yourself off and practice killin' your enemy while I prepare the trap."

As twilight descended on the forest, the two trappers observed the trap from a makeshift hide made of branches and ferns. The pit now covered by twigs and moss was indistinguishable from the forest floor and could only be identified by a cob of corn covered in crushed fermented berries that rested at the centre of its surface. If there were a wild boar in the forest, it would surely pick up the sweet scent of the rotting fruit and be lured to it.

Boris crouched next to his father who hadn't uttered a word in over half an hour. The silence thickened with each passing minute and Boris became aware that even a subtle clearing of his throat might alert a boar of their presence, or worse, incur his father's wrath.

Soon, the rigours of the day began to take their toll on Boris and his eyelids grew heavy. Desperate to maintain his manly persona, he picked up a twig and stabbed himself in the gonads to prevent nodding off. This proved to be quite effective, so whenever he felt his eyes drooping he would give himself another prod, and would remain alert for another two to three minutes.

As his head started to slump onto his chest for the umpteenth time, Boris felt a sharp pain in his ribs. He bolted upright. His father nodded in the direction of the trap. Boris turned. To his astonishment, there in front of him, approaching the trap was not just one wild boar, but three. They sniffed the ground and grunted repeatedly but none of them yet ventured towards the bait. It seemed that human scent was proving to be more alluring than that of corn or fermented fruit. Boris prayed that the scent would not lead the boars to the hide.

His father's frustration got the better of him. "Go on, pigs!" he shouted in a whisper. "Take the damn bait! Take the damn bait!"

But the boars showed no interest in the fodder. Feeling a little cramp in his leg, Boris's father adjusted his position, unwittingly stepping on a twig which let out a loud crack. In an instant, the pigs were gone.

"You scared them off Dad" said Boris. "You scared off us dinner."

His father stared madly into the trees. "Sh!" he said. "Listen."

Boris held his breath. Through the stillness he could hear the distant thunder of hoofs - another boar. In a heartbeat the beast appeared out of the dense woodland, charging towards the pit. This one was huge - a male, bigger by half than any of the three females.

He's going for the bait, Boris thought. Please be going for the bait! But mere inches from the edge of the pit the boar stopped dead. Its breath puffed rhythmically from its snout, condensing on the chilled evening air in effervescent clouds.

Boris's father leaned forward and glared expressionless at the black beast. In a low, breathy voice, as though speaking of some maleficent manifestation, he said, "It's him!"

Boris shivered. Any moment now the creature would surely chant some foul incantation, or call upon a wraith to put him and his father to the sword, he thought. Mustering a little courage he said "who, Dad? Who's him?"

"Look at his eyes," his father replied. "Look closely at his eyes."

Boris squinted. The boar turned its head and stared straight at him.

Boris gulped, studied the beast's face for a moment and said "it's not there."

"What's not there?"

"His eye, his left eye. He hasn't got one."

"Exactly!"

"Why, Dad? What happened to it?"

"I took it from him - the day he tried takin' my leg."

"Oh! You mean he tried to eat you?"

"Aye lad, after I'd fallen and knocked myself unconscious. Woke up to find the brute with his teeth buried in me calf. He was hungry, I'll tell thee. No way he was gonna let go of his dinner. So I had to persuade him otherwise with me knife."

The boar sniffed the ground once more and returned its attention to the bait. It stood motionless, studying, waiting suspiciously. In a flash it lunged for the fruit and crashed helplessly through the forest floor. No sooner had it had been swallowed by the pit than it let out a spine-chilling squeal. Boris's father scrambled for the pit, knocking his son to the ground and demolishing the hide in the process. He stood over the pit for a moment then beckoned Boris to join him. Boris ran to his father's side spear at the ready and looked into the pit.

The boar, pierced through its neck by a spike, writhed and squealed, frantically trying to free itself. Blood spurted from its throat in short bursts, spattering the walls of the pit, and turning them black in the fading light. Boris shook with excitement and horror. Right before him, in the hole that he had dug with his own hands was violence and gore and drama. He felt no sympathy for the boar. He saw only an enemy and dinner.

"Well," said his father, "what do you think we do now?"

Raising his voice to be heard over the boar's shrieks he replied "die pig, die?"

"That's right, lad."

Boris poised, ready for his father to take the lead, but his father showed no movement, no hint of raising his spear. He merely smiled at Boris and directed a single nod towards the pit.

It promptly occurred to Boris that his father had no intention of taking part in the slaughter.

Boris's primal instinct kicked in. He fixed his gaze on the flailing pig, raised his spear above his head, and let out his war cry: "DIE PIG, DIE!"

With unrelenting ferocity, he thrust the spear repeatedly into the boar's back. The boar's shrieks intensified, rousing Boris's lust for blood. "DIE PIG, DIE!" he screamed over and over. The war cry now turned to a chant and the stabbing adopted a frenzied rhythm.

Again he tore the spear out of the boar's flesh and again he raised it high above his head. This time, taking careful aim, he drove it deep into the base of the boar's skull. And with that decisive strike, the boar fell silent and still.

Boris paused for a moment, turned to his father with glaring eyes and said "d'ya think it's dead?"

"It is at the very least, dead," his father replied.

"I killed it, didn't I Dad?"

"That you did lad."

"Why didn't you use your spear, Dad?"

"Because the code forbids it."

"What code is that, Dad?"

"The one that states: a man's first kill shall be carried out by him and him alone."

"A ma...?" Boris gasped. Did he just say?? Did he really call me a? a?? He did. He did!

Boris's eyes glistened as he tried desperately to gulp back the tears. Don't cry, he said to himself. Men don't cry.

Steeling himself, he examined his blood-daubed spear and commented on how pointy it was, concluding that it did its job.Both men looked again into the pit and observed a moment's

silence for their fallen adversary. Resting a hand on Boris's shoulder, his father said "happy birthday, son."