by Joe Darris
The young hunter steps silently into the jungle clearing. Trees tower high above, their branches fastened together with living vines or braided amongst themselves. For many seasons his people have maintained the living roof, intertwining fresh flowering vines or planting young trees when others grew old. He loves the beauty of this place. It is art, like the pictures and symbols in the hermit's cave. Smaller fruit trees dot the edge of the clearing. The hunter inhales deeply and lets the bouquet of aromas fill his nostrils and his soul. He is home. He has little to show but scars and stories, but he is home. He hopes the tribe accepts his empty handed return.
He purses his lips and whistles a high note that hangs in the humid jungle air. Birds with feathers of every color scatter from the clearing into the woods in a hundred different directions.
A long moment later, tribesmen pop into the clearing, each with one of the sweet song birds chirping excitedly in their ear. His childhood friends reach him first.
The younger hugs him like a bear and bangs the prongs in his arm badly. He winces. The elder pulls off the younger and admires the young hunter. He is impressed. With a grin that betrays his youth he slaps one of the barbs and the young hunter roars in protest. Despite the pain, he grins at his two childhood friends, ready to show them, injured or not, he is the hunter of the trio, but more tribesmen emerge from the forest, and he lets the slight go unanswered.
Then come the three girls his mother simply calls troubles. They giggle faster than the birds and the young hunter feels his face go warm. Two of them laugh excitedly but the third looks at his wounds, his prongbuck skull and antlers and makes no sound. Her eyes say much. She sees him as he is, a man. For the first time he sees her as a woman. How could he have missed this young beauty so many times? So much more brilliant than her two friends, her smile shines like the stars and he is hers. Still a girl, she knows not what to do with this power, but she likes it.
Before she can act, the crones shoo her away. One is the young hunter’s grandmother, but he does his best to forget which. Blood means nothing to the old women, they are all the grandmothers of the tribe. They dote upon him, poking him here, testing his wounds. One rubs his leathers between her fingers and clicks her approval. He cured them well enough. Another gives him a nibble of honey comb. A third slaps his chest and points to the prongs, slapping her own head. He remembers which is his mother’s mother. He smiles but she has none of it. The flock of birds grows quiet and the crones grab his grandmother and pull her away.
The hunters approach. The young hunter, the youngest in fact, finally feels his nerves quake. He has returned from his first moon’s hunt without meat.
The hunters step from the wood silently, their faces hard as boulders. Their birds are silent save their wing beats. They form a ring around the young hunter. They size him up. They look from his wounds, to the antlered skull and leathers, to his empty hands. One steps forward and yanks one of the prongs. The young hunter’s arm aches but he does not flinch. The others grunt their approval and the leader shoves the brash one back in line. He looks the young hunter in the eye, and sees himself, younger and braver and stronger. He embraces the boy. The others come forward and raise him on their shoulders. A tidal wave of children erupts from the jungle and the silence is no more. They hoot and howl with excitement. A new hunter means a feast!
The young hunter smiles from atop the tribesmens' shoulders. He realizes he was foolish to think his people would not give him a warrior's welcome even if he returned empty handed. Even the youngest recognize the greatness of his prize. They take turns grabbing at the massive rack of prongs and leathers he carries. They touch it then run away with shrieks of delight, only to return again.
More tribesmen emerge from the jungle, but not who the hunter looks for...
At last, his mother and sister step into the clearing. His mother releases his sister and she runs to her older brother. The hunters recognize bonds stronger than their own and put the young hunter down. His sister squeals in delight and bounds towards him. She leaps into his arms, oblivious of his wounds. He yelps and flinches mightily when the girl yanks one of the prongs but stifles his pain when he smells the fresh berry juice still on her fingers. His sister always smells of berries. She picks them by the muddy bank of the creek, day after day. The young hunter is almost surprised to see her here instead of hiding in the brambles. She looks at him with awe. She knows her brother is the mightiest hunter, save their father, who died long ago, and now he has proof in his flesh.
Silently, the hunter notes how firmly embedded the prongs are and wonders if they can be removed. His sister can support much of her weight easily. It hurts, but they don't budge. His mother examines the prongs as well. He can tell from her expression that she wonders the same as he.
He catches her gaze and tells her with a look that he is alright, and glad to be home. She returns the affection then glances up at the hermit's cave, as if to say maybe he can remove the spikes. The hunter only shrugs. He feels no pain now that he is with his family and embraces them. He allows himself a whoop of exaltation. His family is good. The tribe is good. Life is good.
The tribe falls silent once more. His mother takes his sister from his arm and they too leave the hunter. The chief emerges into the canopied clearing. Besides scant leathers, the chief wears a formidable bird skull won in combat and a feathered cape crafted from hundreds of feathers given freely by the birds that flutter back and forth between the tribesman.
The hermit says the skull is from a kingcrow. No other skull like it has ever been seen. It is a very powerful and mysterious thing. After his bout with one of the fearsome birds the hunter knows it must have been a small kingcrow, for the head of the bird he battled was as big as his torso, and no man could wear its skull atop his own.
