by Gary Paulsen
And food. It always came back to that. He had to eat.
He chewed on the end of a long piece of red grass. He wondered what his parents would do when they found out he was gone. He was their life. His mom was a member of the parents’ club at school. She never missed a function and volunteered for everything. And his dad ... his dad was so proud of his only son, he had established a college fund when Mark was a baby. He told all his friends that someday his son was going to be a doctor.
I could use a doctor right now, Mark thought. He closed his eyes and dreamed of going home.
chapter 8
Days turned into weeks. Mark didn’t know how many. He did his best not to think so much about home, his parents and the way things had been, and tried instead to concentrate on the strange new world around him.
His ribs had been slow to heal. For weeks his diet had consisted mainly of a variety of insects. He’d managed to find a kind of bland-tasting grub worm that lived in the flowering plants and a jumping red bug that reminded him of the grasshoppers back home, only larger. Once in a while he was lucky enough to find a discarded tree rock that one of the monkey-bears had dropped in the dark jungle.
Now he was making circles again. He still was wearing his bandage and was careful not to push himself too hard, but scouting was important to him. If he wanted to go home, the blue light had to be found.
On one of his rounds he’d discovered a swamp of quicksand not too far into the dark jungle. If it hadn’t been for a screaming bird that was stuck in it and fighting to get free, he might have stumbled into it himself.
Another time, on a round in the light jungle, he’d found a clear pool of water that came from an underground spring. Visiting the pool was a treat for him. It was his favorite part of every day. When he’d first seen his reflection in the pond it had startled him. The person looking up from the water was so skinny his bones stood out like a skeleton’s—a dirty skeleton with shaggy, matted hair.
If he stood just right and looked through an open patch of jungle, beyond the pool he could see the peaks of distant mountains. He’d made up his mind to go there when he was completely well.
The tree house was much different now. In between hunting for food and scouting, Mark had fashioned a wooden ladder by securing rungs to two tall branches with vines. He had also added a second story, a small platform that held his food supplies.
He’d also put a lot of effort into weapons. The best one so far was a spear. It was a long straight pole with a finely carved point. Now he was working on a bow using a strong stick and the shoestring from his boot. He still hadn’t made too much progress with it, and there didn’t seem to be much straight wood for arrows.
He had to hunt for food, and he’d need skins for clothing when his jeans wore out, but he didn’t seem to need weapons for defense. So far the animals in the area hadn’t posed much of a threat. The buffalo creatures came around, but because of their poor eyesight Mark could easily hide from them. They represented a lot of meat, of course, but running up to one of them and sticking a spear in it bordered on suicide. Other animals didn’t bother him, and except for occasional visits from Willie, the monkey-bears didn’t want anything to do with him. To them he was just another animal in the jungle.
Twice, Mark had killed fat-head lizards. He had used some of his match tips to start a fire and had roasted his catch on the end of a green limb. The meat was a little grainy but they were the most filling meals he’d had since coming to the red forest.
Life was simple. Find food, scout the countryside, try to make new things and sleep.
Life was simple. Except that sometimes in the still of the night he could hear the faint call of the Howling Thing. And once at the pool he’d seen tracks that resembled dog prints—only bigger.
chapter 9
Whenever he went out now Mark took the spear. The sharpened point was four inches long, and it made him feel better to carry the weapon. His circles were getting larger and sometimes he was forced to spend the night away from his tree.
That day he had traveled quite a distance from home. Early that morning he had packed both socks and his boot with food, stopped by the pool for a long drink and then started out.
To anyone else the miles of red forest and never ending trees might have looked the same. But Mark was getting to be an expert at noticing differences. Earlier he had discovered a new meadow where the grass wasn’t quite so red and was short and dry. The trees weren’t as tall there either, and their leaves had an odd orange tint.
Mark continued on, listening for new sounds. His ears had become tuned to every noise in the jungle. He knew even small sounds like the breeze rippling through the grass.
Here, though, something was making him uncomfortable. It wasn’t so much what he heard as the sounds he didn’t hear. This part of the jungle was too still—not even the sound of birds.
Ahead of him a newly broken twig dangled from a larger branch. Mark stopped and searched the ground. There were no tracks but he could see where the grass had been pushed down by something that had recently passed through.
Raising his spear, Mark moved silently through the trees. Whatever was out there was close.
A horrible squeal broke the silence. Mark froze.
It was close. Somewhere in front of him.
He hustled up the nearest tree and waited.
Nothing came his way. Still, he waited. He’d learned not to take chances.
Finally the birds came back and the sounds in the forest returned to normal. Mark dropped to the ground and picked his way through the brush. Two hundred yards in front of him he saw another clearing with low grass. Staying in the cover of the trees, he listened. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong.
The clearing was empty. It was dry, and light red like the last one except for one dark splotch of color on the other side.
Mark skirted the outside, staying well hidden in the brush. The dark color intrigued him. He reached down and touched it.
Blood.
