by LeRoy Clary
“Close enough. I lived with other people a short time, and there were a few other things that happened, but that’s the basic story.”
Shell found it hard to believe someone could live in the grasslands without water, and the animals living there were few, so hunting was scarce. He said, “Water?”
“The Grasslands turn into the Drylands five or six days walk west of here. The food was scarce, but water is critical and harder to find. I made arcs.”
“What are those?”
“Whenever I found water I set up camp. Then I made half-circles to the west and explored, always careful to never move so far I couldn’t return to the water before I ran out. The next day I went in a larger arc and did that again until I found more water. When I did, I returned to my last camp and gathered my things and moved west, always west.”
“For two years?”
“Well, some places had only a seep of water, and I moved on quickly, but others had a pond or small lake, and even a few small streams. At some places, I stayed until the local game became scarce, more than two months at one pond.”
Shell nodded as he allowed his imagination to fill in blanks, but again he’d already learned from Quester. Never travel beyond the ability to return to your source of water. If you must return, you can always search for water in another direction. For Shell, who had traveled away from home only one time, and then on a well-known road, the information both cheered and depressed him. Yes, he had learned something new, a simple survival skill. But what else had he not learned?
That was the depressing part. Shell needed to impress upon himself how much he didn’t know. It amounted to the justification of why he agreed to travel with someone not of the Dragon Clan, but still, such a small item as the lack of knowledge of locating water indicated the vast amount he needed to learn if he was to survive.
Quester had again taken the lead. The mountains to the west that had seemed so close two days ago were no closer in appearance, other than that the peaks were more slightly more defined. Their progress was a fast walk across rolling hills covered in dry brown grass with few obstacles. Remembering Quester’s warning, Shell watched behind constantly, and as he turned once, he saw a where the grass waved in the breeze to the south, all but in one small place.
“Quester, I something’s sneaking up behind us and to our left. I don’t think it’s the highwaymen I fought with, but I can’t be sure.”
“Okay, don’t stop walking or let him know you spotted him. Look out of the corner of your eye, so you don’t give yourself away that you’re looking for him. Now that we know we’re followed let’s wait and see what we have back there. Good eye.”
“You already knew he was back there, didn’t you?”
“For a while,” Quester said.
“Maybe we can lay a trap?” Shell asked.
“More likely get ready to run.”
“That’s your plan? Running away like a coward?”
“Running, like a live coward. Fighting is always my last option,” Quester said. “I’ll set a trap when I can, but I never fight unless I know I’ll win.”
“A warrior fights for what he believes in,” Shell said, puffing out his chest and growing angry at Quester’s self-centered attitude.
Quester continued walking, never once turning his head to look behind. He said, “I have no family, home, or belief to fight for. I fight for myself. If I fight against one enemy fairly, I suppose I’ll win half the time and die the other half. If I run away, I don’t die half the time. I like that option.”
“Those words sound like the words of a coward.”
The other snorted and turned to look over his shoulder, as if looking at Shell, but his eyes were focused in the distance. Squatting for a rest, Quester said, “It’s nothing different than you did with those idiot highwaymen. When they first attacked, you didn’t fight until you managed to get your staff in hand, right? Your staff and your skill gave you the advantage to fight and win, so you did.”
“Advantage, yes, but I didn’t run away.”
Quester shrugged and said, “What if those two highwaymen had prevented you from getting to your staff. Would you have attacked them with your bare hands?”
“That’s silly.”
“Of course it is. You would have run away. Just like me. I could go on and ask why you didn’t attack when there were five of them, or why you waited until they were asleep to light fire to their huts, or why you laid in a hollow half a day watching your back trail.”
“It seems different somehow,” Shell answered slowly, choosing his words carefully. It seemed that Quester managed to turn and twist them—or perhaps just offered realities Shell had never considered.
“If they had followed you to that hollow, would you have stood and fought all five as a true warrior? Or run?” Quester stood and began walking again.
Shell knew he’d have run in a similar situation. He had chosen the hollow partly because it left a way to escape unseen, a back door. But he didn’t like Quester saying as much. His eyes shifted to the grass a few hundred steps behind and saw a smooth ripple like a wave on a lake moved, but across the land. In one place, the size of a man didn’t ripple. It was not that he saw someone out there, it was that if a man was there, that’s the way the grass would react. He’d watched the wind in the grasslands his whole life and protected his flock by spotting similar dangers.
“Still watching us,” he said.
Quester said, “I know. Keeping pace with us, but I don’t think it’s a man.”
“Why not?”
“The grass out there is too short to hide him unless he’s on his knees.”
That observation meant a creature stalked them, and Shell couldn’t get the idea out of his mind. He’d never been stalked. Now and then he caught a glimpse of movement or a subtle shift color, but more often he only saw the grass move where there should be no movement or the other way around. The color of the creature blended in with the browns of the parched grasslands so well that it couldn’t be seen at a distance.
When they paused for a break, nothing in the grass moved, and as soon as they continued, the movement resumed. Shell muttered, “Stalking, or following us for sure.”
“There’s a difference?” Quester asked.