The chief approaches, removes the skull, places it on the ground and embraces the boy. He hugs him long, and when he finally pulls back the young hunter is surprised to see the chief fight back tears. He bows before him and presents the prongbuck skull. The antlers are half as tall as the chief, who does not share the hunter's formidable size. The chief carefully examines the antlers. He has never seen a set with so many prongs and marvels at how the hunter bested such a magnificent creature. After a moment he takes the skull and places it firmly on the hunter's head.
The tribe gasps as the prongbuck's skin flows around him. Their hero vanishes and in his place stands the ghost of a powerful prongbuck. The chief reaches his hand under the shroud and grabs the hunter's wrist. He pulls the hunter's hand high above his own head and lets out a mighty cheer. The tribe echoes and cheers the elk warrior, then goes wild in cacophony. Even the songbirds fly off screeching of the young hunter’s exploits.
“Meat!” The chief yells as he dances.
“Celebrate!” the tribe yells back. Children scream in delight and run and dance around the canopied room. Adults vanish into the forest to prepare for the festivities.
He holds his hands out for the chief to see he carries no meat to share, but the chief only laughs and slaps him hard on the back.
“Dance, boy!” he says, then saunters over to the fire pit, plops down and begins to carefully stack tinder and wood.
The hunter looks to his mother who only smiles. She whispers something in her daughter's ear. She rushes out of the clearing and into the forest.
She comes back after a moment with a huge rabbit. Other tribesman return, each with a rabbit or a squirrel, some with eggs from the fat ground birds the tribe feeds. Others bring plants, and soon every variety of fruit or vegetable that grows in the verdant jungle is piled high in the clearing, ready for the feast to begin. His stomach growls with hunger. He has eaten nothing but blood from the prongbuck more than a day ago.
The tribe surges into the clearing bearing drums and flutes. They form a circle around the fire pit and beat their drums. Some sing loud praises to their prong elk warrior. By dark, all will know the new songs. Some beckon to the children and teach them ways to
dance and jump. The young hunter gives his mother and sister another squeeze then approaches the chief.
He removes his elk skull and kneels down next to the chief. He slowly pulls the glowing orb out of the skull. He keeps it hidden from the tribe, and especially his family. The hermit's stories are well known and he wants no one to worry.
He grunts softly. The chief turns, and stares, instantly transfixed. He cannot look away. The mirth leaves his eyes and is replaced by dread. Finally, after what seems an eternity, the chief points to the hermit's cave high up on the mountain.
“Later” he says, then grabs a few green branches and throws them on the fire, sending up a plume of white smoke. He glances once more at the cave, then his smile returns. The chief slaps his shoulder once more, “Celebrate.”
He nods. The tribe needs their celebration. He needs the celebration. The chief is chief because he is wise enough to know this. Now, the hunter will dance and sing and eat. He will boast to his friends and play with his sister. He will talk to the troubles. His mom must be mistaken. She can’t know about the beauty and intelligence of the one’s eyes. Those eyes haunt the hunter. They tell him he’s not a man, not quite yet, but they beg him to be one. Maybe his mother is right about their danger.
Only later will the young hunter slip off, when the light of the waning moon can guide him from his sleeping sister, and when not even his mother's watchful eyes will notice.
Chapter 7
Hunt only among Father Mountain's children, never leave their heights. Do this and nothing shall wake The Hidden from their restless slumber
Urea explored the granite edifice, this time as an elk. The connection was even weaker, and she kept telling the elk to turn back, but it ignored her orders. She could hear the unmistakable cracks and flashes of light of a biselk joust and was drawn to it. She wondered why she had chosen the body of a doe. They were almost never implanted, and her skills were far beyond those needed to carry a female through birthing, but she forgot the thought as quickly as it came.
The two bucks were in the central chamber of the giant granite dome. They kicked the ground; their stony black hooves turned the immaculate stone floor into fissures and detritus. Their eyes were wide, blind with testosterone and lust. Still, Urea glided forward, unable to stop. The air is thick with their musk, it stinks of sweat and dirt but Urea finds it irresistible. She’s never smelled anything like it before. She’s never smelled anything on the surface.
Finally, like the water behind a demolished dam, the two bucks charged each other. Instead of jousting, they careened past their opponent and battered the walls of the ancient stone dome relentlessly. Urea saw them do this a dozen times. Her doe meekly approached while the biselk defaced humanity’s oldest surviving relic. Each strike discharged electricity from their skeletons in loud echoing thunderclaps. Stone blocks fell from the ceiling. Each one exploded into shards when it hit the floor. She could feel the buck's impacts in her own body. Her VRC was picking up interference. She wanted to make the elk stop but she couldn't. She couldn't even stop the doe from walking into the crumbling dome. She was drawn to the battle, like a moth to light.
Then fear gripped the doe, and she ran. Her hooves clacked on slick stone. Somehow she was down the long hallway, running towards the cellar, hidden from the Spire. Urea was terrified. She felt if the doe made it to the cellar neither of them would ever see the Spire ever again.
