by Ron Rayborne
A couple of hours later, he was at the bottom, then paused to get a drink and take his bearings. He looked up. These trees seemed taller, the canopy higher, making the forest floor a little darker and quieter. It was dismaying. Still, he knew it was morning, and thought that, if he persevered, he should be able to make it to the clearing today. He wanted that, to make it out of the forest today. The thought of spending another night in its dark embrace with no protection was too much.
Onward he tramped, step by step, for, it seemed, another hour, until he began to doubt his estimation of the distance to the trail. Then he feared that he’d passed it, some overgrown section perhaps hiding the way. Tom stopped and studied the signs. No, he didn’t think he’d passed it, since there’d been no overhead clearing yet, the one he’d seen the trail through. If memory served him, that narrow gap had run north and south for a relatively long distance. He should run into it. Evidently, though, he was wrong about it being only two and a half-miles away.
As he walked, Tom was again alarmed by the variety of unfamiliar forest sounds around him. Sometimes, something would run quickly by, and, though jerking his head, he’d barely catch sight of it. Unconsciously, he kept a hand on the gun.
Over, under, through and around he went, over, under, through and around, pushing past verdant growth. In the meantime, the sun was making its own slow trek across the sky. Eventually, he came to a stream. Removing his pack, Tom kneeled to get a drink. He needed a rest.
He wasn’t sure when he became aware that he wasn’t alone. Maybe it was the sound of a twig breaking, or a light rustle of leaves on the ground nearby. He raised his eyes and slowly glanced around. His jaw dropped. Through the dappled light he could see shapes, lots of shapes, and they saw him. Fear shot through the man and instantly he dropped his hand to the gun on his belt. None of the animals moved, though. Slowly, Tom stood. There was a nicker. High pitched. The sound vaguely familiar. Between him and the main part of the pack was a tree, and right on the other side of it, not ten feet away, was one of the little creatures. Its head was hidden. Tom crept around the other side for a better look. Heads began to pop up, watching him attentively. Finally, the little animal that he was stalking raised its head, too.
Tom frowned. It couldn’t be. But it was. Horses. Little horses. A whole herd of them here in the forest.
Fear melting, Tom spoke. “Hello,” he said gently. The little thing jumped, then, keeping a wary eye out, moved away. The others moved off too, though not far. Still, they kept their ears turned toward him. Their coats were spotted, camo style, and the mane on their necks short, upright and stiff-looking. They also had little miniature tails. Tom found them cute. He guessed that there were about twenty of them. After a while, deciding that he posed no threat, they resumed eating. On the menu were leaves from the trees and the understory, he noted.
One horse climbed partly on the back of another. Ah, Tom thought, a little indiscretion. “Okay, well, I’ll leave you in privacy then,” he said, turning to tiptoe away. The little horses did not move off this time, but never stopped watching him. When he was out of sight, he resumed a more deliberate gait. Somehow, the knowledge that he wasn’t alone in this dark wood gave him comfort.
A half-hour after meeting the horses, Tom finally came to the gap in the forest, and, relieved, immediately turned right and toward the exit. He knew, though, from his view on the mountain earlier, that this stretch would be about twice the distance as from it to the forest path. It worried him greatly. He might not be able to make it out by sundown. On the other hand, the route here was clearer than before and he’d make better time. He picked up his pace, not an easy thing considering the extra weight he was carrying. Every now and then, he would be startled by an abrupt sound of some solitary creature that had spotted him first, then high-tailing it. More often than not, he never saw them. When he did, it was usually too dark to make out what they were.
Tom stopped when he spied a large animal in his way. A great burly beast, it had not seen him. He had no idea what it was, but thought it might be a carnivore. There were horns on its head — sharp, pointed and dangerous looking. That made Tom more than a little uneasy. The big brute was standing right in his way. Tom ducked furtively behind a tree, hoping the animal would not be long. But no, it showed no inclination to leave, and, in fact, he surmised, might even be sleeping. When he attempted a walk around it, the sound of dry leaves crunching underfoot unnerved him, and thus, annoyed, he opted to wait. In this way, Tom lost another hour of daylight.
