Test of the Wild

Knak. Knak. Knak. Steadily, the bone spur chipped away at the edge of the stone. Knak. Knak. Knak. He was good with his hands. Always had been. Learning from his father to shape and edge. Giving purpose to stone for the hunters, for the clan. His eyes shifted, looking out over the narrow valley below. The wideness of the world was breathtaking. Trees on the opposite side, jagged rocks to the left as the valley narrowed into a gorge, distant grasses peeking from patches of snow. Clouds moving lazily across the blue sky, obscuring the mountains beyond. Breaking over them, the wall of ice. Sheer and blue in places, cracking and falling in others. Snowfall driving it inevitably forward.

Eyes, quick and knowing, scanned for movement. The herds that move along this valley had yet to appear. Their trails told the story of their passage though. He’d scouted and made certain of that. Large and small game moved down this narrow valley. Finding easy passage through a wedge-shaped gorge, they sought the tempting sprawl of meadows beyond. They would come. He would be waiting.

Knak. Knak. Knak. Reaching the age of manhood was an important step. No longer a boy, he was now expected to provide for himself and for the clan. Everyone had their place and made their contribution. Some gathered what was useful from the land. Either food, medicines, or handy materials. Knak. Knak. Knak. Women, the old, and the very young did so. He’d done so until now. Until today. To prove himself a hunter, he had to bring meat, skins, and bone out of the wilderness. Alone. The hunting party he’d scouted with so many times awaited his return. Whether that would be in celebration or shame was up to him. Knak. Knak. Knak.

Distant movement in the valley. Large dark shapes lumbered into view. Immense bodies covered in the same dark fur he wrapped himself in, curved white tusks gleaming in the sun. Long Tusks. This would be a welcome sight if the hunters were with him. Bringing down even the smallest would mean days of feasting for the clan. Furs and tusks enough to make his own shelter as well. With his own hearth, he’d have a mate and then children. But taking one so large alone? No. No hunter would seek such quarry alone. Often the herds mingled, and other more desirable prey would follow. He watched the slow progress of the animals entering the valley.

The last hunting party that scouted here favored the trees on the opposite side. The cover granted concealment from their quarry and shelter from the weather. When their Prime – a leader of many hunts – noticed his gaze focused across to the barren slope on which he now sat, a slashing motion of a hand had told him no. The big cats prowled there, watching for the same herds they were seeking. Another quick hand motion directed his attention back to a narrow gap below an outcrop. The perfect Kill Place.

Then he hadn’t been a hunter, only a scout. Old enough to learn, he had joined the hunt. Another set of eyes for spotting prey. Another set of hands for butchering. Another strong back for carrying their kill home.

Knak. Knak. Knak. Alone with no Prime, no hunters, he’d made his own choice. The barren slope gave a much better view of all passing below. Motionless and wrapped in furs, he appeared to be another rock, nothing more. Knak. Knak. Knak. He looked skyward. The weather was changing. His nose told of coming snow. The air tasted of a storm. That was not good. Returning empty-handed was not something he couldn't do, yet storms were often deadly. The Wild is testing me, he thought.

He looked at the shaped stone in his hands. Too heavy for a spear, too long to butcher. Hefting it in his hand felt good. The stone blade was three palms long and leaf-shaped. Reminding him of the tree that gifted small, sweet fruit in the summer. Sharp enough to eagerly bite flesh, it was good for a kill. He’d have to be close, though. Too close. A beast needing such a stone blade to be brought down would surely be too formidable. Still, it seemed right in his hand.

Looking back to the valley, he smiled. There. Smaller and almost invisible against the tan and brown grasses, shaggy with branching antlers, the favored prey of a true hunter. Dropping his bone tool and stone blade back onto a piece of soft hide, he rolled them up. Shrugging off his furs invited the cold bite of the wind. Taking both the wooden and pointed spear, he moved down the slope.

