by Joseph Lallo
The provisions were enough to keep his body, trained by years of starvation rations, functional long enough to reach one of the inevitable results of choosing the path of least population. Had he continued south, he would have found himself in one of Tressor's massive deserts. As it was, his jinks and dodges had taken him far enough west to reach the heart of the mountains, where the cold wind and rocky soil made things too inhospitable for any towns to take root.
One morning, after a long night of being scoured by flakes of ice too sparse and cruel to be called snow, he awoke to find he was finally free of pursuit. Even after staying still for the whole night, there was no one to be seen, heard, or smelled. For the first time in more than a decade, he was beyond the reach of both masters and hunters. He was free.
#
Earning his freedom, it turned out, was only the first challenge. The next step was surviving it, and that was proving just as difficult. The mountains were deserted for a reason. Stubborn weeds, frozen lichen, and the odd hardy tree were the only things that grew at all. Aside from birds, which were far too wary to let him near and little more than a mouthful even if caught, the only creatures seemed to be skittish little rodents. Unlike their cousins in the plains, these seemed to know that the malthrope was after them even before he did, disappearing down holes in soil too frozen to dig out if he so much as glanced in their direction. On rare occasion he would see, far in the distance, a mountain goat or other such bit of prey, but they were even wilier. Cornering rats in a grain shed had been poor training for hunting for his dinner in the real world, it seemed. Even so, he chose to move farther and farther into the mountains in search of food, rather than risk heading back toward the plains and encountering a hunting party in his weakened state. If he was going to risk encountering humans again, it would be only after he'd had time to recover, or until he'd found a place with ample cover for him to hide in.
The occasional berry bush or fleshy tuft of leaves was sampled out of desperation, though as often as not he learned the hard way not to eat from such a plant a second time. The only thing in ready supply was water, coming from crisp and clear springs and streams that were frustratingly free of fish.
Weeks of scrounging for food eventually took him through a low valley to the other side of the mountains. Some distance down the slope, he could see the tops of frost-covered trees. He rushed as quickly as his failing limbs could carry him toward the forest. One of the only things he could remember clearly from his youngest days was that where there had been trees there had been food. Therefore there must be something to eat there, and there would be shelter from both the elements and prying eyes.
He wasn't a dozen paces past the outskirts of the forest when his nose triumphantly assured him that there was indeed game to be found. Unfortunately, there still remained the challenge of actually finding it. In the mountains, the problem had been that food was so rare, he never seemed to catch a scent. In the woods, there was the opposite problem. Every scrap of forest floor was crisscrossed with the scents left by creatures he'd never smelled before. Tantalizing aromas were all around him again, but following the trail to something to eat seemed impossible. Two days in the forest had provided him with a squirrel, some manner of plump little bird that hadn't been swift enough to escape him, and a few handfuls of berries that he'd found to be not too dangerous to eat. If he didn't get any real food in his stomach soon, it wouldn't matter that he'd escaped the hunting parties.
As night fell on that second day, a bit of tracking and a lot of luck led him to a hole in the ground that could only be a rabbit's warren. He'd had to deal with a few of them when clearing new fields on the plantation, and from the smell of this one, it was home to at least a few of the delicious little morsels. Sniffing about, he found each entrance to the burrow and blocked them one by one with stones. When only one remained, he crouched low, locked his eyes on it, and waited.
Hours passed, the malthrope doing his best to keep still, never allowing his eyes to leave the burrow. The wind off of the mountain was constant, whipping at him and droning in his ears with a low wail. His throat grew dry, his eyes reddened, and his eyelids drooped, but he refused to let his attention waver. Now and then, the rustle of stones near one of the other exits could be heard as the rabbits tried and failed to escape. Soon, surely, they would need to leave. When they did, he would be ready. And so time rolled on until no light remained but the faint glow of starlight. Still there was nothing . . . nothing but a strange scraping sound, then the near-silent rustle of fur and patter of feet.
In desperation, he sprang toward the sound just in time to see half a dozen balls of tawny fur erupt from a freshly dug exit, scattering in all directions. A mad swipe of his clawed fingers managed to snatch the two slowest creatures, leaving the rest to bound away into the night. After another quick slash to each made certain they would not be getting away, he held up his prize. It was not going to be the feast he'd been hoping for, but the two rabbits would make a fine meal just as soon as he could find a bit of water. The long wait and constant wind had left him horribly parched, and a mouthful of rabbit wouldn't do him much good if his throat was too dry to swallow it. He trudged westward until he reached a small spring he'd spotted earlier. Lowering his catch to the ground, he knelt and gratefully cupped water into his hands, lapping it up until the worst of the thirst was gone. Then, with a sigh of relief and a hungry rumble of his stomach, he turned to where he'd left his dinner.
It was not there.
Eyes wide, ears alert, and teeth bared, he scrambled to his feet and scanned his surroundings. The rustling of the trees in the wind made it difficult to single out any sounds that were out of the ordinary, and the weak light of the moonless sky did little good, even for his sharp vision. It didn't matter. He'd only taken his eyes off of his catch for a moment. They had been quite dead, so they could not have run. That meant that they had been taken, and whatever had taken them couldn't be far.
