by A. K. Vyas
Movement gave him the feeling he still had control of his life. This was a partial illusion, if he thought it through. His body cooperated.
Bret crept to the bottom of the hill, into thicker growth. He sat back against a gnarled old willow. The little hunter soundlessly tuned in to the patterns of nearby bird calls. He heard something crashing onto the high grass of the little hill. He couldn’t move much, but slowly turned his head for a peek. It was a large hairy boar. They weren’t stalking me, he realized.
The exhausted little hunter was well hidden in the great purple birch before dusk. This tree on the big hill was a perfect hide. The creature comforts of water and a handful of berries had him feeling almost human again.
Thanks again, Chief Sev—everything’s right where you said. I’m high up, safe, and nearly invisible within these folds. There’s a commanding view of the Mountain Man village.
Bret knew he’d accomplished his mission mere moments after observing the village. The Mountain Men are a beaten people. They’ve been devastated by the Sabretooth. War isn’t even an option. They’d be lucky to survive the winter.
The little hunter had never experienced the advanced stages of predation by a maneater. You could see it in the way the villagers walked. They almost stooped with the weight of fatalistic resignation on their shoulders. Their huts were in poor repair. They were all gaunt, pale, and thin, despite their towering size. It was also what you didn’t hear. Their children don’t laugh or play. I doubt they have much food.
Bret quickly formed his report, as their hunting teams returned before dusk.
I count eight hands worth of hunters. They aren’t carrying the barbed war spears. Three teams came from the direction of the river. Given the distance to the river, I know when they left for home.
Even from this distance he could identify their leader. A powerful silver-haired man who walked with a pronounced limp. He was leading them all to their burial grounds for a Spirit Ceremony. The Mountain Men buried their dead in the ground with headstones. There were at least two rows of newer lightly colored headstones.
They’d prepared three fresh plots, one of which was smaller, for a child. Bret could see over the entire village and the burial grounds from the big hill. The entire village was at the ceremony, yet he saw someone running to a hut in the village. It was a smaller man, and he knelt at the door flap and seemed to be cutting. The man then raced back to the Spirit Ceremony.
This makes no sense. No one leaves a Spirit Ceremony. Bret realized they’d lost at least five hands’ worth of people. The majority of these had to be the Sabretooth!
The Silver Hair was on his knees. He held a child’s fur hat to his chest and kissed it before tossing it into the grave. The Sabretooth had taken his daughter. He rose and began screaming in fury as the grave was filled with dirt. The Mountain Men were all slashing cuts into their chests with knives, while the women tearfully pulled out strands of their hair. Bret had to look away for a while.
A tribe was a tribe. They all came together back in the village for the evening meal.
Bret thought, All they have to eat is the python and the deer. This isn’t enough food for so many people. The Silver Hair and many of the men aren’t eating so the children could.
As the great flames of their cooking fires danced in the darkness, the little hunter saw some sort of angry discussion in the village. The smaller man who’d snuck away from the Spirit Ceremony was giving an angry speech. He was pounding his chest and pointing east toward the Great Plains.
The Silver Hair stood up and drew a long line in the dirt with his ivory war axe. He crossed this line and turned back, facing his people. The red-haired giant was the first to cross. He stood shoulder to shoulder with the Silver Hair. All the Mountain Men followed suit, the entire village. The only one left was the angry small man. He grudgingly went last, crossing in silence.
Chapter Eleven
“Truth is a lion, and lies are a hyena.” -Somali Proverb
The Frog Spirit
The yellow moon rose that night with a windy breeze. Bret sensed, The Sabretooth will come tonight. I’m grateful to be safely up this birch tree. The Silver Hair had the same thought. He’d staked out four great torches next to the hut closest to the river. Then Bret watched the Mountain Man Chief sit cross-legged with his back resting against the hut. The great ivory war axe lay in his lap. The torch flames crackled and danced shadows and light in contrast to the vast darkness. Bret realized, He’s challenging the Sabretooth alone in the dark!
