by Joe Darris
LEGEND OF THE WILD MAN
by Joe Darris
copyright 2013 Joe Darris
Smashwords Edition
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www.joedarris.com
For Dylan and Luna,
The first wild ones I knew
Table of Contents
The Wild
The Garden
The Spire
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Part I
THE WILD
Chapter 1
The hunt, most sacred of all dances. Its brutal rhythm is the heart of every story, listen children, as I tell of the greatest hunter to ever feed death to the earth's hungry belly.
His muscles ache with fatigue, but his wits are sharp with hunger. The air is cold, the sky bright from the full moon high up above. He shifts his weight from one leg to the other. His gaunt thighs tremble. He has pursued the prongbuck all night, neither gave the other a chance to rest. They are dancing, each hoping to outlast the other in that mad game of survival.
After their night of chase, each knows the other. He knows the prongbuck smells his sweat, the strain of his muscles, his resolve. The buck knows the hunter is hungry, and strong. He knows the buck is frightened and tired. He knows the buck thinks he is not. This is good.
The dance between them began when the sun was highest. He found the tracks of a prongbuck and its harem. In them he found a fawn. prongelk are difficult prey once they are full grown, the prongbuck that rules over each harem is invulnerable. But when the elk are young, before their antlers develop their deadly prongs, they can be caught, and are delicious. The hunter followed the tracks.
He caught up to the harem in the late afternoon, in flood plains by the great river, feasting on lush plants thriving in silt. It was a large herd, with thirteen females, and two fawns. They grazed peacefully, their jagged antlers floating as their heads bobbed below the grass.
All hunters know the plains are forbidden. They must learn the old legends--the stories of the sky people, the ancient gods, the Hidden—-before they can leave the safety of their home and become men. The young hunter knows the stories well: there is a tree that steals the lightning from the clouds, guarded by prongelk. The prongelk's minds are not their own, they belong to the Hidden. But the hunter, young and foolish, did not heed the legends.
Stories, he thought, and then descended from the forest and his tribe's sacred land. He had seen the prongbuck high above his harem, surveying the plains below him with big, wide set eyes. The hunter sensed an opportunity.
An adult prongbuck weighs a boulder. Horns jut out in front of its skull then curve around in lazy spirals. The buck either knows how to crack ribs and skulls with them, or is dead. But their antlers are the true danger. They run back and curve around the beast's huge shoulders, a deadly shield against anything brazen enough to try to attack its muscled flank. They are spiked and twisted weapons, each with dozens of prongs like hooked daggers, ready to stick and stay in whatever the buck deems a threat.
The hunter understood the beast's explicit show of strength, but ignored it. The prongbuck was too far from his harem. He, with his youth and speed, could kill the fawn before the prongbuck could save it, and once they smelled death they would move on, and leave the fawn for him and the inescapable scavengers.
The hunter drew his knife and scampered down the hill as quickly and silently as the shadow of a field mouse. The prongbuck harem spotted him and scattered. Their antlers are impressive and make good carved knives, but they are not weapons. Female elk lack the size and strength that make the bucks so powerful. They bounded away in giant leaps. He had caught females before, but the fawns were much easier game and had suppler flesh. He turned back, his mouth watering. Instead of the defenseless young, there was what should not have been: another buck!
Prongbucks do not share. They are fiercely territorial and prefer death to brothers. The other male should have torn this smaller one apart. The hunter's mind reeled; he had circled the herd searching for a male, before he spotted the one on the hill. He hadn't seen the thick horns or pronged antlers among the harem. The females had obstructed his view of this buck until the last moment. The hunter wondered if the prongelk had somehow seen him coming and tricked him. It did not matter.
The buck charged the young hunter, multiplying momentum by the killing power of rows of anarchically spaced spikes. This male was not as large as the other, but was well into adolescence and a huge threat as it thundered towards the hunter. This one's antlers were less developed than the buck up above, but they were blacker, black as new moon.
Not good, thought the hunter.
His knife flew from his hand and stuck deep into the prongbuck's shoulder. He had missed the heart.
The hunter does not miss.
The young buck had readjusted its approach out of his blade's path. The hunter braced himself for the collision; if he dodged the buck would slice him apart with its pronged antlers. Cracked ribs healed more easily. But the animal's eyes were wide with pain. It awkwardly slowed its charge, then changed its mind, lifted its deadly crown and bounded over him and up into the scrubby foothills that ring his lands. He reached for his knife but could not seize it. He had won nothing to replace it.
The hunter gave chase.
Hours after sunset, when the stars twinkled and the moon hung high overhead, the hunter struck. He waited until the buck was fatigued and tasting death. prongelk can be tricked, but not if they are strong and confident. Legends say fear is needed to drive the Hidden from their minds. The hunter did not believe in the legends, only the method. Sensing the buck's fear, he made a beast's call. The buck's tired mind conjured images of great cats and packs of wolves. Its tired nerves carried it into the perceived safety of the hunter’s forest without a second glance.