Suddenly, farther down the sloping forest floor, there was a pained breath and the crunch of a careless step. He had found his culprit. With the sort of speed only ravenous hunger and vicious anger could foster, he dove toward the noise. Whatever it was, it must have known it had been heard, because it bolted, abandoning stealth for speed and retreating amid heavy, thumping steps.
Frost-nipped trees whistled by him, icy ground crunching beneath his feet. The head start the thief had managed to earn quickly vanished, and as it drew nearer he could just make out a vague form in the darkness. It was running on two legs. A human? No. It didn't move like a human. The strides were longer and faster, the movements more sure, even on ground unsteady enough to make his own feet slip and skid. There was a peculiarity to its run, too. A limp or lameness seemed to rob just a touch of speed each time the left leg came down. Whatever it was, it was heaped with layers of ratty cloth, such that it was a wonder it didn't tangle its own feet in the hem of the billowing hooded robe that served as the outermost layer.
He was closer now, close enough to hear the terrified breaths even over his own. Now was the time. He took one final stride and leaped at the thief, but the scoundrel chose that moment to step hard on its right foot and dart aside. The pounce missed, but just barely, and the thief gained ground. The pursuit continued until his breath burned in his chest and his much-abused legs cried for relief, but there had been too many hungry nights for him let a meal like that get away from him.
His target began to slow, each faltering step on a now clearly ailing leg prompting the tiniest hint of a voice, a barely suppressed cry of pain. Heartened, he redoubled his efforts. Ahead of him, the thief leaped, pivoting in air to come down hard on the good leg and dart aside again, but this time the malthrope was ready, heaving himself in the same direction and wrapping his arms around the legs.
The pair tumbled to the ground, rolling and scrabbling at one another. The former slave was unlucky enough to strike a tree, the wind rushing from his lungs and his prey slipping from his grip. Clench
ing his teeth, he rolled forward and fought a breath into his lungs, crawling on all fours toward the still recovering robber. He reached out and grabbed the favored leg.
Instantly, the air was split by a cry. It was an agonized, enraged, female voice. He caught the edge of the robe and hauled himself on top of the thief, struggling to wrestle it flat as the voice spouted a torrent of vicious-sounding words in a language he'd never heard. With great effort he managed to put a knee on the small of his foe's back, catching an arm and wrenching it up behind its back nearly to its shoulder blades.
“Give them back!” he barked, reaching for the thief's other hand, which still clutched the purloined meal.
“Let me go!” came the angry reply, the first words he'd understood.
“I said,” he growled, using his free hand to grab the hood and pull it back, intent on looking his enemy in the eye, “give them . . .”
His words dropped away, and for a moment there was nothing but stunned silence. The hood pulled back to reveal a tangle of dark red hair and pointed, black-tipped ears. The head whipped aside to reveal a foxy face, a sandy gray eye wild with anger and fear straining to match his gaze. For the first time since he'd lost his mother, he was staring at another malthrope. His breath caught in his throat and he froze, his mind utterly seized by the shock and confusion. For a handful of seconds, each did nothing but stare at the other, quietly waiting to see what the other would do next. It was the creature beneath him who broke the silence first.
“Whatever it is that you want to do,” she hissed, “I promise you I will give you scars to remember it.”
The words shook a bit of sense into his head. He eased the pressure on her arm. “You . . . you're a malthrope . . .”
“Of course I am a malthrope, idiot. So are you! Get off me!”
His mind crept forward a few more steps, eyes darting to the purloined prey still locked in her grip. “You stole my rabbits.”
“They were not your rabbits. An idiot who puts his rabbits on the ground and turns his head loses his rabbits. Get off me!”
“Give them back!”
“Fine,” she spat. With what little motion she could manage she heaved the two morsels aside. “You have them back, now get off.”
He loosened his grip a bit more, but his eyes shifted to the hand that had released the meal. Tossing them aside had revealed a few more inches of her arm. Her wrist was thin and frail, and even through the layers of fabric he could feel that the one he held was the same. He looked to her head, noticing for the first time that her face, a veneer of indignant pride layered over fear and desperation, was gaunt.
“You're starving . . .”
“And you are crushing me!”
He shifted his weight, intending only to take his knee from her back, but she seized the opportunity to get her good leg beneath her and throw him from her back. She tried to scramble to her feet, but the instant she put any weight on the injured leg she shook with pain and stumbled. By the time she was on her feet, so was he. She dove for the rabbits, but he managed to get in front of her. Shrieking in frustration and pain, she sprang backward, pivoting in air to land with her back to him. After three strides, the shadows swallowed her and she was gone.
“Wait!” he cried. “Come back! I need to talk to you!” There was no reply. He snatched the rabbits and held them up. “Listen to what I have to say and I'll share the food!”
The wail of the wind was the only sound for a time. Then came the irregular crunch of steps, the female approaching. She stopped just near enough for the gleam of her eyes to be seen.
“Say what you want to say.”
