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The Wild Country:
By Markus Thyme:
On silent sandals, Bruce
slipped from tree to bush and bush to tree. The doe grazed placidly in the center
of the clearing, about 30 strides from him. A bit too far for a clean kill. At
that distance an arrow could fatally wound without killing. Then there would be
the endless tracking, through the wild country to put a merciful end to the
creatures suffering.
‘Better to return
without meat,’ thought Bruce.
Donna would be disappointed,
as would the little ones. The elders would not smile on him either.
“Alright little doe,
I’ll wait,” he mused. “Perhaps you will come to me.”
Bruce set his back against a
solid maple tree and lowered himself to a sitting position. He was just within
the shadows at the edge of the clearing. He held his bow at the ready. It could
become a very long day. It would not be the first long day for Bruce the
Younger of Brevard. He was, after all, the hunter. He took a sip of water from
his pouch and chewed a piece of dried meat. He waited.
He had found the doe with
little effort. The sun was only two hands above the horizon when he found her.
He had started the hunt at first light, some time before sunrise. Hunting was
best in the short time after first light. He had heard the thing snort before
he actually saw it. That gave him the advantage of a silent approach from
downwind.
If he could kill the little beast
here, it would be an easy carry back to the tunnels. He waited.
The sun was high in the sky
when the doe began to drift across the clearing, away from him. After a full
morning of patient waiting, Bruce did not wish to give up his prize. He knew it
was the time for action.
He rose to his feet, drawing
a shaft as he did so, and sprinted after the deer. He was within 10 strides
when the doe looked over her shoulder with large startled eyes. Bruce drew back
and launched the shaft. He was off balance and his normally deadly aim was
slightly off. The shaft took the doe in the shoulder rather than the heart. She
reared high and bolted into the forest before he could draw another shaft.
Bruce’s spirit sagged.
He stood silently for only a moment. Then, he shouldered his bow and began what
he knew would be a long, difficult hike. He followed the doe’s track into
the forest.
His advantage was that the
doe could not traverse any terrain that would impede him. He was thankful that
he had not wounded a goat.
Later, he was not so thankful
as he began to realize the stamina and will of his prey. The sun was beginning
to turn crimson when he found her, on her knees, against a tall pine. The shaft
had broken off on the tree.
“I am sorry little
doe,” he said, softly. “Because of my careless shot, you have
suffered much pain and terror. I regret my hasty action. I have treated you as
badly as the invaders have treated the folk.”
He finished her quickly with
his long-knife.
“May you spirit have
swift journey,” he whispered.
In a few quick actions, he
had her gutted and dressed.
He knew it was time to get
away from this place. The blood and guts would attract the wolves and the big
cats. Better to not be here with the best part of the kill. He wrapped the
heart, liver, and kidneys in the hide from the belly and tied it around his
neck. Then he tossed the dressed carcass over his shoulder and followed his
trail back toward the tunnels.
The sun dropped suddenly, as
it does in these hills. He was in momentary darkness, until his eyes adjusted.
Then, there was a pale, silver light from a quarter moon. He knew it would not
last the night. It would be mine-bottom black before he reached the tunnels.
He would liked to have waited
for dawn. He knew a fire would keep the wild animals at bay. He also knew he
could not risk a fire. There was no predicting the invaders. They could be
about with their fliers anytime. Better to risk the wild animals than to end up
as an invader’s dinner.
Later, as he knew it would,
the moon slipped behind a distant mountain and the black night closed in fast.
He had just passed the clearing where he had first found the doe. He was still
far from the tunnels. He drew his long-knife and held it firmly in his free
hand. The rest of his journey would be dangerous, perhaps even fatal.
Just a few steps later, he
hear the big cat behind him and he turned to see the eyes as the beast launched
itself toward him. He stepped sideways and made an upward swing with the
long-knife. He felt it slide off the cat’s ribs as it flew past him. He
also felt a claw rake his shoulder. The contact was followed by a searing pain.
Bruce knew he had a serious wound.
He turned to see the eyes as
two spots of gold in the black of night. He heard the cat breathing as the eyes
moved left and right. He took backward steps until his back pressed against a
huge tree. He never took his eyes off those yellow spots.
He watched the eyes as the
cat paced back and forth looking for an approach. It had great respect for him,
as he did for it.