A crack of antler on horn and she was her panthera, watching the tiny doe’s nimble hooves slide around on the polished floor. Now
Then Urea was the doe again, with a thousand pounds of black, razor-sharp, feline death gaining on her. Another tremor and she was her panthera. Her VRC switched between the two animals every time the bucks discharged electricity. She didn’t know if she preferred the doe’s pathetic fear or the panthera's vicious hunger, but the bucks wouldn't allow her to experience just one. She tried to tell herself she was accustomed to the panthera's hunger and blood lust, she had killed hundreds of Evanimals, but her feelings were heightened and more brilliant contrasted with the doe's dull terror.
Back and forth she switched, faster and faster. She was hunter and prey. The cracks from the bucks came relentlessly. There was almost a rhythm to them: knock, Knock, KNOCK.
Urea sat up in bed and slapped her hand on the Virtual Reality Chip imbedded in the base of her brain. It was hot, charged. Just a dream…
Knock, knock, knock.
She got out of bed, pulled on a habiliment and deactivated the opaque field that blocked her doorway. Phoebe stood on the other side of the door, breathless.
“Urea, I'm sorry, I didn't know what else to do. I... he... I lost him.”
“Snake eyes,” she cursed. Phoebe stifled out a sob. She was taller than most, at nearly five feet, but Urea towered over her, no one was taller save her brother. Even late at night, yanked from slumber, Urea envies her hair. Supposedly there was a time when it was more common, but in Spire City, hair only came in two types, black or none. Phoebe's was neither. It was iridescent, like biselk antlers, kingcrow feathers or the panthera. It was beautiful and sparkled wildly each time her shoulders heaved from her distress.
The girl was barely eleven, but already showed promise as an Evanimal pilot. She was already learning to birth animals and looked the part with her soft features and round eyes. It made Urea's head spin seeing one of the few Pilots who actually worked with biselk females so soon after her dream.
“Where's Baucis?”
Phoebe only choked out a sob and managed a weak shrug. So this was on her.
“What happened?” Urea barked. Phoebe's eyes only welled up. Urea took a deep breath and put a hand on the girl's shoulder. “It's OK, just tell me what happened.”
“I was observing a pregnancy, but it seemed like it wasn't going to happen until morning, so they put me on watch. Everything was fine, the doe was asleep, but then Zetis said he'd be right back and asked me to monitor this map and tell him if anything moved.”
Urea scowled. Zetis was a weatherman, a position that hardly deserved a VRC. He spent most of his time exploring the capabilities of the VRCs or playing virtual games instead of doing his job. Whoever assigned him the duty made a mistake.
“He said it was really important and he'd just be a minute. So I was synched with the doe and had the map running at the same time. The doe was asleep so I thought I could do both! And then the doe started having contractions and well, I had never done one myself. Its just so...” Phoebe choked burst into tears.
Pregnancies were difficult. Nothing was as emotionally draining as helping an Evanimal bring a baby into the world. Urea was relieved when she had moved on to predators. She squeezed Phoebe’s arm gently. “Then what happened?”
“The birth was successful, thank Nature. But it took everything I had. The bucks' antlers develop during the fetal stage now, and I couldn't risk the mother. It took all of my concentration to safely birth to the buck. He’s so healthy and already walking… he’ll see his first sunrise in the morning,” Phoebe’s voice wavered and she took a moment to compose herself, precious seconds the animal could use to slip away. Urea’s hid her frustration. Phoebe had just experienced child birth, biselk childbirth, at eleven years old. She deserved a moment.
“As soon as I remembered the map, the blip was gone.”
“It’s OK. You did well. You shouldn't have had to do both.”
Phoebe sniffed and nodded.
“I tried to chime Zetis but I just... the birth was so beautiful, All I could do was run down here. My mind's too wired for my VRC and that poor baby!” She collapsed against Urea, a mess of Evanimal emotions.
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br /> “That's fine. You did fine. Go get some sleep, OK? I got it from here.”
Phoebe nodded.
Urea was already racing down the halls towards the stairs.
She chimed Zetis first.
She heard his voice inside of her own head.
Urea didn't wait for his reply. If he didn't beat her there, his VRC would go to an Evanimal.
Zetis was the most brilliant moron she had ever met. He was obsessed with the VRCs, and could do amazing things with them. He had invented games, programs, even chiming. Person to person communication was forbidden. The law had been set up in the early days of the technology, so Ntelo and Rufus Aurelius maintained, but Urea didn't see any problem with it. It was fast, easy, and convenient. If Zetis hadn't been the one who invented it, she would’ve fed him to her panthera right then. End of story. Instead she chimed her brother,
Urea closed the connection and ran faster. She took steps two at a time. She didn't like the idea of that thing out there running wild. If they lost its position now, they might never find it again, and its existence would be lost to myth and idle speculation.
Urea still didn't even know what it was. It troubled her that Skup referred to it as a him. He seemed very sure that the thing was a man, or a male anyways. Urea had asked her elder brother if he thought it was the Wild Man, but he only shrugged and turned away.