When darkness began to fall, Tom’s apprehension rose. Realizing he would not make it out in time, he decided to set up his tent/hammock while there was yet enough light to do so. Choosing two trees close enough to each other to accommodate his sleeping quarters, he then fought to install it high as he could. Maddeningly, though, it kept slipping down, until he tied it so that both ropes rested in notches between the trunks of suitably spaced branches. When he could no longer see, Tom climbed inside to spend an awful night, not only because he was thoroughly terrified, or because the hammock sagged deeply in the middle, but also because it began to rain and water dripped in and on him. Still, after lying awake much of the night, miserable and wet, listening and imagining, his body eventually rebelled and he stole a dash of sleep through sheer exhaustion.
In the morning, Tom woke late, achy and grumpy. He looked a frazzled wreck, but no one was looking. Unzipping the bag, he fell to the ground, then, swearing, stood. Fortunately, below was a thick carpet of soft and springy, if somewhat soggy, leaves. Sullenly, he changed clothes, then pulled down and repacked the hammock, cursing its designers. Within a quarter-hour he was back on his way. As the sun rose, though, Tom found his mood lifting. He didn’t think that he was far now from the forest exit.
Here and there were larger openings in the canopy and sunlight would stream in most welcomely. Tom came to one opening that was much larger. A beautiful meadow with a stream flowing out of the forest and right through it. It headed toward the middle where there was a boulder, and under that, a pool of water, then it continued on back into the murky woods. Something was lying close to the pool. Something very large and dark. Tom backed up. The animal did not hear him and continued its slumber. Then he noticed at the fringe, other animals, some of the little horses he’d seen before. They were hanging back, seemingly afraid to go to the pool. He also spied some small, deer-like fauna.
Tom looked back at the big beast by the pool, lazily snoozing, its side heaving up and down with breath. It jumped slightly, legs moving. He made to run, but the thing remained where it was, evidently only dreaming. He thought that if the other animals, which were likely well acquainted with the beast, were keeping their distance, maybe he should too. So, slowly, Tom inched his way back toward the dark. When he was nearly there and was stepping around a tree, he happened to tread on a dead branch. It cracked loudly. The beast, alerted, suddenly jumped up. Tom dove behind the tree and stood still, though his heart galloped.
A loud grunt emerged from the meadow. Ever so slowly, not wanting to be surprised, Tom peered around the tree. There, he saw a massive form, a pig/boar looking thing with a huge hump just past its neck, glaring around and sniffing the air. He watched it, amazed. It seemed, though, not to have the best of vision; eyes tiny and inky black. Likely, it relied on its sense of smell and hearing, he surmised. Besides various grotesque protuberances on its head, it also had a formidable set of teeth and massive canines. They looked like they could do some real damage. Overall, the creature was unkempt and hideous, monstrous even.
Tom wondered what it was. Then he remembered another device that he’d been given, the Photo Identifier. If he could get it out and snap the thing’s picture, it would tell him. Curiosity overcoming good sense, Tom, with the greatest caution, wrestled the pack off and set it on the ground, propping it against the tree. Then he tried to remember which pocket contained the P.I. Having determined that, he grasped the zipper and began to pull. It made a characteristic s
taccato sound. Not too loud, but the pig must have heard, for now it gave an ear-splitting shriek, sending the other creatures at the periphery scattering. Tom cringed, stopped. He peered around the tree again. The pig-thing was sniffing the air in his direction. It shrieked again, A noise loud enough to wake the dead, Tom thought, involuntarily sticking his fingers in his ears.
More shrieking. Holy sh... Tom let go of the zipper and reached for his gun.
Suddenly, there came a sound of rushing steps, heavy footfalls. He whipped out the gun and pointed, ready.
Crash! Shriek! A ferocious, thundering snarl. The racket was deafening.