A good hunter uses the Wild, bending it to his needs. Just as stone and wood can be shaped, so too would he shape the wind. Careful to find a safe, calm place, he squatted and relieved himself. Then he rolled his wooden spear in the still steaming excrement and set it aside to dry. With a hunting party, there would be no need to make such a decoy. A hunter or scout would serve that purpose. He’d done so many times. Finding a dry patch of earth, he stripped what skins he still wore and rolled in the soil, careful to coat himself in as much dust as possible. Wearing only his boots and a tight thong of soft leather, he moved out onto the floor of the valley.

The animals were still on the move at an unhurried pace. The low movement in the tall grasses went unnoticed as they grazed. He could smell the rank tang of the Long Tusks and the softer sweet musk of the Branch Horns. As long as his nose had them, they were blind to his scent. Finding a protected place behind some still green scrub, he threw his spear into the wind. It was a good throw, the shaft of wood spiraling away a good distance before striking the ground to stand like a small tree. Quickly he moved back to the way he’d come.

Pulling on his furs, he retrieved his pointed spear and moved to the Killing Place. Waiting was all that was needed. The grain of the spear felt good in his hand. He’d shaped it himself. A short stone blade coated with boiled tree sap and wrapped with four simple, soft leather straps. The Bones of the Earth, Blood of the Trees, and Flesh of Beasts. These gave him the power of death. It was a strong spear that, like him, was untested. He waited. Soon it would taste blood and know its purpose.

The old matron of the Long Tusks was wise. Some found strength in fang or talon, others in their size or number. The matron’s wisdom was the true strength of her kind. Her trunk lifted, tasting the air. Like stone, wood, and wind, her wisdom could also be shaped for the hunter’s need. With a trumpet of alarm, the others were alerted to the scent she’d caught. His scent carried on the wind from the decoy of his wooden spear. The matron knew all the hunters that endangered her kind. The big cats, wolves, and lumbering hyenas all made her wary. And the scent of Men she knew best of all. Clever, cunning and always in groups, only they pursued the largest of beasts. The herd broke into a run, moving away from the man-scent the wind carried.

The sudden retreat of so many encouraged the Branch Horns to follow. He waited. The approaching animals were forced closer, and closer together as the valley narrowed. The Long Tusks were in near panic now, jostling each other as they moved. Trunks aloft, tasting the air for any sign of danger. Passing the Kill Place, they entered the gorge, the Branch Horns right behind. He watched. There. The large buck. Forced up the sloping side, it had slipped on some scree, falling and sliding back to the panicked herd. He moved.

With a loud cry, he leapt off the outcropping, throwing the spear. Well-aimed, it flew true, spinning in the air. As the buck struggled to regain its footing, the spear struck. With a high-pitched screaming wail, it floundered, falling back to the ground. He was running now, quickly closing the distance. The beast stank of fear, eyes wild with brilliant red blood in its mouth. Pulling the spear free, he struck again, releasing it from its struggle. Breathless, falling to his knees and lifting his head, he howled into the gathering storm clouds.

The first of the snow came as he gathered his abandoned furs. Small, scattering flakes on an unforgiving wind. Grateful to be once again wrapped in their warmth, he hurried to cross the valley and reclaim his prize. This was when he was most vulnerable. After taking down prey, the numbers of a hunting party could keep most predators away. Alone, he was just as much prey as his Branch Horn. Butchering it quickly, he’d hung the antlers and a haunch high in a tree. Even though leaving the rest of the carcass felt wasteful, it was unavoidable. The kill was too precious to go unnoticed for long. Cat, bear, or wolf would have the blood scent soon, and they would come. He needed to be well away before that happened. The Wild was unforgiving and would not suffer one so small lingering where blood was in the air.

Snow began to fall in earnest when he retrieved his spoils from the tree. Before setting out, he took another look at the valley from the tree line. The carcass was gone, whether rendered invisible by the snow or being taken was unclear. The thought of sheltering in the trees was quickly dismissed. Those who would be stalking here were too dangerous, and he could already feel eyes upon him. Moving quickly, he made his way to the mouth of the valley.