Once the prongbuck moved into the woods, the young hunter only had to herd it further into the underbrush. As the way grew thick and tangled, the prongbuck's horns became a hindrance. It would be unable to gather any speed to escape or attack. It would be doomed. It would be his. But for now, it had weapons, as well as his knife. His only advantage was the pain and fear it felt close to its heart. So he drove it deep into the woods, and pondered how to retrieve his blade.
Now the buck nibbles grass, trying to restore its energy. The hunter allows this. He needs to rest his legs for the final sprint, and hopes that if the animal lowers its head to eat, his knife might slip free. By a stroke of luck, it does. The hunter gazes at his bone-knife resting in a puddle of blood and dappled moonlight. The savory smell of blood, like rust and salt, reminds his body of his hunger and his stomach growls loudly. The prongbuck hears. Nothing awakens an animal's senses like another's hunger.
The buck enjoyed its last moments of pleasure, but it has heard him, and the final chase will begin. They both know this. Each knows the other from the hours and miles they shared together. They know each other in the intimate way that only the hunter and hunted share. They know the other's smells, the other's sounds, and they both know the other is starving, near death even. The buck hears his final warning and tromps off. It struggles with the tangles of vines that ensnare its antlers. The hunter almost feels sorry for it, but will not hesitate to save h
imself. Hunger is stronger than empathy.
He moves forward silently, scoops up his knife and carefully dries its hilt on his leathers. A fresh crack runs lengthwise down the blade. The point must have struck bone and the prongbuck's running stressed the fracture. He has carried this blade for a long time. He hopes it will last through one more kill.
The land rises slowly into the tall cliffs not far ahead, something the prongbuck misses in its delusional state. It will be cornered soon, stuck between a wall of solid rock, and the hunter in his tangled forest. If the buck realizes it is coming to a cliff, it will turn on him. The hunter is ready for this, knows this is how the hunt may end: a head on sprint finished by his blade or the buck's. The prongbuck does not know this. It still thinks it can escape without battle. When it realizes there is no easy escape, that it must duel for its life, its heart will pump hard, and its fatigue will leave it. The less time it has to feel its reserves of strength, the better. He knows he can take the animal, but it needs to be confused as well as tired and desperate. He quickens his pace. The prongbuck does the same.
He sees the clearing before the prongbuck does. The animal's wide set eyes cannot see as far ahead as the hunter's, another way the forest helps finish the elk. It could have seen him approach from almost any direction on the plains, but here, the elk’s big eyes are blind to what is in front of it.
It is time. His legs lunge forward, his throat roars and his teeth growl at the being that will save him from starvation. The buck hears him and flees. It bounds forward in awkward jumps, constantly turning its head this way or that as its massive horns tangle and snare in vine or branch. The hunter gains on the buck. Suddenly it is free of the woods, leaping in the meadow in clumsy thankful arcs.
The young hunter clears the tangles of vines and brambles easily. He feels skin tear as his arm brushes a spiny bush, but the wound does not feel deep, besides, if he does not eat soon, nothing will matter. He emerges from the forest just as the buck reaches the cliff face. The clearing is smaller than he expected, and the buck is already rearing its prongs above it, turning its momentum around and back towards the hunter. Its stony front hooves, black as its antlers, kick pieces of rock out of the cliff face, its back legs plow the earth.
The hunter takes careful aim from the edge of the forest with his knife, and casts it with more intent than a seer casts bones. The blade flies fast and true, and does not waver or spin as it glides through the air towards the throat of the buck. He can almost feel the blade pierce the soft leathery skin, the tough muscle and finally the jugular. His stomach growls savagely at the thought of warm blood. The blade flies closer and closer. It halves the distance to the prongbuck, then halves that distance, then the next, each moment feeling as long as the one before.
Something is wrong. The beast jerks its head quickly to the left in a supremely unnatural motion that starts from the head and not the body of the animal. It looks painful and bizarre for the buck. It looks as if someone has roped its antlers, and yanked them —perfectly— into the path of his blade, sparing its neck from his weapon. The hunter’s vision, heightened by adrenaline, shows him each shard explode outward as the stone knife shatters harmlessly.
Something is very wrong. The buck looks around for just an instant, as confused as he. The hunter senses it understands, same as him: it did not save itself. It welcomes the precious moments of life just the same. Then the buck lowers its massive rack of pronged antlers and charges.
The hunter has seconds to react. He leaps backwards and grabs the limb nearest him. In a burst of primate agility, he swings around the branch and scrambles up the tree. The buck careens under him, seemingly unaware of whatever threw the weapon it deflected. He briefly considers letting it run by, back to the plains and to freedom. It is no normal prongelk, its horns are too black, its motions to clever (perhaps it is forbidden for good reason) but his stomach grumbles and those thoughts vanish like puddles of rain on hot stone. He will not succeed at another hunt without a knife, and though his tribe would surely provide him with one, the hunter is young and brash and does not like owing anyone anything, so he risks his life. As the buck bounds past him, he leaps from the branch, and centers himself above its broad back.
