Monsters

by Peter Cawdron

  Bruce scurried up the berm, wanting to see where the lion had come from. He could see tracks pacing along the muddy edge of the forest, weaving in and out of the trees. The monster had been circling the farm, looking for a point of entry. Those bloody chickens, thought Bruce. He'd told Jane they weren't a good idea, but she wanted the eggs. He was sure they had attracted the beast.

  Bruce unhitched the cart, leaving it partially blocking the muddy track to bar the path of any more wild animals. He mounted his horse. A sense of panic welled up within him. Whereas at first he'd been calm and detached, looking at the intrusion from a practical perspective, now his imagination got the better of him and he worried about Jane. That big cat could be anywhere. With hedgerows separating the empty fields, there were plenty of places for a mountain lion to hide.

  Bruce rode hard, whipping his horse, driving it on. He figured the lion would have entered under the cover of night. Mountain lions may have been bigger than man, they may have lost their fear of mankind, but hundreds of thousands of years of evolutionary instinct had honed their hunting habits, demanding stealth from them.

  After less than a mile, his horse faltered. Horses might have once been endurance animals, with the ability to sustain a gallop over a mile or more, but that trait had been lost with their increased bulk. Oh, what he would give for a horse from centuries past, one that would carry him on the wind, one that could fly across the fields, but his horse tired, slowing to a walk.

  Frustrated, Bruce dismounted and ran on, his crossbow slung over his shoulder, his lance out in front of him.

  The horse instinctively followed its master, but Bruce knew that wouldn't last. As soon as the horse got a sniff of that big cat it would flee, probably down to the lower fields. But that was OK, he could retrieve it later. For now, his concern was Jane and Hugo. They should be inside, he told himself. They'll see the big cat coming from a mile away, at least that's what he hoped. Everything will be fine. And yet on he ran, his lungs burning in the still, cold air.

  It was a beautiful autumn day and, deep down, Bruce knew they'd both be outside soaking up the last rays of the sun before the winter storms blew down from the north.

  Already, a light dusting of snow lay in the shadows, hidden from the failing heat of the late-autumn sun. The tracks of the mountain lion meandered, appearing in the soft mud, disappearing on the hard-packed paths, reappearing for a moment and then fading again. Before long, Bruce had lost the trail, but it didn't matter, he was making a beeline for the farm house. If the mountain lion caught Jane and Hugo in the open they wouldn't stand a chance. Bruce didn't worry about where the cat was, he worried about where it was going. He was sure it was following the scent of the fowl. He had to get back to protect Jane.

  Bruce ran hard. His leather boots were not supple, causing blisters to form on his heels as he ran. His boots were fine when farming, but the constant flexing and pounding caused his skin to wear. He told himself it was no more than three miles back to the cabin, but his muscles were sore. The leather strap from his crossbow and quiver cut into the side of his neck. He tried to tuck his collar under the strap, but as he ran the weight continued to wear on his shoulder, rubbing his skin raw.

  Mud caked on his boots, weighing him down. The very fields fought against him, holding him back.

  In the distance, he could see smoke rising from the cabin. As he approached the brow of the tabletop, coming up to the gentle slope that led down to the farm, his horse bolted to the south, neighing in panic, and Bruce knew the cat was close.

  The undulating land had dead spots, dips and contours that could hide a monster. Was the creature ahead of him? Had the animal crouched behind one of the hedgerows? Could it be slinking forward in one of the shallow gullies? His pace slowed. Fatigue set in as a twinge of cramp flickered in his calf muscles.

  Bruce paused at the top of the rise, breathing deeply, sucking in the cold air. Barely half a mile away he could see the cabin and smokehouse, the barn and poultry coop, the corral and woodpile.

  Hugo was sitting on the porch, facing the warmth of the sun. Jane was walking between the barn and the chickens. Even from where he was, Bruce could hear the animals crying out with anguish in the barn. Jane must have been trying to still them. They could smell the monster, but where was it? Bruce jogged down the hill, hoping he could make it back when his blood ran cold. He could see the mountain lion moving up on Jane from behind the woodpile.