The little hunter nodded grimly at the man’s desperate courage. The Silver Hair wants to end this nightmare for his people. A lone wolf howl carried across the village from the direction of the little hill. It was a lonely, desolate sound on a bleak night. The sleepy Silver Hair howled back in response. Bret was tempted to respond in kind, but knew better.
The Silver Hair sprang to his feet, brandishing the war axe. Bret focused in. The red-haired giant stepped into the glow of the torches. It was clear he was trying to get the Chief to end this foolhardiness. When the Silver Hair refused, the giant simply planted his own war axe, and sat down next to him. Brave men. You had to admire their courage.
The little hunter realized he respected them. This didn’t mean he wouldn’t still do his duty for the People. If war came, either man would swiftly feel the deadly sting of Bret’s spear, or a silent pair of knives through the throat. Yet, they are brave men, thought the little hunter.
The Mountain Men never knew how close death had come that night. A set of fiendish glowing eyes crouched in the darkness not twenty paces beyond the glow of the torches. The creature was crouched low and slow, slithering forward on its belly. The powerfully tawny haunches rippled with tension. The great cat had focused on the slumping Silver Hair. The Sabretooth’s perfect night vision had detected the redheaded giant an instant before it charged the yawning Silver Hair. Two alert large Mountain Men were too dangerous. As skilled as the hunters were, the great cat at night was another level. Even Bret never knew how closely to his tree the great cat had crept on its way home in the moonlight.
The little hunter was utterly spent. The exertion and tension of the day’s events had exhausted him. He double-checked the strap securing him to his branch. He suddenly felt very cold and lonely. Why? I’ll cross back to the People tomorrow. I must succeed. The Sabretooth will come for us next.
The early gray daylight found the little hunter sipping water in his tree. The black crows by his tree were having an angry argument. Bret had figured out what the smallish Mountain Man was up to during the Spirit Ceremony. Bret could see the door to the Chief’s hut swaying open in the dawn wind. The smaller man had sawed the door bindings down. The door to the sleeping Silver Hair’s hut would have been wide open last night had the Sabretooth come. This treacherous, angry little man had tried to murder the Silver Hair with the Sabretooth.
Bret watched the Silver Hair dispatch three teams to watch the river. The remaining hunting teams set off as well. The Mountain Man Chief’s team headed east.
Bret checked the clouds and wind. No rain today. The route home was simple.
Now I know when the river-watching teams head home. I’ll follow the women and children who gather wood toward the river. Their chatter should cover my movements. I’ll find a good tree near the river south of the bend. I’ll wait for the river-watch teams to head home for dusk, then swim home. It’s likely another night up a tree. A tree on our side of the river, though, is easier.
It was all going according to plan. By afternoon, the little hunter was perfectly hidden in a leafy hide close to the river. River frogs were croaking everywhere in the sun. Bret forced down a berry.
Then the little girl fell into the hide.
She’d been hunting frogs when the earth slipped beneath her. Bret sat there with his jaw open in shock. They stared at each other. The little Mountain Girl saw a strange creature caked in mud and leaves with a green face. He saw a freckled little face full of
fear. This was bad.
The green frog in her hand ribbited. So did Bret. The hand that was flying to cover her mouth stopped and turned into a friendly wave hello. She looked at the frog, then Bret. He was instantly sitting like a frog too.
Bret knew he should cover her mouth, but stopped and ribbited more himself. He gave her his nicest ribbit and goofiest smile. She seems more confused than scared.
“Frosch?” the little girl asked.
The green-faced little hunter nodded emphatically. Then he offered her some berries.
He put his index finger to his nose in the shush sign. I don’t want to have to cover her mouth. If she screams, though, it’s all over. The hunting teams are still between here and the river. She’s too little to be missed for long. They’d all come looking for her.
If a hunter had stumbled upon him, well, that was different. This is an innocent child. Bret made peace with the risk, even if it meant he died. Then he was calm.
The little hunter smiled at her. “The problem is I can’t just leave you. I don’t know if you are lost, and the Sabretooth is coming soon.”
