Hunting

It was such an easy trail, even a child could track it. That's what made the trace so disturbing to the the village's fifth-best hunter.

Well, the best, now. He assumed. So did everyone else. The other four never came home, when the meat supplies ran low. One by one they went out into the snow, and one by one they vanished without a trace.

But these traces were easy to follow. Too easy. Was something out there trying to trap him?

He shivered. The trail led him over the frozen pond, home to fat fish in the summer. That was his preferred meal, not deer or rabbit. He liked to think of those animals as his friends, with their soft quizzical looks when he sat quietly, fishing under the large tree on the far bank. Sometimes even an eagle would join them, far above in the tree, looking to share a meal. Or steal it. He'd shoo the rabbit away when he saw that long shadow come for its favorite roost.

While he was out here, it wouldn't hurt to check...

He veered to the right, slowly making his way to the dam crest under the snow pack. Dozens of years ago, the villagers added it to make the pond deeper, for larger fish. The trickle of water dripping over the face formed its own spillway over time, a healthy trickle that fed the brook leading south to the river. There was just enough seepage to keep a bit of fresh water moving even in the middle of winter, and many creatures would come to get a fresh drink so they didn't have to waste energy eating snow.

There were no tracks.

That took him by surprise. And he stopped to think. No animals, means no food. Therefore something hunted them all. And if whatever was out there ate all the animals, there was only one thing left to eat...

Was his imagination running away with him again, like the villagers were always on him about?

Yeah, sure. Like he was imagining that painful whine on the breeze, which conveniently started up the minute he stopped moving.

It couldn't be any of the hunters. The last one had left ten days ago, and if he was wounded, this close to the village, he would not have survived to make such noise. And this sounded more like a dog, and those were all safely back at the village. Something wanted him not to think, to just rush to save, and get caught in a trap.

He wondered if he could get home to warn everyone, or if it knew he was here already.

Time to come up with something clever, or he was dead meat.

He turned and started to make his way back. The whining got a little louder, then stopped. He said a bad word under his breath - it had line of sight on him, then. This was going to get bad.

He puffed along on his snowshoes, taking a few moments to glance over his shoulder every so many strides. He didn't have a heavy pack; he liked having things in the many pockets in his clothing. Mitts were slid off and dangled at the end of their carry-straps, so he could dig out his climbing rope. If he could make it to the treeline, there were a few good-sized pines there he could shimmy up with the rope. No time for his climbing spikes though...

Something came out of the woods far behind him. Many somethings, large somethings, dark and rippling.

He knew not to panic. Either he'd make it, or not. Just keep going with the rhythm, and hope he'd make it in time. And that they couldn't climb.

He could hear the panting growls getting closer and closer. He didn't look now, that would break the rhythm. Just keep going forward, rope ready, aim for that tall tree right there...

He didn't know how he did it so cleanly - rope out, smack it around the tree while simultaneously getting his feet out of the snowshoes, somehow. Forward momentum all transferred to upward, brace and lift, huffing and panting even more than before, keep going, keep going up, loop the rope around a lower branch and half-pull half-climb higher, without breaking branches and falling into....them....

He found a good sturdy branch that would hold his weight, and wedged himself onto it. And almost fainted in relief. Whatever they were, they didn't seem to be able to climb.

What were They, anyway?

He knew wolves. He knew bears. These Things were somewhere in-between, sleeker than mountain cats, growling their hunger. Safe in his perch - but still far from safety - he let his fingers warm up, then slid his bow out of the case on his back. It was shorter than most, and had been kept safe from snagging branches in its snug case. He counted arrows, counted targets. They stared up at him, unblinking. Apparently they weren't used to humans being dangerous.

He waited, took his shots with extreme care. Seven went down before the rest finally got a bit nervous, but they were so hungry they turned on their fallen pack mates and ate them. He took out another ten while they gorged. Then he counted his remaining arrows, and the remaining pack.

Not enough.

He'd made each shot count, and each had been a kill or a mortal wound. The fact that they hadn't run away had helped immensely. But, staring down at five arrows and at least seven Things still very much alive, his chances were slim.

He wondered if he would last through the night sitting on a branch. In winter. And how long the village would wait before sending out the sixth-best hunter after upgrading him.

Slim to nonexistent.

He sighed, sighted again, and again, and used his last arrows. And made them count. Their eyes were easy to find, even while snarling and feasting.

Now what?

He counted again. Five. He wasn't a good enough hunter to just drop out of the tree, dagger raised, and kill the rest in one rush.

He sighed again. He was a fisherman, not a hunter! He was used to the lure, and the slow cast, not these snap decisions that split living from dead!

- Wait.

Lure. Bait. Cast?

....Was his fishing kit still in his coat somewhere?

Now his hands were shaking for another reason. Carefully, very carefully, he shifted on the branch to find the right pocket without falling. And then stopping to warm his hands, stop them from shaking. This would need steady nerves...

He almost sobbed in relief when he found the package where it should be. One pouch held his lines, his hooks, carefully filed and braided aside the hearth at night. The other pouch, though, held a dry powder. It didn't hurt the fish, just made them silly so they didn't see the danger of juicy bait at the end of a line. But if a land creature ate it, it was deadly. Anything that ate the dead would also die. He only used it when the village was starving, because he even had to be very, very careful when cleaning his catch to make sure he didn't kill friends and family.

Would it work on Things?

He thought, then took a scrap piece of leather from another pocket, wrapped a dose carefully, and put it back. If this didn't work, he wanted a clean death. Then he opened the pouch's mouth, tied one of the fishing lines to it. Carefully, very carefully, he lowered it till it hung over the carcasses. The still-living ones didn't care; they had fresh meat in front of them.

Then he jiggled the line to drop powder all over the fresh, still-steaming meat. Right over their noses, making them sneeze.

Now, the wait. It would take time, if it worked at all.

He reeled up the pouch and line, stowed them away safely. Put his dose back in the pouch. Old habits died hard.

And another thought. A small slate and chalk, also in his pack, would leave a message for the villagers if this didn't work. He slung the pack above himself, on a higher tree branch. His message would be safe, if any came to check and found the trail.

So many maybes. He didn't like his odds. But he couldn't think of any better plan.

He curled up, as much as the branch would let him. Wait, and save as much heat as possible.

He sighed, and watched the sun track across the sky, and the shadows lengthen. He tried not to look down, though the noises continued.

He heard the whining before he noticed anything else. It started at such a high pitch, it set his teeth on edge before his ears registered it as sound.

One of the Things sat down. The others glanced at the first as the high pitch slowly slid down the scale, became louder, turned into full-throated howling. Then the second joined in, then the third, then the rest.

Sitting right above them, the sound was almost unbearable.

But the noise alerted the village. The gate popped open, and most of the hunters came running, arrows at the ready. He was giddy with relief to see them come, shoot the dying Things, but he hollered at them to stay away from the tainted meat. Did they really want to find out if Thing was edible? They might not have meat in the village, but there was plenty of porridge, and it would taste fine in comfort and safety. And warmth.

The villagers helped him get down. On the other side. As far away from the Things as he could be. Getting home on wobbly legs without snowshoes would be tricky enough. Some villagers stayed to heap snow on the carcasses, so other creatures wouldn't eat them by accident. If there were any creatures left. The powder would degrade soon, but they wanted to take no chances in the meantime.

Finding out what the Things were, and where they came from, was a problem for another day. After some sleep.

Then, he'd have to teach some of the hunters how to fish in winter. He needed a better axe, and more patience.