  “Get back in the cabin,” he yelled, waving his arms as he ran on. “Run! Get back in the house.”

  Jane turned. She had to have heard him, to have heard something, but his voice must have been indistinct, just a faint cry carrying on the breeze, an echo off the surrounding hills. She looked around without looking up at him. Jane peered along the main trail Bruce had taken to the south that morning. She hadn't seen him coming down the steep hill behind the farm.

  The monster stalked her, creeping in from behind the woodpile, keeping her in sight.

  “Jane,” he yelled, struggling for breath. “Get in the house!”

  Hugo was standing. He had stepped off the porch and was facing Bruce. With his keen hearing, he must have recognized both Bruce's voice and the direction he was coming from.

  “Hugo. Get her inside.” Bruce bellowed.

  Jane turned, seeing Bruce running down the hill. He waved toward the house, trying to gesture for her to run, but she seemed relaxed. She could not have known how close the danger was. Jane waved back, frustrating Bruce.

  Hugo moved briskly along the side of the cabin, his hand running along the wooden logs, using them as a guide. Jane called out to Hugo. It was impossible for Bruce to know what they were saying, but by facing Hugo, Jane had her back to the mountain lion.

  The beast crept closer, stalking its prey, sensing the weakness.

  Jane seemed confused. She must have recognized Bruce's voice but not understood his words. For his part, Bruce was struggling to run. His pace had turned to more of a hobble, which may have looked casual and relaxed at that distance.

  “Get inside,” he yelled. Bruce was trying not to panic, not to say too much and confuse things further. The last thing Jane needed was to panic. If she walked briskly, without running, she just might make it, he figured. At this point, if she ran, the lion would bolt after her instinctively. He could see its tail twitching, its shoulders crouched, its eyes fixed on her.

  Bruce dropped the lance. The bulky wooden pole was slowing him down. There was no point in being armed if he was too late to stop the attack. The crossbow would have to suffice.

  Bruce slipped and slid on the loose ground as he hobbled down the rough slope, urging his body on, trying to push through the pain and run.

  The mountain lion leaped out from behind the woodpile, roaring.

  Jane froze.

  For a moment, she stared down the big cat.

  With fangs bared, the monster dared her to run.

  Jane couldn't make either the cabin or the barn, Bruce could see that. His heart pounded in his chest. She did the only thing she could and darted toward the other end of the woodpile, trying to outwit the beast.

  The lion pounced, lashing out with its claws, coming within a few feet of her as she scurried between the log piles.

  Snarling, the mountain lion swung around behind her, but the muddy row was too narrow for the big cat so it leaped up, straddling the loose wood.

  Jane slipped in the soft mud, falling as the lion reached down between the rows, trying to snare her with its claws. Wooden logs fell in on her as the wood pile toppled.

  Bruce ran as hard as he could, with his crossbow out in front of him in one hand, ready to bring it to bear as soon as he was in range. With the slope dropping away beneath him, Bruce struggled to keep his footing, feeling the muddy ground slipping out from beneath him. He wasn't going to make it. Deep down, he knew she couldn't escape. He was too far away to help. The lion was on top of her.

  The woodpile collapsed under the weight of the mo
nster, sending logs crashing down into the narrow row, pinning Jane beneath the crush of wood. She screamed in agony. The sound of her voice carried on the wind, sending a chill through him as his heart pounded in his throat. His legs faltered. Tripping and stumbling, Bruce struggled not to fall as he leaped down the hillside toward the farm. He was too late, and he knew it.

  The big cat reached down with its paws, pulling the logs away to get at Jane buried under the wood. Bruce forced back a lump in his throat.

  Hugo yelled, bellowing incoherently at the top of his voice.

  The mountain lion reared its head, looking around, growling wildly, baring its teeth.

  Bruce wasn't sure what happened next. He reached the corral and ran behind the barn, losing sight of the big cat for a few seconds, but he could hear Hugo yelling over the noise of the cattle panicking in their stalls, lashing out with their legs, trying to break free and flee.