After a few more steps Shell said, “Yes. Following us might be innocent or curious.”
Quester barked a sour laugh. “Animals are not guilty or innocent. They can be interested in us, smell out food, or think we’re food. But following can become stalking, right?”
“We’ll keep an eye on it,” Shell had said, trying to end the conversation. Whatever was following them might be a danger, but he thought he might know the creature. Much shorter than a man, moving through the grass with flashes of brown described the dog that used to herd his sheep and goats until it became too old and slow, the old dog he’d petted as he left home. It would be just like Max to follow Shell.
Late in the day, the grass gave way to shrubs and taller plants. At a wide stream, Quester said, “Why don’t we make our camp here tonight?”
“Fine. I have a confession of sorts. I caught a few glimpses of that animal following us, and I think it might be an old dog that used to watch my flock.”
“Oh, that would be much better than what I had in mind. How sure are you?”
Shell shrugged. “I’m not at all sure. I’ve been thinking about it, and I convinced myself it was him, but now that you ask, Max is old and probably couldn’t keep up with walking all day.”
The bow slipped off Quester’s neck as if by itself, and he slid his backpack off his shoulders and let it fall to the ground. Stringing the bow, he said, “I’ll go back and see what it is. Do you mind making a fire for us?”
“Not if you don’t shoot my dog with an arrow,” Shell muttered, more to himself than to his new friend. He placed his staff within easy reach and put his bow and quiver beside it. If it was Max back there, he didn’t know what would be the right thing to do. Leaving Max in the wildernes
s ensured his death, but he couldn’t go all the way back and return him to his family. It was too far. Then he changed his mind. If needed, he would do it. Taking a slow old dog along with him across the mountains didn’t make sense.
Quester, ready to leave, asked, “Are you sure it’s not your dog?”
“Maybe.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Shell gathered firewood from beside the banks of the stream and scooped several handfuls of cold water to drink. He looked up and down the stream for a deeper hole where he could use his fishing line. The coil and hook remained in a pouch in his backpack, but Shell didn’t see pools of water more than knee deep. Besides, fishing after a flash-flood didn’t make sense. He had saved the last of the hard crackers his mother placed in the bag, but tomorrow he needed to either gather food or hunt.
Travel would become secondary unless Quester had food he was willing to share. Fortunately, there was more than enough water in the area. Food became the issue. The edges of the stream he searched, held no evidence of animals drinking from it. But hunting, tracking, and living wild were not Shells strong points. However, most animals lived near water. He’d heard edible plants grow on the banks of rivers if you know what to look for, but he didn’t know which ones.
He built a fire and spread his blanket, then settled in to wait. Quester hadn’t provided a timetable, but he’d made it sound as if he wouldn’t return quickly. Shell watched the fire until his eyes closed. He decided to rest them for just a moment.
He awoke with a start as if still lost in a dream. A red dragon wanted him to travel across the world until they met. A convoluted mass of sensory overload kept his mind unsure of his state, sleeping or awake. It was not a nightmare or a vivid dream about his quest. Instead, it was soft, and demanding, a harsh whisper in the forefront of his mind, down deep where emotions are kept and didn’t fade when his eyes opened.
One fact rose above others as he cleared his thinking. He believed the whispers were the same ‘voice’ of a dragon he’d heard at night for almost a year. The calls hadn’t been as forceful or intense before tonight, but they ‘sounded’ similar enough to be the same. The primary difference was that the whispers tonight implied something more, they cried danger. Danger and speed. The calling voice wanted him to hurry.
Before Shell could get his thoughts fully in order, Quester stumbled into camp. Shell turned to him, taken by his sudden appearance and general demeanor. “You look terrible. Did you find it?”
“No. I found where the animal had been several times,” he sat heavily beside the stack of firewood and tossed more on the coals. “It was like it knew where I was and it moved to avoid me, like a game where it stayed one step ahead. I tried sneaking up on it four times, but each time it moved before I could see it. It’s still on the other side of the river.”
“Maybe it heard you? Or smelled wood smoke like I did.”
“No, I’m good at this. Remember how I sneaked up behind you?”
“Okay, I’ll agree with that. What happened?”
“I wish I knew. I never caught a look at it, but there were signs,” he held up his hand, fingers splayed. “Footprints this size.”
Shell refused to allow his eyes to roll, but barely.
“Some kind of wolf, I think. Bigger than any I’ve heard of. Not your dog, for sure, unless your dog’s head reaches my chest.” Quester said, as he settled down and pulled his blanket over himself.
The answers provided relief, of a sort. Shell would not have to make decisions about the old dog, Max, but he would have to worry about what was out there. “Listen, more than half the night has passed. You get some sleep while I stand watch on the river from the bank where I have a good view. If it crosses, I’ll let you know.”
“Wake me early.”
“You’re tired. Sleep until you wake up and then we’ll leave. By the way, I’m out of food.”
“By the way, me too.” Quester tried to smile, but when his eyes closed, they didn’t open again. He breathed the soft, exhausted snores of a man who had gone beyond his normal reserves.