“You may get the meat
big cat, but you will have to earn it by risking my long-knife,” he
whispered.
He did not know if the cat
could see him or not. See or not, it knew where he was aright. The elders had
said these beasts could see with no light at all. He wondered about that.
Carefully, he slid the
carcass to the ground beside him. Then he eased the bow from his shoulder.
Still holding the long knife in the bow hand, he slid a shaft from the holder
on his back. He notched it and lifted the bow to aim. His focus was a spot
between and one finger below the eyes, where the soft nose bone fits under the
forehead. The distance was, at most, four strides.
He loosed the shaft and was
rewarded with a scream of rage and pain from the cat. The eyes moved backward
several strides and stopped. Bruce notched another shaft and waited. He had but
eight shafts left, none to waste. The cat snarled, screamed, and hissed. Bruce
waited and watched the eyes. They slowly slid toward the ground. Then they
stopped moving. Then the golden spots blinked a few times and went out.
“I am sorry big
cat,” sighed Bruce. “You should have settled for the guts. You
would still be alive to mate again if you had.”
He thought about trying to
retrieve the shaft and thought better of it.
“Maybe you’re
dead big cat,” he said. “Maybe you’re just resting. You may
keep the shaft. It is a gift from me.”
Bruce knew he was in a bad
place. He did not know the extent of his wound. He felt the shoulder. There was
a single wet gash, one finger wide, about one hand long, and about one hand
from his neck.
“Close,” he
mused. “You were after my throat big cat. It is well that I moved when I
did.”
He took a pouch from his belt
and urinated in it. He poured the warm urine into and over the gash. Then, he
cut fleshy strips from part of the deerskin and stuffed them flesh in, into the
wound. It would have to do. Where it was, the wound could not be bound. He
wished he had some of elder John’s sticking compound, which he made from
the joints of killed animals.
“No time for
wishes,” he said. “This meat and this wound will attract more
beasts. Time to move on.”
It was not to be so. Even as
he spoke, he heard the snarling of the wolves and the hiss of another cat. They
were not after the dead cat he knew. Not even a cat could stomach the taste of
a cat’s flesh. That was for the carrion eaters. These predators were here
for Bruce and the carcass.
He pulled a shaft from the
holder and notched it. He saw three pairs of eyes. Left of the dead cat, there
were two pair of slanted reddish eyes, which belonged to the wolves or wild
dogs; no difference. The other pair, to the right, were the golden glow of a
big cat.
They approached slowly,
weaving back and forth. They were as wary of each other as they were of him.
The kept a distance between them. There was much snarling and growling as they
warned each other away. None backed off, for the prize was too rich.
Bruce raised the bow and
waited. He took careful aim at the spot between and just below the eyes of the
wolf in the center. Those eyes were just three strides away and narrowing for
the rush when he loosed the shaft.
The wolf howled and snarled
with pain, as it was hit. The eyes turned away and with a deep throated roar,
the cat was on the wounded wolf. It was over in an instant. The other wolf
yelped and retreated.
Bruce quickly notched another
shaft. He waited, but the cat was busy dragging the wolf’s carcass a few
strides away. He heard the crunch of bone between powerful jaws and teeth. He
knew it was fruitless to try to get away. The cat would not be satiated and the
other wolf would be back. He had, at best, a few minutes.
Carefully, with eyes always
toward the cat, he felt his way around the tree. Then, he found what he had
hoped for, a low, sturdy branch. He un-notched the shaft, shouldered the bow,
and drew the long-knife. With the knife in one hand, he lifted the carcass over
his head and placed it in the crotch of the branch. He sheathed the long-knife
and quickly reached for the branch. It was good he was strong for he pulled
himself up to sit beside the carcass.
He was still watching for the
cat when he saw the eyes of the second wolf returning. Bruce felt above him and
found another branch. He lifted the carcass again, then scrambled up behind it.
In this way, moving a bit at a time, he got himself about three man-heights
above the forest floor. Here, he was safe from the wolf, He could hope that the
cat was not hungry enough to risk fighting him in the tree.
He got as comfortable as
possible and settled down to wait. It would be a very long time of waiting. He
dare not fall asleep, lest he fall from his perch. Then, the cat would finish
him quickly.
Time passed slowly. As it
did, his eyes adjusted under starlight and he could make out forms on the
ground. He identified them by size. Two more wolves showed up. The three were
to his left. They circled and weaved a distance from his tree. They had much
respect for the cat to his right.