He misjudges and lands on the side of the buck with a thud, his hands already wrapped tightly around the smooth base of the young prongbuck's horns. His legs dangle off one side of the buck. He tries to heave himself up onto the buck's back, but pain screams in his left arm. He steals a glance and sees thick prongs protruding in a line out of the prongbuck's spine. They gore his arm and run the full length of the animal.
Surprises. He does not like surprises.
Seeing the wound makes the pain worse, and his mind races with fresh adrenaline. His left hand clings to the buck's set of horns, but he cannot flex it. Instead he pulls with his right and tries to lift his feet clear of the brambles flying past as the buck tries to shake him. The mad elk changes directions like a serpent and his arm burns with fire as the row of prongs yank him one way then the other. He would have fallen off if not for the devilish hooks of the prongs. He pulls harder with his right hand and finally hears the crack he wants. The tip of one of the prongs breaks free in his hand. With one smooth motion, he swings the tip down, hard, into the prongbuck's heart.
The buck leaps higher than it had before, and this time he pushes off of it. The three prongs lodged in his arms snap and go with him as he soars from the beast. He tumbles through the underbrush, rights himself immediately and sprints after the prongbuck. It jumps, in erratic leaps and bounds, then slips on the blood pouring from its chest, and careens into a tree. The horns catch on a branch and its neck snaps as momentum carries its body forward. The prongbuck tumbles to a pile and ceases to live.
While the young hunter limps over to the buck he observes the prongs in his upper arm. They are firmly embedded, two above the bone and one below, in a neat diagonal line that connects his elbow to his shoulder. Each trickles a tiny stream of blood, but they are stuck fast. He can hardly use his arm, but his tribe has medicine. If he can just get the meat and rack of prongs back to his people, all will be well.
He stands weakly over the buck. It has a low row of prongs all the way down its spine. He shudders to think what would have happened if he had landed how he had wanted, squarely on the buck's back. His lungs and stomach would have been punctured, maybe even his heart. His mistake had turned the protective row and the rack of prongs into the weapons that ended the long chase, and the prongbuck's own life. The irony was lost on the hunter.
He unravels his twisted rope from around his chest, ties the buck's hind legs, and heaves it up, off the ground, to drain the blood. His arm hurts only when he hangs on it to lift the buck. It will hurt much worse. He is still fresh from a kill and his body will spare him the senses he does not ask it for.
The blood glows red in the silver moonlight as the elk’s life flows back to the earth.
The young hunter, tired and hungry, kneels down and lets the blood pour over him. He cups his hands, fills them with the rich liquid and drinks deeply. It tastes wrong, not the usual rusty tang of blood. It tastes darker, metallic and unfamiliar. Yet his stomach groans in thanks as the blood restores his strength. He laps it up, nearly dead with thirst and hunger, then collapses to the forest floor. For a moment, he thinks of how special this particular prongbuck seemed, its uncanny hiding place in the herd, the alien motion that destroyed his knife, the prongs lodged in his arm, and its bitter blood.
Old legends race through his mind before he falls into dreams of weaker prey and stronger blades.
Chapter 2
The Hidden have not been seen on the earth for a long time, since before I was a boy, but they are felt, as sure and as mean as the wind and the cold, they are felt.
Her bare feet squelch in mud as she stumbles through the Garden. Her sides ache. She is too tired already. The fecund growth is too tall, too dark. This way is alien to her, though she knows the Garden better tha
n anyone. Her eyes can't adjust. The full moon up above is too bright. Its lunar beams make harsh black shadows that taunt her.
Brambles and thorns sting as they grasp at her skin. She looks down and sees pale toes covered in grit catch on a root.
Her toes.
She crashes to the earth. It hurts. It should not hurt. Dazed, she looks at herself. Pink lines of blood crisscross pallid, hairless skin.
Her skin.
A snarl forces her to her feet. She runs.
The panthera is getting closer. The girl can hear her covetous breath behind her, low and steady, hungry. Her padded feet make no sound. She can kill the girl, but cats sharpen their tools as they play. Terror is this night's game.
The girl bursts from the undergrowth. She's in the clearing around the Spire. The moon is high and full overhead, the same color as the towering edifice. She runs to it and pounds it with fists. Sparks jump from the tower to her own tender skin.
“Help me!” she screams, but the Spire is too tall. From down here it reaches to the heavens, a vertical structure as tall as the horizon is long. From her perspective on the ground it seems to cradle the moon, though she knows it holds far more than that.
“Skup!” she shouts her brother's name loud and long, but she knows he can't hear her. At more than a mile up, Spire City might as well be on the moon. Still she pleads, “Baucis, Jacob, someone!” The Spire's electric current stings her knuckles and she pulls her hands away. It is useless.
The Spire has lasted hundreds of years. This sole structure survived the deluge, the Scourge, and all Nature hurls at civilization. A lithe, pale girl is no match. The Spire stands as mankind's only protection against a vengeful planet. The High Priestess has said Nature conspired against mankind. The girl feels the truth of that in the air around her.