Tom jumped out from behind the tree ready to fire, but froze. Another animal, brawny, yet a little smaller than the pig, was now locked in mortal combat with the first. Apparently the pig’s shrieking had gotten its attention. The movement was so fast that Tom couldn’t make out what it was. All he saw were slashing tusks, and a great brown head, all teeth, grabbing that huge black neck, crunching down. The fight raged on, and blood was flying out in every direction, but Tom couldn’t tell whose it was, although it looked like the pig was getting the worst of it. Finally, the big brown dog-like creature gave a mighty shake. The pig squealed. The brown one bit down harder, a sound of crunching. Shook again, then the pig went limp. The other animal held the neck of the pig-thing in its bloody mouth, then dropped it, lifeless. The smaller beast grunted with exhaustion and sat on its haunches, breathing hard. It almost seemed to be smiling. Then it began to lick its other side.
Tom, heart still pounding, thought it would be best to make his exit and started to back away, trying to avoid the dryer leaves so as not to make too much noise, when another shape caught his attention. Small, tawny-red, long fur. A short tail held straight up. Gingerly, it walked over to the other animal, sniffing as it did. At first, Tom feared for the little one, then he noticed a resemblance between them, saw the teats. Ah, mother and child. This could be dangerous.
Tom made again to leave, holding the gun firmly. The mother, still panting, moved to get up, to greet her baby with the kill, but immediately faltered and sat down again. Something in the way she did it, ungracefully, caught his notice. Then she lay down near her prize, puffing heavily. Something wrong. He continued to watch. Her baby walked to her and gently touched her muzzle, then licked its mother’s face. Mother closed her eyes, now wheezing, and rolled onto her side. Then Tom saw it: a large, gaping wound, spilling blood, soaking her coat ... and the ground. He drew in a breath. The little one, not understanding, walked to the kill and sniffed at it, mother turning her great head to look, to make sure she ate, then lying it back upon the ground.
Her breath came now in great, drawing gasps. She’s dying, Tom thought. Her little one, though, continued to eat. Then the mother struggled to get up, a dreadful effort. Finally standing, she wavered, then fell back on her haunches, then up again. Like a drunk, she walked over to the stream of water and bent her head to sip, dehydration coming swiftly. Her muscular legs shook and she stumbled once more, then collapsed, but, now near the water, she was able to drink freely. After a time, she stopped and closed her mouth. Her little one came to her, making soft mewling sounds. It sniffed at its mother’s sides. Eyes closed, she held her head up and it rocked with her panting. Loud puffs; yet her breathing was slowing. Her head went down, breath slowing further. Large heaves of her chest, then ... then ... it was still. Her mouth opened, and her head rolled into the stream. She was dead.
The little one made a small, barking sort of sound. Sniffed at its mother’s massive head. Barked again. Whimpered. Barked. Then it grabbed a mouthful of the thick fur under mother’s ear and pulled. Bravely, it threw its slight weight backwards. Tug, tug, tug. It barely rocked the huge head. Bark, tug, tug, tug. After a while, spent, it stopped, sat, then, whimpering, it walked next to mother’s side and lay down there, absorbing what warmth it could from her. Every now and then, Tom caught the sound of muted whining.
The whole thing had happened so fast. One moment’s thundering life followed suddenly by the eerie silence of death. The whole forest silent. It shook him. Tom cast about, not knowing what to do. Finally, he decided it was time to go. Grabbing his pack, he hefted it up, grunting under its weight. Too heavy. Getting it on, he turned and walked away, leaves crunching underfoot. He looked to see if the little one noticed, but if it heard him, it gave no indication. Still it lay there, next to mother’s protective side. The smell of her would probably keep other predators away for a while, he reasoned. In the night it would probably slink away and begin its life alone. It would have to grow up fast to survive in this world. Maybe instinct would take over and it would be all right. Tom wished it well.
But, deep down, he knew the little one would die too.
Tom trudged on over the leaves. A smell of tannin in the air, of wet, decomposing humus. A wisp of coolness touching his cheeks. Where the sun made it in, though, he felt warmth. A sudden explosion of wings and birds that had been unseen upon the ground abruptly took flight. He jerked, heart thudding. Cursed. Something was bothering him. He didn’t want to think about it. Continued on. The forest menaced; he had to leave it. Make it to the open plains. He didn’t know how much farther it was.