The fire burned brightly in the swirling snow. He watched the orange glow of the embers, carefully tending the hungry flames. The fire must not go out. Without its heat, he would be finished. If the cold didn’t take him, the beasts certainly would. The fear of the flame and smoke would keep even the largest away. As long as he had wood to fuel it, he had a chance. Before the whiteness of the storm had taken his sight, he’d gathered as much wood as possible. The stack now filled a narrow gap between two large boulders. Making a quick shelter with his furs and some long branches, he managed to get a fire going. Now he sat, watching the flames battle the howling wind.

He thought of home. The cave’s warmth, the smell of cooking fires. Shaping stones with his father, wrestling with his brothers. His mother and sisters awaiting his return. Telling stories and sharing songs. The one girl with kind eyes and a soft smile – was she waiting for him? A sound startled him out of his thoughts. A guttural moaning growl. The spear was in hand before he thought to grab it. Blinded by the snow, he stared in the direction of the sound. Another snuffling huff to his right. Circling. Moving just out of the ring of firelight. At least the boulders at his back gave some degree of protection.

He tossed more wood on the fire with a blazing shower of embers. In the whiteness, two glowing eyes moved side to side. Wolf? No, the sounds were wrong. It was a cat. Lion maybe. Hopefully. There were far worse things than lions in the Wild. But he’d never known lions being on the hunt in such a storm. Other cats would, though. A slow dread stole over him. Another huffing growl to his left.

A huge shape emerged from the snow behind those glowing eyes. That was no lion, and the sight of it tuned his insides to water. This was the test of the Wild. Not the hunt, not the storm. The Long-tooth Cat. Silent Hunter. Eater of the Brave. Had it stalked him all the way from the valley? Certainly. He’d been a fool to hunt there alone. It lunged with a thundering roar, wide paws outstretched, impossibly long teeth following. Planting his spear under foot, he angled point toward the rushing mass of fur, teeth and claws.

The impact was devastating. Knocked from his feet, he fell back, the shaft of his spear cracking. Coarse fur, hot stinking breath, ripping claws. His hand found a familiar shape of stone. He stabbed quick and fierce, then with a beastly wailing cry, it was gone. Coughing, he struggled back to his feet, the long stone blade in his hand slick and red. Except for a blood trail into the snowy night, the cat had disappeared like a ghost. Wetness on his skin made him look down. Five gouges crossed his chest, weeping red in the faltering fire light.

Dawn came slowly as the long cold of the night surrendered to the sun. While the Long Tooth had not returned, it was likely not far. Rarely did such a cat abandon its prey. Often, hunting in packs of three or more, they preferred to ambush the unwary. The trees he’d sheltered among offered such cats the perfect cover. He must leave and do so quickly. Hastily gathering his things, he moved as fast as he could through the frigid pristine stillness. Breaking from the trees, he saw the distant rise that was home to his clan. With luck, he’d be there before the sun was at its highest.

Not fifty strides from the trees, he found it. The Long-tooth looked like a snowdrift but for the claws and a familiar wooden shaft sticking out of the powdery whiteness. His spear had found its mark. The cat fled but had succumbed either to the storm or its wounds. Taking his stone blade, he cut what trophies he could before moving on. The trees at his back still were watching, and he had little left to ward off what they hid.

He awoke to a comforting darkness with a burning itch across his chest. Cloudy memories came rushing back. Running through the snow. Searing pain at his torn chest. Falling within sight of home. Gathering strength, for the last stumbling steps before collapsing. A worried face with kind eyes framed by the blue of the sky before blackness took him. Weakly, he sat up, finding a poultice on the deep gashes of his chest. The cave was quiet and empty. Getting to his feet, he made his way out of its earthen mouth into the sun. The snow crunched under his feet, its familiar cold invigorating. There. His clan crowded around a bundle on the ground, the elders in quiet discussion. Not just any bundle. His bundle. The haunch and antlers of a Branch Horn, a tooth and shaggy fur of a Long-tooth Cat, a long stone blade blackened with dried blood. He let out a whooping cry, turning their faces to him. A cry from his father answered. Then his brothers, the hunters, the young and the old as they rushed to him. Hunter. Warrior. Provider of the clan.