The Hunt

An Easter tradition has evolved in our household. Just as my sons have turned from cute little Easter Bunny believers into full combat teenagers, so too has the hunt.

There are three rules: only one egg at a time; no stealing from baskets; no weapons.

I sneak around in the quiet hours on Easter Sunday morning and hide the ninety odd Easter eggs I have collected over time. Some are plastic, but most are chocolate. I stash them up trees, in hollows, on eaves, under bridges and between beehives. I poise them precariously on fallen trees crossing the creek. I pop them under broody hens and tuck them under the banana leaves, careful not to disturb the resident python. I scatter small eggs across the lawn and toss them into spiky succulents. I draw a mud map to keep track of the hiding spots.

Toby, the eldest, talks a big game, attempting to intimidate his opponents. Mason, the youngest, is a big physical presence and has winning running through his veins. Angus, the middle child, is not competitive by nature, but still feels the adrenaline rush of possibly beating his brothers.

I raise the old school cap gun in the air. They look up, eagerly watching, waiting. 

Crack! The hunt begins!

Immediately, Toby and Mason dive for an exposed egg on the lawn. They are rolling and wrestling, until the egg is a mush of purple foil and smeared chocolate. Toby squashes it on Mason’s face. Angus strolls past, shakes his head and gently plucks an egg from a nearby pot plant.

Gareth, my husband, sips his morning coffee and watches the red-faced wrens tittering in the frangipani. He is the basket guard.

The boys dash, clash, rumble, and stumble. They yell, howl, bicker, and taunt. The largest egg is golden. It floats on the dam, wrapped in Tupperware. Toby spots it and quickly launches the canoe. Mason sees him go and desperately scans for a way to reach the golden egg first. Suddenly, he plunges into the eel infested water, swimming through the murky pond weed. It’s worth it. He is triumphant.

I count the eggs and declare the winner. 

This year, it is Mason. He gloats. Angus generously donates his eggs to his brothers. He doesn’t even like chocolate. Until next year.