The little girl didn’t understand any of this. She was very confused, but sensed whatever this green frog-looking creature was, it wouldn’t eat her. Frogs can’t talk, so he must be a Frog Spirit. Bret then heard faint women’s voices from the west calling out, “Greta, Greta!”
Bret had to move. They can’t find the hide either.
Bret said as tenderly as possible, “Greta, I’m taking you to Mama. I need you to be quiet.”
He scooped up the child and gently covered her mouth. She is confused but not scared. Bret ran southwest toward a nearby grassy hill carrying Greta. He put her down at the summit facing north and pointed.
“Mama’s coming,” Bret said. “Greta, stay here. Stay here.”
The little hunter scurried down the reverse slope of the little hill into some worn holly bushes. He cupped his hand to his mouth and screeched out the call of a peacock. “Miaooo, Miaooo!”
He watched uphill at Greta, until he was sure he heard the fussing Mountain Women running up the hill. Bret moved again, crawling quickly into another group of thorny bushes.
He saw a Mountain Woman pick her up. Greta was chattering away now and safe. The little hunter had time to be scared now. He threw up. Young Greta will have some story to tell. She must’ve thought I was some big frog, Bret chuckled inwardly. Then his hands started shaking again. Bret put his face in his hands and kneaded his temples. I can smell the river. Almost home. Breathe. Focus. Move.
The Mountain Woman was carrying Greta back to the others. The child was babbling something about a nice frog spirit. The odd thing was Greta had some dried berry juice on her cheeks, and a bit of smudged green paste on her shoulder. The Mountain Woman looked back over her shoulder at a slight rustle in the bushes headed back toward the river. Whatever it was, it moved fast. Frog Spirit? No, it was just the wind.
Bret knew the tree he was looking for. It was a magnificent old oak he’d seen from across the river. This tree was at the edge of a cliff that jutted out over the river. The little hunter finally had it in sight as the sun was hanging low in the sky. He sat close and perfectly silent, making certain he was alone. Then he was up high in the branches well beyond the Sabretooth’s reach. He could even dive into the river from here if needed. It was so quiet and peaceful. Bret was very tempted to just swim across now. The little hunter gritted his teeth and remembered his discipline. It was still too light out, though his eyelids were heavy.
The little hunter thought, Why is it in war you can never sleep when you get the chance, but it’s so hard to stay awake when you need to? No, this isn’t war unless I screw it up.
Two Mountain Men passed right below his tree headed home before dusk. It was just a feeling—he couldn’t see, smell, or hear anything unusual. Yet the little hunter’s hairs rose on the back of his neck. He knew better than to dismiss this feeling. Then he sensed rather then saw a faint shrub move below
They are running late, thought the little hunter. It’ll catch them before they make the village. Hurry, boys, he thought. Bret then realized he knew the Sabretooth was close. I’m not going anywhere tonight.
The great cat was stalking this hunting team on the sly. It also passed right under his tree. How can something so big move that stealthily? There’s no way it could sense me. The wind is with me.
Bret was hidden well, perfectly still high up in thick leaves. He was wrong. It still found him.
Bret got lucky later, because in his exhaustion he made a deadly mistake that night. The fatigued little hunter had relaxed a bit with home in sight. He’d moved down to a more comfortable branch for the night. He was drowsy, and misjudged the distance in the darkness. This new branch was broader and sturdy, but wasn’t high enough. The cat had sensed him earlier, and returned just before dawn.
It was silently creeping up the back of the tree, when it slipped. The Sabretooth was in the act of reaching around the huge tree trunk for a sleeping Bret. It almost had him. The girth of the ancient tree trunk saved him. Something primal woke the little hunter to the danger in the darkness. The drowsy hunter heard the faintest scratching sound on the trunk below and behind. He suddenly felt an instant of sharp padded fur on his chest, then a falling roar behind and below. Something heavy and growling thudded through the branches into the ground below. Bret dove straight off the branch into the dark river.