Shell slipped from camp and found a place on a small rise that gave him a full view of the river. Anything the size of a dog swimming would make a wake he would see in the moonlight. Since rising, the stars and quarter moon, let him see almost as well as in daylight, but without the colors. He allowed his eyes to roam up and down the river, not focused on any single thing, but knowing that they would detect movement instantly.
That proved itself later when a small deer slowly emerged and carefully took a drink from the water on the far bank. He mentally marked the spot. In the morning, Quester could perhaps help him track the deer, and they’d have food for days. He watched it slip silently back into the brush.
A coyote pack emerged from somewhere behind him and loped to the water with their curious gait, five of them. While four lapped water, one stood guard. Suddenly, the guard froze and emitted a low growl that raised the hairs on the back of Shell’s neck as well as drawing the attention of the other coyotes.
But they were not looking in Shell’s direction. Like Shell, they watched across the river, where Shell saw nothing, near where the deer disappeared. The other four coyotes, now as alert as the first, stood ready to react. One sniffed the air for scent, his nose held high into the air, then it cowed and backed away from the water, the others following suit as if terrified.
Shell held still. They were backing in his direction, but long before they reached his position, they turned and ran, their tails between their legs. He didn’t watch the coyotes for long. Shell kept his eyes on the far bank where nothing moved or showed itself.
When the sun rose, Shell held perfectly still. If whatever stalked them was going to follow, it would have to show itself by crossing the river.
Later, when the sun rose high enough to provide heat, Quester slipped to his side. “All quiet?”
“Yes, and no.” He told Quester about the coyotes and their odd behavior. “There was a deer over there getting a drink, and I watched where it went. And there is something else over there I can’t make out. See that large white rock on the hillside? Now, look at that stump on the river bank?”
Quester nodded again.
“That’s where the deer went. Now, look directly between the rock and stump. See that patch of brown that doesn’t match the surroundings?”
“I see it,” Quester said. “What is it?”
“I’ve been watching it, and I think I see blood on the rocks.”
“It’s not your imagination. It might not be blood, but it’s definitely a color that is out of place. Let me grab our bows, and we’ll go take a look.”
Shell said, “Get them, I’ll keep watch,” But Quester had already rushed in a crouch to their campsite. He returned quickly and handed the bow Shell still had never shot to him.
Quester said, “Follow me.”
They moved down the slope to the edge of the river and watched the other shoreline and all behind it. Shell’s eyes went to the bank where the brown and red colors stood out. “It looks like a deer.”
“Go easy. The hunter may still be around. In fact, I’d bet on it.” Quester stepped ahead of Shell. “Me first.”
Shell had his bow strung and an arrow fitted, as did Quester. He also loosened his knife so it would slide out easily and fast. They moved closer.
“It is a deer,” Quester said. “Or part of one. A recent kill.”
Shell leaped onto a boulder for height and made a full turn, letting his eyes sweep the area. He said, “Nothing.”
“Way to make a target of yourself. Get down here and help me. And look at the wolf prints while you’re here.” Quester handed him his bow lifted the rear haunch of a small deer, probably the one Shell watched getting a drink during the night. Quester tossed it over a shoulder and grabbed it with his other hand, so the remains of the deer rode directly behind his neck.
Shell stood transfixed at the dozens of wolf prints. Max was a larger breed of dog, a
nd most people considered his paws large, but these were easily twice the size. A wolf whose head came to Quester’s chest had left the kill and might return at any time.
Quester had turned and ran for the river carrying the deer, not bothering to waste breath in telling Shell to follow. Shell tried to keep up, but at the same time, he kept his attention behind and to the sides. Whatever had killed the deer would not appreciate them stealing its kill.
They splashed across the river like two crazy men stealing meat from a dangerous predator. Once on the other bank, Quester ran to the dying coals of the fire and sat the haunch on his blanket. “Keep a good watch.”
“I’ve never shot this bow.”
“So you keep telling me. Did you ever learn to scream?”
“Well, yes.”
“Then do that if you see the wolf.”
Feeling chastised, Shell rushed to the side of the river and looked both ways, upstream and down. Glancing behind, he saw Quester already skinning the meat. There were slices of venison lying beside him, and more being added as the fire grew. The fire had more wood on it. The flames climbed waist high.
Shell turned back to the river and made sure nothing moved to cross it. Then his mind played a dirty trick on him. It remembered Quester holding out his splayed hand indicating the size of the track the creature following them left. His mind pictured a giant wolf-like creature bounding out of the grass across the river and in four or five giant leaps to reach him before he could run.
Shell backed away from the water and called to Quester, “I’m going up higher where I have a better view.”
Quester nodded while slipping strips of venison onto green sticks to slow-roast over the fire. Dried and smoked, the strips would last for months. But cooked, they would last only long enough to feed the two young men. They might sun-dry part of them later and perhaps even smoke them. But, they would have food for days.
Shell watched the river and the shore across, trying to find where the creature might be. The deer could almost be a gift from another animal, but he didn’t think so. Grasslands only support a few carnivores because there is not enough food for more. He’d already seen the coyotes and the stalker wolf, so how many more could there be in this one location? Besides, mentioning the idea to Quester would invite a lecture on how animals don’t share.