The Aurochs

1620

Jaktorow, Poland

Izolda rooted among one of her hens' nests. Stupid thing, going broody so close to the forest. King Sigismund's aurochs roamed around her village's woods like all the other cattle. She was lucky the eggs were untrampled.

A child's scream rose from the forest.

Then, a deep bellow.

Her hands trembled.

No, Witek. You didn't.

"I'll steal one o' them," he'd once said, her silly son. "The bull. What king would want to hunt the sick thing?"

Surely he'd forgotten the folly, wouldn't sentence them both to death, bring taxes back to the village for meddling with the beasts.

Witek materialized amid the trees' shadows, running, wailing. Bellows, stamping hooves followed him.

Then the aurochs bull: an ink stain with only its horns' middles glinting white.

He'll be gored and gone.

"Witek!" She sprinted, reaching for him, eggs breaking under her feet.

The bull was faster, until it dropped: front knees down, hindquarters slamming to the ground. Its breath rasped from wide nostrils and a drooling mouth.

She grabbed Witek. Held him and gazed at the beast.

"You've done it," she whispered. "You stole from the king."

Still in the forest, finally quiet, the aurochs was dead.