He saw the bulk of another
cat approaching.
“Better for me,”
he whispered. “Perhaps they will fight.”
Bruce was not so lucky. The
cats hissed and snarled, but they stood off from each other.
“At least keep
yourselves busy,” he whispered.
Some time later, he could
make out the glow of first light in the sky to the East. The crimson of sunrise
would follow shortly. His wait was almost over. His danger was not. To get
these beasts to leave, Bruce would need to kill at least one of them. The
distance they kept made a bowshot unsure. His delicate balance on a tree limb
would not improve his aim. With seven shafts remaining, he would prefer to
spread his legs and make a clean, close shot. For that, he would have to
descend.
“Not yet,” he
whispered. “Not yet.”
The sun was two hands above
the horizon and yellow, when he made his descent. He discovered how weak he had
become, when his throbbing shoulder almost betrayed him. There was intense pain
and his fingers wanted to let him drop. He willed otherwise and got to the
ground without falling. The carcass was still in the tree.
Immediately, as his feet
touched the ground, the cats began closing. The tree was between him and the
wolves. So long as the cats were there, they would not come around. He faced
his most dangerous adversaries.
He notched a shaft as the
cats approached in a stalking posture. One was to his right, the other to his
left. It would be a near thing. He had to let them get close enough to make a
sure shot, but he could kill only one. He might needs to use his long-knife if
he could not get another shaft set.
When the cats were six
strides away, he launched his first shaft at the nearest one to his left. It
was a clean hit to the brain. The cat stopped, reared up, and fell. As he knew
it would, the second cat sprinted toward him. He went to his knee as he notched
a second shaft and shot. The distance was two strides and the cat was in mid
leap. The shaft took it in the throat as Bruce rolled into the bole of the
tree.
The beast hit the earth about
one stride beyond Bruce and skidded another three strides. It tried to turn and
flopped on it’s side. It was struggling to get up as blood poured from
the wounded throat. It had been a lucky hit to the major blood carrier. The cat
would not get up.
Bruce stood up. He saw the
wolf from the corner of his eye. It was circling toward him to the right of the
tree, just enough in line of the tree to make a shot unsure. He knew there
would be another one to his left. Suddenly, the tree had switched sides. It was
no longer his shield. It was shielding the wolves for their approach.
Bruce back stepped quickly
until he was ten strides from the tree. The wolves stopped. They began to
circle wider. He saw there were four of them, two on each side of the tree. He
had five shafts left. He notched one. He had a plan.
He sprinted toward the pair
on his right. As he knew they would, they retreated. Then he whirled with his
bow at the ready. Sure enough, the instant he turned his back, the other pair
had charged. He fired quickly, taking one of them in the chest. Then he ran
past it and turned. He notched an arrow and killed the second one as it turned
toward him.
Now there were two left and
he had but three shafts remaining. His shoulder was throbbing and he felt the
fever in his forehead. His strength was waning. The claw wound was taking it’s
toll. He gathered his will and began walking steadily toward the remaining two.
They had seen enough. They began to retreat. Then they turned and trotted off.
For the time, Bruce had won.
He leaned against the tree
for a moment. Then he took some water from his pouch and began chewing some
dried meat from his store. It was the first time he had thought to eat since he
first stalked the deer. He looked up at the carcass.
“You have cost me
dearly,” he said. “It is most likely my reward for treating you so
badly. I think we are even now. I have earned your meat.”
Bruce rested a moment more.
Then he began the task of retrieving his shafts. One was broken, but he
retrieved and cleaned five. With eight shafts, he felt a bit more secure. He
knew the two wolves would be back to feast on their brothers. The cats would
remain for the carrion eaters, who would slink in at night.
He still had work to do. It
was a struggle to get back up the tree. Twice his arm almost betrayed him. He
saved himself by demanding a great deal of his good arm and his will. He
managed to dump the carcass out of the tree.
As he did so, he said,
“I am sorry to be so rude to you. I feel that we are friends now and I
would have liked to carry you down. I regret, I have not the strength.”
He managed to slide down to
the ground without breaking anything. Wearily, he shouldered the carcass and
turned westward, toward the tunnels. It would be a long and wearying walk, but
the sun was out and the day was clear and bright. Bruce would sup with the folk
this night.
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