  As Bruce came around behind the woodpile, he could see Hugo. The old man had walked out into the open grassy paddock between the cabin and the barn. He was throwing something at the lion, an assortment of small stones and rocks, distracting but not hurting the monstrous creature. Hugo had to be throwing at the sound, as he couldn't see the massive beast before him.

  The lion turned on Hugo, leaping from the woodpile, causing another row of logs to collapse in on Jane. The savage beast swiped at Hugo, tearing open his chest with its claws and tossing him across the grass like a rag doll.

  “No,” Bruce yelled, firing the first of his arrows.

  His aim was true, catching the lion up under the ribs, but the brute barely noticed. Taking his eyes off the monster for a second, Bruce loaded a second arrow as he ran, staggering to one side under the pain in his legs. When he looked up he saw Hugo hanging from the monster's mouth, its teeth piercing his abdomen.

  Hugo screamed.

  Bruce fired again, hitting the beast in the throat, and the lion turned on him, blood dripping from its jaws.

  Hugo's body fell limp to the ground as the mountain lion charged at Bruce, its paws digging up clods of dirt as it pounded toward him. There was nothing between them, not more than thirty yards separating them as Bruce struggled with another arrow.

  His fingers were cold, his movements clumsy.

  The arrow slipped from his trembling hand.

  As the arrow fell, tumbling toward the ground, Bruce grabbed at the air, his fingers catching the briefest, fleeting touch of the flight feathers as the arrow slipped out of reach. Before him, the lion roared.

  The mountain lion leaped, flying through the air as Bruce ducked, dropping to the ground and rolling to one side. He felt the monster's claws race through the air as the huge beast soared just inches above his head. With deft motion, the big cat turned as it landed, wheeling around on its paws and facing its quarry.

  Bruce scrambled to his feet, pushing off the ground and running for the barn. He made for the corner, knowing the giant beast wouldn't be as nimble at turning.

  Rounding the side of the barn, Bruce pulled at the wooden door.

  The big cat came charging after him.

  Bruce ducked inside as a huge paw struck out through the doorway trying to grab him, its claws tearing up the hard wooden floor.

  Inside, the farm animals howled in fright. One of the horses had kicked out a support beam, causing the building to sway as the mountain lion charged at the doorway. Wooden planks buckled and splinted as the monster fought to get inside.

  Bruce grabbed a pitchfork and drove it hard into the lion's paw. The animal roared in agony, pulling its arm back and yanking the pitchfork out of his hand. The pitchfork caught on the door jamb and came loose, falling to the ground.

  The lion was infuriated. Turning its head sideways, it tried to squeeze through the doorway, its teeth biting at the air, trying to break into the flimsy building.

  Bruce grabbed a wooden lance and thrust it into the lion's mouth, driving up under the soft palate and twisting, snapping off a barb.

  The lion roared in pain, pulling back and shaking its head, trying to free the splinter of wood embedded in its mouth.

  Bruce cried out in anger, consumed by rage.

  He yelled as he charged at the monster with his lance out in front of him. Bruce aimed for the neck but caught the beast under the shoulder, snapping off another barb under its winter coat, and the mountain lion turned and ran, howling as it vaulted through the farmyard.

  Bruce charged off after the animal, screaming incoherently at the top of his lungs, but the lion quickly out-paced him, galloping up the hillside and disappearing over the fields.

  Bruce dropped the broken lance.

  Exhaustion set in as the rush of adrenalin faded. His hands were trembling. An uneasy quiet fell over the farm. He limped back toward the barn.

  A lifeless bloodied arm protruded from beneath the fallen woodpile. The rows in the pile had been stacked over eight feet high, now they lay scattered in a crush of thick logs. There had to be roughly a ton of wood pressing down on Jane's body, and the thought of the pain she endured as she died jarred his mind.

  Bile came up in the back of his throat and Bruce fought against the urge to vomit. His body ached, but it was more than physical. A sense of loss overwhelmed him, choking him. Bruce couldn't see her face beneath the press of logs. He couldn't face Jane. He couldn't face seeing her broken body mutilated by the weight of hardwood.