Mark ducked back in the trees. Any animal that had lost that much blood had to be big. And what disturbed him even more was that whatever killed it had managed to carry the whole thing off without leaving even a tiny piece of the carcass.
Get away. He had to get away. There was no time to lose.
He turned and was about to rush back around the clearing when he spotted something in a tree.
Quietly, almost reverently, he walked to it and pulled it from the trunk.
It was an arrow.
chapter 10
Mark couldn’t sleep. Before dawn, he was sitting on his mat in the tree house turning the arrow over and over in his hands. It had colorful black and red feathers from birds he’d never seen. The shaft was painted with a black zigzag design, and the point was made of a sharp, chiseled rock skillfully attached with a piece of water-shrunken leather.
Finding the arrow changed everything. It meant that he was not alone in this place. There were other beings here who could think and hunt and make weapons.
Mark considered his options. Maybe it would be safer to avoid them and move deeper into the dark jungle. They would never find him there. But what about the blue light? He couldn’t stop searching for it. It was the only link to home and his mother and father.
Spontaneously his mind conjured up smells from the barbecue his dad had cooked in their backyard the day before Mark left to go on his hike. He remembered how comical his father had looked in the chef’s hat, which kept sliding down over his ears. The way his mother had kept stealing glances at Mark told him she was worried. She had pretended to be happy, but he could tell.
All that seemed like a hundred years ago. What would they think if they could see him now, ragged and dirty, with thick, tough calluses on the bottoms of his feet? His mother would be shocked. Now he behaved and thought more like an animal than a human, sneaking around the forest. Doing his best to survive.
Willie climbed down from the top branch
es and sat beside him. Mark stroked the monkey-bear’s soft white fur. "What should I do, boy? For all I know, these people, if they are people, could be a worse threat than the Howling Thing."
Still holding the arrow, Mark reached for his homemade bow and climbed down from the tree. He wouldn’t think about them now. If nothing else, he had a new weapon. He would study the arrow and design more like it.
The first time he tried to shoot it, his string was too loose and the arrow just plopped into the dirt about twenty feet away. The second time, after he had pulled the shoestring taut on the bow, it flew in an arc across the meadow.
He ran after it. This is so great. On his trip to the pool that morning he would gather any small rocks he could find to use as tips. Then he’d come back early from his scouting trip and hunt for feathers. He shot the arrow again. This time he hit the bush he was aiming at dead center.
He retrieved the arrow and went back to his tree to pack a small supply of food for his trip. Along with his tree rocks and his sock of edible insects, he took a long strip of lizard jerky. He’d discovered that if he hung the thin pieces of meat over a limb to dry, he could take them with him on his travels and they wouldn’t spoil.
Proudly he reached for his spear. Today he would have two weapons.
But what he needed was a quiver to hold his new arrow. He jammed the tree rocks and jerky in his boot so one sock would be free. Then he tore holes, one on each side near the top of the sock, and tied on a long piece of his old bandage as a strap. He placed the arrow gently in the sock and slung the bow and quiver over his shoulder.
As usual he went to the pool first. He looked for rocks but there weren’t many, and they were too smooth and round to be used for arrowheads.
He studied the arrow again. The shiny rock used for the tip was different from any in the area. That meant that the owner of his arrow didn’t live around here. He must have come to this part of the jungle on a hunting trip from some other part of the planet.
Mark looked at the mountains. Maybe the arrow people came from there. Suddenly he made up his mind. He wanted to find these people or aliens or whatever they were. Anybody would be better than being alone. That day, instead of circling, he would scout in a straight line.
That morning he had been worried about whoever had left the arrow. Now he was curious, almost desperate, to find out more about them.
chapter 11
The day’s scouting trip had taken him into strange new territory. The vegetation was still dense but it was more yellow than red and the trees were short and gnarled. The only animal he’d seen all day was deerlike. She was as big as a horse and had short curled horns. Two small spotted fawns were following her. When she saw Mark, she bounded away with her young close behind.
There had been no sign of the arrow people. Discouraged, Mark decided he must be wrong about them living in the mountains. The next day he would try a different direction.
Sitting down under one of the short leafless trees, he cracked open a tree rock. The forest here was dry, barren and ugly. He was glad he lived where he did. He laughed. He was home-proud. Some branches in a tree and he was proud of them.
He drank the brown juice and contemplated the thought. It was possible that he would never be able to find the light. So far he hadn’t really made any long-term plans because he considered all this temporary. But what if it wasn’t? What if he was destined to live in this primitive world the rest of his life?
A loud yell stopped his thoughts.
Mark jumped to his feet. A voice—the arrow people. He grabbed his weapons and waited.
Nothing.
Why hadn’t he been paying attention? He couldn’t tell how far away the voice was or which direction to search in.
The yell changed to an agonized scream. Someone was hurt. Mark started running. He raced through the brush toward the sound.
Just when he thought he’d lost the sound, the terrified scream came again. He tore through the forest, jumping over bushes and ducking under limbs.
He was on it almost before he realized it.