The plucky little hunter was back in the village by midmorning with a big smile, a bigger tiger paw scratch right across his chest, and an even bigger story. He sat noisily eating and drinking everything in sight. The boys brought him a bunch of fresh cherries they had just picked.
He’d reported the mission details to Chief Sev, and the Elders. No war. The Sabretooth will be coming for us too. They were shocked at what the Sabretooth had done to the Mountain Men. Chief Sev decided the hidden rock path under the waterfall might prove very useful.
Bret put down an enormous piece of venison, and wiped the grease from his mouth. The village medicine man carefully applied a paste of mushrooms and healing herbs to the claw scratch. It wasn’t deep, but extended all the way across the little hunter’s chest.
The People were genuinely thrilled to see the little warrior again. Leif grabbed his shoulder warmly. Bron shook hands in silent respect. Emil just gave Bret a big hug.
The little hunter was finishing his story for the People: “Then I swam back to our side, and ran past at least two sprinting deer on the way home!”
The People laughed at this. Bret looked down at his chest, reflecting, “It wasn’t my time, I guess.”
Papa teased. “Was that scar really necessary, or are you just trying to impress all the women…. Oh, this little thing…just a scratch from a man-eating Sabretooth!”
Bret just shrugged and belched. He tapped his chest with his usual buoyant bluster.
“I got this this morning. This cat is…devilishly cunning. I’ve never seen anything like it. Chief Sev’s directions were perfect. The Mountain Men are living a nightmare. With the night comes a relentless beast which preys on your loved ones. The men can’t stop it, no matter what they try. Their Silver Hair is crazy but brave. I wish I had one of your venom darts, Emil. That might have ended this nightmare for all of us. This was a close thing. I made so many mistakes we can learn from, Emil. I got very lucky more than once.”
The little hunter addressed the Chief, “Cloud is what has kept us safe so far. The snows may hinder it, but eventually this wicked cat will come for us too.”
Papa brought back Bret’s throwing stick and weapons—there were two new darts capped with small tied rawhide covers. These were the venom darts. In addition to the caps, they had three slight notches carved into the stalk to identify them. He told Bret, “I showed this to the hunters. Most think its bad snake magic and will anger the snake spirits.”
Bret scoffed, “More for us. We won’t be able to get more venom darts until the spring.�
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Papa addressed the hunters in a calm, even voice.
“We shouldn’t wait, let’s go after the Sabretooth at dawn. We should use all of our hunting teams at once, as well as the Mountain Men. We’ll use all but two of the teams to funnel and push the Sabretooth toward the river with smoke, noise, and fire. The older boys can help too. The top two teams will be waiting by the river. If somehow the cat escapes into the river, we know the Mountain Men are waiting on the other side. Cloud will help locate the beast.”
Chief Sev nodded in approval then raised an eyebrow. “Will the wolf do this?”
“He’ll listen to me if Emil tells him to,” Papa stated.
He saw the Chief shaking his head. “No, Spearmaker, we are lost without your spears and darts.”
Papa added, “Yes, we are lost. Chief, you’ve seen what this cat can do. It’s not hunting. The law says the Spearmaker may fight to defend the village. Emil is too young and Cloud may not obey anyone else. We must end this terror.”
“Give me your word once the smoke drive starts you stay well behind the driving teams,” Chief Sev said. He turned to Bret. “You and Leif will lead the killing teams.”
The little hunter’s blunt reply surprised them all.
“You honor me, Chief, and no disrespect, Spearmaker, but this plan won’t work on the Shaitan that is this cat. The best way to sort this out, Chief, is simple. Cloud, Aash, and myself quietly stalk it down using the venom darts. I know this cat’s mind. Cloud is the best hunter in the village, and the Spearmaker…well, he’s just too ugly for the Sabretooth to eat.”
“No chance,” was the Chief’s instant reply. “With you two dead, then I’m the ugliest man in the village.”
The hunters laughed darkly at this, which briefly cut through the thick tension hanging over their heads. Bret nodded. “Understood. Let Leif and Bron lead their hunting teams. I’ll go with them, but I hunt best alone.”