#
“You did not say you would be starting a fire. You should not start fires,” said the female from just beyond the edge of a circle of light cast by a meager campfire.
“It is freezing, and this is the first time in days I've found enough wood to have a decent fire.”
“Then talk fast. I do not want to be here when men see the fire and come looking for who it was that lit the fire.”
There was a peculiarity to the way she spoke. She never seemed to open her mouth fully, and each word would cling to the next. The vowel sounds were long and muddy, and the consonants were sharp, shifting from one to the other with an audible flip of her tongue. It was as though each sentence had been drizzled in molasses, the words escaping her lips as a rich, dense flow with barely a gap between them. She also seldom looked him in the eye, instead nervously glancing out into the darkness whenever the wind twitched a branch or tuft of shrubbery a bit too noisily for her taste.
“What are you doing here in the forest?” he asked.
“I am living in the forest,” she said with a sneer, adding a handful of muttered words in what must have been her native language. The comments were like all of the quirks in her speech combined, each sentence a cluster of harsh, jagged words that fit together into an oddly beautiful mosaic of sound.
“Are there many other malthropes here?”
“There are not many other malthropes anyplace. Certainly there are not any more here.”
“What happened to your leg?”
“I hurt it. How many questions before you give to me the food?”
“We'll see. How did you hurt it?”
“Why does it matter to you?” she said, her patience already thin.
“Because I don't know much about this place and I don't want what happened to you to happen to me.”
She huffed a breath and rolled her eyes. “It did not happen here. I was in the Great Forest. I was chasing a deer and I stepped into one of the . . . what is it? The snapping traps, for the large hungry things that eat the fish? The traps that go like this.”
She spread her fingers and moved her hands sharply apart and together, her fingers interlocking like a creature's teeth.
“I don't know, I've never been to the Great Forest.”
“They have them in places that are not the Great Forest. Men put them all places when they want to catch the . . . fish-eaters. It does not matter. I stepped in a snapping trap, with the dull bars, not the sharp teeth, and—” She clapped her hands together. “Like that. I got it open, but my leg, it is not right now. It has hurt since then.”
“Is that why you are so hungry and thin?”
“I am so hungry because you took back from me the rabbits. But, yes. I have not been able to hunt very well. And it is worse since I came to this place. Not very much good to eat here.”
“Then why did you come here?”
“Because there is not very much good to eat here. Nothing much to grow, nothing much to hunt. That means that men do not come here. With my leg like this, I cannot run from men when they come, so I must go to a place where they do not come. Are these enough questions?”
“Were you a good hunter before you hurt your leg?”
She looked at him flatly. “I am a malthrope.” The sentence was delivered as though it was all the answer he should need.
He took a deep breath and thought for a moment. “I have an offer. A trade.”
She narrowed her eyes. “What sort of trade?”
“If you help me learn to hunt, I will share my food with you and help you recover.”
“You are a malthrope. You know how to hunt. This is foolish what you say.”
“I thought I knew how to hunt, but I've only ever had to do it in open fields or in closed buildings. Places where they couldn't hide, or couldn't run. Out here, every creature seems to know I'm coming before I even notice them.”
“Hunt inside buildings? No, no. This is not true. This cannot be true.”
“You almost outran me with a bad leg. You run through a crowded forest like I would run along a path. I need to know how to do these things. I need you to teach me.”
“I can do these things because I am a malthrope.”
“Then I need you to teach me to be a malthrope.”
She huffed again, shaking her head. “That is . . . you need . . . this is not e
nough. You get everything and I get nothing in this trade. I do not need your help so badly.”
“You do need me. More than you realize. That leg has been getting worse, hasn't it?”
“Worse? Of course it is worse! You chased me through the forest. You tugged on my leg and you climbed all over me.”
“Before that.”
“Some days yes, some days no. How do you know this?”
“I know injuries like that. Your leg isn't broken, not all the way, but it will be soon if you don't dress it properly and give it some rest.”
“Rest my leg. I cannot do this, I need to eat.”
“I can feed you, if you teach me how to get the food.”
“You mean this? You mean these foolish things that you say?”
“I do.”
“And what if I say no?”
“Then I take my rabbits, you take your bad leg, and we both take our chances.”
In the darkness at the edge of the firelight, he could just make out the gleam of her teeth as her lips peeled back in a frustrated sneer. She murmured for a bit in her native language, pronouncing certain words more vigorously than others.
“You say that you can help to heal my leg?”
“I’ve watched it done a few times.”
“How long will it be taking?”
“If you heal quickly, and you stay off of it, perhaps a month.”
She muttered more sharply, her emphasis on certain words making it clear without translation what role they played in voicing her anger. “And you need me to teach you to be what you are?”
“I need you to teach me whatever I need to know to survive.”
She shook her head and tried to stand, but the instant she put weight on the injured leg, she winced and eased back down. With a sigh of defeat, she put her hand to her head. “I will do this.”
“Thank you,” he said, tossing the larger of the two rabbits to her. “You will not regret this. Eat first, and then I’ll look at your leg.”