By crouching low in the brush he spotted what seemed to be a kind of dog or wolf. It was standing on its back legs and its head reached high into the low branches. The creature had its back to Mark and was clawing at something in the tree.
The Howling Thing. There was no doubt about it. It was huge, on its back legs at least as tall as Mark. The gray fur on its back was coarse and bushy, and long foamy gobs of saliva dripped from its mouth.
Something in the tree—Mark thought it was some kind of monkey—and partially hidden in the leaves was frantically trying to climb higher, but one arm hung limp and one leg was bloody. The Howling Thing was clawing it to death.
Without thinking, Mark took his single arrow and fitted it to his bow. He stepped out of the trees, aimed, drew and released all in one motion.
The shot was as good as he could hope for. It struck the Howling Thing in the center of the back but it wasn’t enough. The beast wheeled and came for him.
Mark stumbled backward, reaching for his spear. He wanted to run but his legs felt riveted to the ground.
The Howling Thing covered the space in three jumps and leaped, its weight carrying Mark back and down and slamming him into the ground. One second, Mark thought, my throat will be gone in a second. Everything ended.
It didn’t happen. He pushed out from under the heavy animal.
The Howling Thing was dead.
When it had lunged for him, Mark had instinctively raised the spear. The sharp point had gone through the animal’s heart, killing it instantly.
Blood ran down Mark’s face. He crawled to his feet, shaking, staring down. The giant mouth was open, exposing ferocious incisor teeth that would have ripped him to pieces. The claws were longer than bear claws, longer than Mark’s fingers.
He swallowed again. Close this time. Really close. If the spear hadn’t taken the animal directly in the heart, if the creature had had half a second longer, I would have been dead....
Mark suddenly remembered the Howling Thing’s victim and looked out across the clearing at the small tree.
It was empty.
chapter 12
Mark followed the trail of blood until it disappeared. Then he continued to patiently search for signs. The few tracks he found resembled small human footprints except for the toes, which seemed to be connected. From what he had seen in the tree, with everything blurred and moving, the small being had two arms and legs. The face had been hidden but he remembered seeing long dark hair.
The heavy grass kept him from finding any more tracks and the trail ended abruptly. The wounded quarry of the Howling Thing had vanished.
"That’s gratitude for you," Mark grumbled. He made his way back to the clearing. The Howling Thmg lay as he had left it.
It took some doing but he finally managed to twist his spear out of the body. The arrow was another matter. It was wedged next to the backbone, and when he yanked on it, the tip broke off inside the creature.
He studied the dead animal. It was incredible that he had survived the attack. The thing was huge and built to destroy whatever it pleased. A killing machine.
Yet he had killed it.
An elation filled him. A surge of something he could not define—a strange feeling of power. His chin went up. I saved a life today and didn’t die. I’ll make more arrows, better ones. And because of what I have, all the creatures in the forest will be afraid of me. He jumped to his feet and punched his fists in the air. He wanted to sing, to show what he had done, to tell of it.
"I am the killer of the ferocious Howling Thing," he chanted, stomping his feet in the dirt. "I—am—the— best. I—am—the—kilter—of—the—terrible—Howling— Thing."
He took his knife and sliced the long claws off all four of the animal’s paws and began whooping and dancing around the bloody carcass until he ran out of breath.
He would take the skin. He could use it for moccasins, a quiver, maybe
clothing. He knelt and worked a full hour, peeling a rectangle of hide—about four feet by three—that took in the back and the sides, leaving the skin on the legs, head and feet.
With the skin gone the meat was exposed, and for the first time Mark thought of eating it. It seemed so doglike; the thought of eating dog was not particularly appetizing. But he’d been eating bugs and worms and lizards and the meat looked solid and dark. He cut strips to take back to camp to dry later.
Everything he had been through had made him even hungrier. When he found his supplies, he opened a tree rock and drank the juice while he chewed on strips of lizard jerky.
This place was not going to get the best of him. And if it was true that he might never find his way home, then he would make it anyway. He would become a better hunter and tracker and his weapons would be the best he could make.
Sooner or later he would locate the arrow people. But even if he couldn’t find them he would be all right.
He had killed the Howling Thing.
chapter 13
One tree rock after another slammed into his back.
"Stop it, Willie. I don’t want to play catch right now. Can’t you see I have work to do?" Mark had studied the way the feathers had been inserted into the carved slits in the broken arrow’s shaft and copied it. He had found straight wood—a kind of cross between willow and cane—near the clear pool and he used that for shafts.
He still had no rocks for the tips so instead he had sharpened the ends of the shafts into needle points.
There had been no scouting for four days. Mark had been too busy collecting bird feathers and finding just the right pieces of wood to form into arrows. When he wasn’t making them he was practicing shooting.
In the evenings, after scavenging for food, he had painstakingly put together a vine necklace made with the claws of the Howling Thing. He never took it off. The meat had been stringy and tough, but not bad tasting, and he’d roasted it on a stick and eaten it until his stomach bulged. He was still hungry in some way. Full, but still preoccupied with food, and he thought of bringing down one of the buffalo beasts.