Tom, nerves tight, kept a cautious eye out on either side of him as he walked, not wanting to be surprised again. He still held the gun in his hand, then, seeing it, holstered it at his side. The pack dug into his shoulders. He’d forgotten to connect the belt. He stopped, panting. He’d been walking fast, thinking only of getting out of the forest. He bent over to snap the buckle. Still troubled. He was avoiding something. Click. Straightening. Looking ahead, he stood. He knew what it was; knew what was nagging him like an old woman. But he couldn’t. There was no way. It was foolish to even think it. Tom stood looking out, southward toward the exit, still a ways off, angry. He shook his head. Cursed again. Then, closing his eyes, he sighed and turned around.
He couldn’t leave the little thing to its fate without at least trying to do something. And so he headed back into the dark. A half dozen times he thought of turning back again, but he couldn’t. Not Tom.
A quarter-hour later, he was there. Tom looked at the horrible scene. Still lying by its mother’s side, was the little animal. The sweet little creature that would grow up to be just as awful as she. But it wasn’t now. He glanced around to make sure that nothing else unpleasant was hanging around, but there was naught, at least not apparent. Slowly, Tom walked to the two huge mounds. The big black one and the smaller brown one not far from it. Finally, standing between them there, he was awed by their sizes. Much larger than they’d looked from fifty yards away. Monstrous. The air was thick with the smell of iron. Blood from both animals had saturated the ground in iron red, red mixed with red, indistinguishable. At that level, we’re all the same, Tom thought, so why do we fight? A silly question.
The little beastie had not moved, its eyes still closed.
“Hey, little one,” Tom said softly. It didn’t move. He wondered if it had somehow willed itself to die, but its steady breathing said no. Crouching down, Tom looked at it, wondering if it was safe to touch. Still its eyes were closed.
“Hi,” he whispered. Reaching out a hand, Tom lightly patted the coat of the small animal. It opened its eyes and looked at him. Yet it did not seem alarmed and made no other movement. Tom noted a wild look about its eyes. Gray iris surrounded by orange, or was it yellow? Tom brought his hand forward again and slowly stroked its fur, ready to whip it away if necessary. Clean, brindle-colored fur with black ends. Black mixed with brown below its ears. A black muzzle. The tail bushy and short. A lovely coat, likely kept up by mother. The little one closed its eyes again. Peculiar. No fear. Or was it surrender? He continued to stroke, the fur soft and pleasant to touch.
“I’m sorry about your mother,” Tom said sadly. “I’m sure she was a wonderful mom.” There was no reply.
“So what happens now, little one?” The little one rolled onto its side while he pet.
He judged it to be about a month old, maybe two, though he had no real idea. Looked like it weighed about ten pounds or so.
“Do you want to come with me?” Tom asked, forgetting his previous reticence. Then remembering it, he felt ashamed. How could he think of leaving a baby like this alone in the woods? He crouched down next to little one, then put two hands on it, front and back. When there was no reaction, Tom began to lift. Amazingly, the little beast never opened its eyes. Gently, he set it in his lap and continued to stroke.
“I have go somewhere, a long way, I could use some company. What do you say, come with me?” He waited, and, hearing no objection, stood with the little one in his arms. It made a tiny barking sound and moved as if to jump off. Tom caught it and set it back down by mother. It walked over and again nestled near her.
“You can’t stay here, little one. Something will come along and eat you!” Now it looked at Tom, head between its front paws. He reached out and stroked once more.
“What if I cut off a piece of that meat over there?” he asked. With that, he walked over to the pig-thing, and, talking his knife, sliced off a big piece. Then he cut off a smaller one. He took it back to the little one and laid it on the ground before her. He noticed now that it was a her. She showed no interest, only staring at Tom. He picked up the piece and acted as if to eat it himself.
“Look. Mmm! It’s good!” Tom said. To his surprise, the little one began to growl, a small, baby growl that sounded more endearing than threatening. Little one got up, and, walking over to Tom, sniffed at the meat in his hand dangling near his mouth, then, gingerly, while keeping its little wild eyes on Tom’s, took it from his fingers. It dropped the meat on the ground, then began to eat. Tom, wondering how long it had been since its last meal, cut off another piece and lay it upon the ground near the animal.