  Hugo lay to one side, his body twitching. Somehow, the old man was still alive, barely. Bruce knelt down and took his hand. As much as he was steeling himself for the grim task of recovering Jane's body, he couldn't walk past Hugo.

  Bruce felt his body tremble, but he couldn't let go of Hugo's hand, he couldn't leave the old man to die alone in his world of cold, bitter darkness. Bruce hadn't left his brother, he would not leave Hugo. He understood the tragedy of death, the futile struggle in those final moments, the panic and the fear. Life was too precious. He would stay with Hugo until the end. He owed the man that much at least.

  Hugo was trying to speak. His lips moved but no words came out. His chest heaved, blood seeped from his wounds.

  “It's OK, my friend,” Bruce said softly, patting his hand, trying to reassure him. “The monster is gone.”

  Hugo squeezed Bruce's trembling hand. His fingers were frail and weak. Although no words were spoken, Bruce knew what the old man wanted to hear.

  “She's fine.”

  Bruce lied.

  A faint smile came to the dying man's lips. With his life fading, he believed Bruce.

  “Jane is OK, she is going to be fine. You did it, my friend. You saved her life.”

  Bruce felt his mouth run dry. Tears fell from his eyes, running down his cheeks. Looking across at the collapsed woodpile, there was no movement, no sound. Blood pooled in the mud, having run out from beneath the wooden logs. Jane was dead, but he didn't have the heart to tell Hugo his sacrifice had been in vain. Bruce struggled to control his emotions, his chest heaved as he sought to compose himself.

  “It's going to be a cold winter,” he said, feeling he owed Hugo more than silence. What could he say to a dying man? What comfort could there be? Words failed him. All he could think to talk about was how life would continue on. Perhaps that would be of some comfort. “Next year I'll raise corn in the southern fields as well as the west. The price has been good for corn. If the winter is long and deep it will keep the locusts from coming with the spring.”

  He swallowed the lump in his throat.

  “I'll use the money to bring in some hired-help from the village. We'll fell the woods to the east. Open them up for grazing the following year.”

  The old man squeezed his hand, signaling his approval. Hugo's breathing was labored. Looking down at his bloodied body, Bruce felt inadequate. What words could ever make up for the loss of a life? What could ever be more important than the sum total of a man struggling against his own death? And yet Bruce felt he had to keep talking, if not for Hugo's sake then for his own.
With the world collapsing around him, he had to draw upon something.

  “There's been talk of peace with the northern tribes. They say trade will open up again. There's talk they've taken a city and held back the monsters for two years now. Sounds like there could be change in the wind.”

  Hugo's hand twitched and fell limp. His head sank to one side as his body succumbed to the blood loss. Bruce rested his hand on the old man's forehead, feeling his wrinkled skin already cool to touch. Gently, he lay Hugo's arms by his side.

  Shaking, Bruce got to his feet. He stood there for a moment in shock. Slowly, he walked toward the woodpile, his mind set with grim determination to recover Jane's body.

  Flurries of snow drifted on the breeze. The sweat that had once cooled the furnace of his body now sent a chill through him. There was no rush, though, no sense of urgency, just a sense of duty. He had to give Jane the respect in death she had earned in life. The task of uncovering her body was daunting, but he owed that to her. He owed both Jane and Hugo a proper funeral, either burial in a pit deep enough that no monster would unearth their remains, or on a funeral pyre, one that would burn for days in memorial. Thinking about it, Bruce decided he'd rather cremate their bodies than bury them, but if the winter was long, he would need all the wood he had. Still, their lives must be honored. It was only fitting.

  Bruce began pulling the heavy wooden logs away. His muscles ached as he shifted the wood, carefully selecting each log so the pile didn't collapse any further. It took almost ten minutes to work his way down to where Jane's forearm protruded from between two bloodied logs. Gently, he moved her cold hand to one side, noting how she had fallen, with her arm twisted behind her, almost pulled out of its socket.

  Her body lay sideways beneath the debris. As he cleared the logs around her head and shoulders he realized several of the larger logs had fallen above her, wedging themselves across the narrow aisle. Bruce felt like he was going to be sick, but he kept clearing the wood.